Gordon (my husband) is an architect. Even after 20 years I still spell it wrong. He has to tromp through sites and envision what a completed building would look like tucked into the ground and landscaped.
Like a writer, he stumbles upon beauty. And like a writer he has to edit out extraneous material.
He is a sculptor of form while I am a sculptor of words.
This photo reminds me of what we both do.
It reminds me of editing.
The decisions. Which do you keep? The fantasitcal art you see hidden? Or the tangled trees?
Or try to include a bit of both?
6:30 am and 69 degrees.
I draw the line at mittens but I do still have my flannel jammies on.
And coffee. Must. Have. Coffee.
We have been talking about editing.
I WANTED to tell you about the time my son and his friend dismantled the front porch of my 1800's farm house with just a hammer and a screwdriver.
They were 8 years old.
They had big dreams.
No one told them they couldn't do it.
Least of all me as I had just run to the store for milk and eggs.
I was a bad mother you see.
I abandoned my child. Left him alone for an hour in the middle of the afternoon.
With a creative friend.
We lived in the Midwest. I was in my last semester of graduate school. We were putting our house up for sale and moving back to Washington State.
And I pulled into my driveway to see my beautiful, picturesque, wrap around veranda.
In pieces on the ground.
I will leave what happened next to your imaginations.
When you have big dreams, there is no limit to what you can do.
Editing. Big dreams. Trees or art. Which dreams do you choose and which do you abandon?
What sentences do you keep and which do you prune?
Let's talk about the struggle.