I dance around the room on stiff legs, feeling the sore muscles of a good weekend of painting, and starting the packing. It’s a different playlist this morning, different songs, and a different path – back to life, back to reality. Four new paintings – not a bad weekend of painting. I’m pleased with the work. The coffee in the room isn’t terrible this morning, either – it’s almost good. It’s definitely coffee.

[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]

Home this morning, later. Each time I pass the new work as I move between tasks, I feel “lifted”. I feel restored and recharged and satisfied. It’s not the satisfaction of cheesecake, or even of good coffee. It isn’t the satisfaction of good sex. It seems very much it’s own thing, most closely similar to the satisfaction of “coming up for air” after reading a really great book… only… I “wrote the book”, too. I only achieve this feeling from painting, and occasionally from writing (poetry, generally, when that happens). Is it about creating – or expressing? I’m not sure. Maybe answering that riddle will “break the spell”?

I sigh to myself happily. Oh definitely actually happy; it is a wonderful feeling, however fleeting. It is no wonder people chase this emotion (although that’s no way to achieve it). I sip my coffee and reflect on the weekend. It has had some lovely high points.

I still can’t quite believe I slept in so effortlessly, every morning, waking to the sound of gulls and morning sunshine, or the alarm for my morning medication, or some other “not early” event. It was delightful. I was unsurprised and did not resist when I woke at my usual time this morning, well ahead of the sun. I got up, showered, dressed, and got a walk in, down on the beach in the darkness (with my headlamp on). The tide was out, and the broad expanse of firm beach let me get a good mile or so of walking before my coffee. The resumed routines click into place like dominoes made of comfort and familiarity.

…Echoes of my painting playlist still ring in my memory…

I’m out of coffee, and don’t feel like upsetting my tummy with black tea. I decide to walk down to the closest cafe, which makes an excellent cup of coffee, and maybe a breakfast sandwich? I give that some thought, staring out the open balcony door at the misty foggy morning beyond the hotel. A good day to return home, I think to myself, lacing up my boots. I gather a couple packed items already ready for loading into the car; if I take them down with me now, it’ll feel less like hustling later.

Back with coffee, and a small fresh almond croissant – I don’t think I’d have believed these were made in-house if I hadn’t seen her rolling out layers of pastry dough yesterday afternoon, and seen them pulled from the oven this morning. The pleasing, somewhat grainy coarseness of the marzipan suggests that, too, was made right there. It’s a treat, and I savor it with my coffee and watch sea gulls on invisible air currents watching me, in case I might decide to share.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. A wee bite of breakfast and a good cup of coffee help get me going for the day, for real. There’s packing yet to do, and maybe I have time to paint just one more piece… I think about it and sip my coffee. I remind myself that I don’t need to be here, to paint; my studio is well-equipped for it. I didn’t even come here for inspiration – I brought an ample supply with me. I simply needed a bit of a break, and some solo time. I could have come here for inspiration – and surely would have found it – but that was not the need being addressed this time. I needed time in my own head, uninterrupted, focused, creative time spent immersed in the processes to do with painting. One challenge my Traveling Partner and I share is my apnea; I’m as prone to sometimes just not breathing when I’m awake, as I am when I sleep. It’s been that way for some unknown measure of time, and while the CPAP machine is a great solution for sleep apnea, it’s not particularly well-suited to daytime hours. The result is that I sometimes stop breathing while I’m deeply engaged in painting (or thinking, or reading), and as my SpO2 level drops and my body begins to do what bodies do when someone isn’t breathing, the signs of physical stress (unnoticed by me, often), get to my Traveling Partner and cause him stress, too. We are social mammals. We’re made to detect stress in “the herd”.

[Note: I’m not a doctor, nor am I a biologist, nor scientist armed with rigorous research, just a human being, being human, and noticing some things – don’t make important life decisions based on what some blogger said!]

The result of me not breathing goes beyond the eventual stress it will also cause to my beloved, himself; he will seek me out, interrupt whatever I am doing, and remind me to breathe. He’s not being mean or undermining my focus deliberately for some ill purpose, he’s taking care of me (and himself). It is also an interruption, and it does mess with my creative headspace, and that can make it hard to paint and enjoy the experience. (So, um, breathe, bitch, jeez.) Staying “too aware” of my breathing can also undermine my creative focus. It is a difficult path to follow. …But this fragile vessel does need oxygen. That’s pretty much non-negotiable. I smile to myself, grateful to have a partner who really does care whether I live or die. It’s a nice feeling to be loved.

I look over the new work again, before gently packing it for the trip home. This is always a process I face with a hint of concern, working in pastels. The work is relatively fragile, especially compared to the highly durable nature of acrylic work. I worried it will become smudged or scraped, or bent, or damaged in some way before I can place it somewhere carefully until it is framed. Oh, not worried enough to wreck a lovely morning, but there in the back of my mind is always that bit of concern. I know to work with care, when I pack them.

I sip my coffee contentedly. Gratefully. It’s been a splendid break. I think I found some shards and lost bits of myself over the course of these few days. Handy, and also worth further reflection. A stripe of blue sky tears the dense gray clouds with a bit of color. Pretty. A good time to begin again, I suppose…