Trampled down by the drudgery of unfinished housework and a 'to do' list that appears to have over-eaten, I am reminding myself of the days when my heart soared and I felt inspired.
We've done a few walks recently with the two littlest boys. Little One in a carrier on my husband's back; Tiny One in a sling on my front. We waited for the right conditions: decent night's sleep, dry weather, no one too hungry, no one too grumpy. The walks were glorious.
One was up a hill behind our house, round the top and past the reservoir. The last half-hour of the two hour walk was murder on my under-used legs and my dragged-down shoulders. But the physical exhaustion was worth it for the mental elation. A walk! With the kids! There was wind in my face, a hill beneath my feet, nothing but nature and space all around me, and inside I felt like Maria spinning on top of her 'Hills are alive'. Best of all it showed us both it could be done - that the boys would let us walk, would sleep or look around, but not moan incessantly to get out or get home.
One was up and down beautiful valleys and hills; a whole morning in the warm sunshine. We saw birds, streams, a ruined stately home, lizards, grasshoppers, a ruined mine, glistening water, trees of every ilk. I'm not sure how long we can do this, for though our strength carrying the boys will increase, I think their weight will increase faster. How long will we have to wait while the Little One's too heavy to be carried but too little to walk? I hope not too long. I have to be able to get up a hill to blow out the cobwebs and put the skip back in my trudging feet.
Another, disparate inspiring day was had about a month ago now, when our county held its Open Arts event. We managed to get to just one exhibition, little boys in tow, in the house of an artist. There were six exhibitors in total, including a crocheter (that can't be the right spelling!), sewer (always want to put a hyphen in 'sew-er' to remove lavatorial connotations!), illustrator, and several artists. I even spoke to some of them. I could hardly speak to anyone about it afterwards though. It was like that moment in Sleeping Beauty when, after 100yrs of sleeping, someone clears the jungle of vicious weeds and finds the castle again. I haven't done any art for 13 years, even though it was my raison d'etre for so long. About five years ago I dared to pick up a pencil and found I couldn't draw any more. But seeing that exhibition and talking to artists who believed in me despite not knowing me or my non-existent work... part of me woke up again. It's pretty scary, but I think I might be able to train myself back into doing it. And the sewing is a part of that.
Am I rambling? Time to get back to that merciless 'to do' list.