woodshedding

- or, more  appropriately wood piling - as autumn spins madly on, and every single day is a crap shoot weatherwise. the plan to not create this season might be one of my greatest challenges, but it's imperative that the golden glow between raindrops shine on this body somewhere where the ground underfoot gives a bit. the layers of life history currently underfoot are no less organic, but guilt-filled as i intend to and fail to return this 10x10 space from beeswax and branches, glass shards and sawdust, and holy salmon boneyard to tasteful gathering space. shifting things as things shift, making room for pieces not ready to be adopted, making room for the new macho... reciprocating goodness, cordlessness, possibility, I struggle to settle the dust. dream of bringing out the white sheets at night again and grandma's quilt, of reclaiming that melting & fusing place for baking bread, of finding a place for the nest Robin sent two months ago.


woodshedding is good, for i've learned there is still much to learn of the business of arting. once a trail's found me, a scale's next up in the queue. weighing audience and intention, how to reach who- when that's my job and when it is not. point blank he said 'triple your prices'. when accessibility's where i live this line throws me off  balance. still, stretching one to experience what's for sale might broaden access at the end of the blustery day.