Dear Melody,

As you know, the sun decided to make an appearance early this morning, kicking the early weather predictions in the teeth. I believe you had some hand in this event. How? I don't know, but that is what I believe. You wanted and perhaps needed the morning to unfold as it did as much (if not more) and I.

And unfold it did . . . temperature, sun, all the elements doing its part to present to us the ideal conditions for the inaugural run of the season.

Two cups of coffee, a bowl of cereal later I was ready. And there you were, readied days before in preparation, waiting patiently, confidently.
More confident than I, truth be told. Even though the run was nothing too complicated. Nothing too twisted. Nothing too involved. A small errand, an easy jaunt a bit over two miles, round trip.

Easy. Peasy.

Well, as it turns out not quite so easy and I have no idea what peasy means, if it even is a word, but it was nowhere to be found in the jaunt either. My knees crackled, my breaths shortened, and my back protested, but onward I pedaled, your shiny confidence urging me on.

Still, I must confess, my mind spun with alternatives for the return trip while securing you to the corral after the first leg. But, after I emerged from the post office, the parcel I'd gone to pick up safely packed in the bag, secured to my back, I noticed the wind velocity had lessened, the sun shone brighter, the traffic had eased.

Again, I know all that was your doing. You're a mighty force, my lovely blue machine.

So, thank you for being the strong one; for easing me up that slight incline, for steering me toward the softer, less pot-holed roads, for not mocking my ever so inelegant wheezing, the deafening noise of the crackling knees. Thank you for holding fast to our near snail's pace even as I ever so briefly, entertained of idea of being offended by the jogger in the pink fluorescent top out running us.

We made it back to the homestead, much as we left; you confident and me, achy but happy. You are parked in your usual place--anxious to weave your magic for the next clear day--for our next opportunity to be as one, again and again and again.

I am so grateful to have gotten this inaugural run under our collective belts, so happy it went as well as it did.

And so again, thank you for being there for me and being ready to go on the whims on the wind and the knees.

You are so lovely, my might blue machine.

Love,

Deborah
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥  

Obese

Jillian Michaels said, "let's face it, you're obese!" I wasn't offended. I invited her opinion. I'd voluntarily gone to her website, filled out the questionnaire, and invited her to opine on my status and perhaps advice as to what I should might be less . .  (didn't / don't consider myself obese, but . . . ) less large.

Disclosure: I've never watched "The Biggest Loser".  I know of it due to it's (and by association, her) popularity and the show and / or contestants showing up in mainstream media from time to time; most recently, the criticism of a victor's extreme weight loss. I didn't really consider that I'd become a member of the BL bandwagon, I was just curious as to what her program would offer me for free and if that were anything different from what I could get elsewhere.

It wasn't.

The basic message was take in less, burn more: calories. 

Intellectually, I know this. Emotionally, I get it. As most of us know, it is much easier said than done.

I've been up and down this road these last few years. Most recently, I admit, more down and up

However, been there, done that, must do it again. Re-booting the campaign. I must. I not only huff and puff about the way I look, but huff and puff about the way I feel. I don't like the huffing and puffing.

So, with no thanks or offense to Jillian and her crew's program,  I will get back to what has worked in the past, tweaking to allow for my advanced age and other . . . advancements. Thankfully, time has come to get outside, get Melody out from under the stairs and on the road.  Adjustment to my diet began in earnest last week with further adjustments on tap for this week and beyond.

The loss won't be epic. It won't be quick. It certainly won't be easy. But, I will have measurable success.My emotional and physical health depends on some measure of success.

Goal set. Clock begun. Wheels turning.And a weigh we  go.

Inside Out

Spasmodic. If I had to ascribe one word to 1978 spasmodic comes the closest. During the first half I was seventeen and finishing my first year of college and during the second, eighteen and beginning the second (and ultimately, to date, my last) year of college. This work was produced in the midst of that. Which half? I don't remember, doesn't really matter because it was all .. . spasmodic.

At some point during 1978 I moved out of the rat, roach infested house my mom rented from "Mother" Allen, the meanest woman I'd met to that point. I was gone for several weeks before telling my mother where I'd moved--since she was powerless against my brothers and their enemies and I couldn't afford to have any of them them find me, harass me.

Talking about this time is still very difficult for me and I can't go further except to say, the ups and downs had ups and down . . . spasmodic. The Ups usually had to do with art; completing assignments, preparing to show and compete at fairs, thinking about which discipline to focus my efforts toward applying for admission to the respective department.

The piece shown above is one of the the very few pieces I have from that time, I sold or gave away nearly everything I created. This piece was resting in my portfolio. A few years ago, showing my daughter my work, I tok it out. My mother saw it, liked it, and offered to have it framed. One thing or another kept that from happening. I photographed it only a few days ago as I've just decided to get rid of it or alter it in some way.

Or not. I may put it back in the portfolio for a time, but either way, it has to get back out of sight, out of mind. For while it has been out in the open for some time now, I don't feel like I've really seen it, it has just sort of . . been. But, in recent days it seemed to be making noise, speaking to me, conjuring memories, good, bad, ugly, and . . . spasmodic.

Aprilair

               imagine

                these 

               pieces           

          together, like a page

               please 

A is for April. Air. Art. Apple. Anticipatory. Anxiety. Aggressive. Abalone. Affect. Aphrasia.

All those things and more. But now, it is about art. Contemplating art. Producing Art. Sharing Art. Going to see art. Contemplate. Rinse. And. Repeat. 

The above is my contribution to the Women's Circle Traveling Journal. An amazing undertaking of a blog pal  and a bunch of her artistic pals. I am awed to be in their company. I can hardly wait to see the finished journal. 

                                                                           

Additonally, the manada journey prompts continue to dance in my head. And at some point in these days of April they shall dance unto the page. 'Tis the plan, anyway. 

At last, there is seeing art. I haven't made time for going out to see art in a long, long time. The reasons are as plentiful as the opportunities missed and are not germane to the conversation. Point is, I'm thinking and planning. And even inviting. My cousin accepted my invite to the Hyde Park Art Center next weekend but has since cancelled. 

Anyway.

Attend. 

 . . . try. 

Art is in the April air in any case.