It’s a cold winter night, yet early in the season. The dryer hums, the dog’s toenails play a ticky tacky tune on the hard wood floors as he crosses, skids, turns the corner to where I am sitting. I learned nearly two months ago he has Cushing’s disease and diabetes so I am learning to be more comfortable giving him insulin twice a day.
My eighteen yr old college student daughter sings to a song on her Ipod while she cleans her bathroom upstairs. Some of the yard has been raked, leaves bagged and dragged to the front for pickup. Every Fall I hear this little voice in my head that asks, ”What in blazes were you thinking of when you decided to buy this house with this much yard?” I was pretty efficient, tidy in previous years. I was almost proud of the 40 or so 10 gallon bags that would line the curb. I told myself I could do a lot of thinking, get a good work out. Ah. Physical labor. Fresh air. That was in previous years.. This year I really couldn’t have cared too much, except I didn’t want too many nasty looks from my immaculate neighbors across the street. I told myself not to be too hard on myself, as long as I got the leaves up before the first snow fall. Life is too short to worry about getting up all the leaves and besides, I had more important things to do. More important to me.
More important things to do…… like doodling. I have rediscovered the joy of doodling. You know the stuff you did while daydreaming in school all over your notebooks and lined paper? The stuff you probably were told wasn‘t art but really was or is. At my job, I doodle every morning sitting in my car before going in to start my work day. I doodle what’s going on around me, or in me. It’s a way to get out of me what needs to come out so I can start my day, kind of like doing Morning Pages but little more coherently. I doodle on a work break and when I come home from work. I may doodle for several hours forgetting to eat. I doodle on post it notes, on Netflix return envelopes, on paper dressing gowns and covers while waiting to see the doctor.
I must confess I am hooked on Micron and Faber Castell artist pens. My eighteen year old son is an art student and is home on winter break so I may consider stashing these pens during this time.
My dog, Buddy, is now stretched out on his blanket snoring. His body twitches every now and then. He sighs, a peaceful doggy dreamland sigh. I might have to doodle him.