It's almost three months into my self-imposed exile and it seemed for ages that nothing had changed, or if it had then things had gotten worse. I closed inward more and more, letting go of everything around me until it didn't seem like there was anything left other than sadness and a decade of regrets. Which felt right and needed, and now it feels right and needed to do something else.
I've been painting, a little. Portraits and flowers mostly because anything else I attempt always ends up looking like portraits and flowers. Imaginary Blue Haired Lady is the first thing I have painted that I have been proud of, which is not to say she's any good, just that she reflects something of what I wanted to paint, which has never been the case before. Or since.
I am out of practice, this is coming hard. I don't know how often or regularly I'll be back here for the next few months, but often enough and regularly enough. Because the world needs more pictures of the sky and bright splodges of paint on old book pages. It just does.
It's always good to come home again after a time spent away. So very, very good.