Where The Wild Things Play
I suppressed the urge to knock on doors and sell my humble services, mostly because when I voiced this notion to Edwardo, he burst with NO. Then let me talk in my hurried worry. Before I could breathe again Edwardo cut in, with a booming masculine voice, “Why not then make your art and sell it?” If I was willing to use my slim jim arms to haul off junk from a property or pull weeds for the elderly, why not spend my time decorating paper?
For me, this was about choosing to spend my time doing something I loved over something I had to slave over. When I thought harder about it, we all know I think too hard, I thought, yes, I’d rather be a slave to my passion.
Edwardo offered to assist the neighbor put up tin for a shed he is building. I’m here worrying how to make a dollar, and out of the blue Edwardo is handed this lucky opportunity. Why worry so much?
Yesterday, my mother and I planned to meet each other at the thrift store. On her keychain was a dreamcatcher I made in grade school. She happily bought me a blazer, Romeo & Juliet, an embroidered wedding tiara, Farenheit 451, and a classy teddy bear. Thursday is Spa Day. I watched tutorials on how to paint nebulae on my nails.
Oh the things we hold on to.