I love flying. I don't mind the interactions taken and received through security, through the unknown, through the dangerous what if, over time or pinned under it. I don't mind buckling in or down or throughout, taking off, floating and staying seated only to arrive. But what gets me every trip, every airy suspension is the tense abrupt landing. Half a k knots to pit stop, ears pop and my heart is in my throat. It was not until a recent flight made solo I realized rather than squeeze a hand I gripped a book I had read ascending sky high.
I am not one to gracefully end things. Books often go unfinished. Projects get stuck in the brainstorm. To do lists, although initiated and constructed, are, in the end, another form of procrastination. "Quitting" "Giving Up" "Failing" are orbital patterns inquiring "What do I have time for?" Or my currency, "What do I have the energy for?" As an artist, it is necessary to be concerned with the energy of a day. I wake up, I prioritize, I do, I fade. By evening, I am nothing, depleted, exhausted, after placing myself within something else: to create.
that is not to say I do not enjoy making. It is what I am called to do. For the past month, I took a break. Maybe I cooked, maybe I wrote, and maybe I tied a knot or two out of found grass, clover flowers in a field, but I did not place myself with the task of beginning so not to end, to complete. Instead, out of necessity, I left those frayed edges frayed.
Until this recent trip when I met someone who said 'Presence is not only the end of something but the beginning of something else' (adapted from someone else) but somehow made sense to me and offered the same sense of possibility that is offered in the approach to anything new.
As I return to my desk, I return to myself and dare I say I'll make something every day until the end of summer, until the end of the material I have had gathered. Every Sunday: who rests? here I'll share, holding accountable, what I did.