It’s a great idea, but
when God ordains something else, you’d best go along quietly.
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Mary Day returns to her home port, by Carol L. Douglas. |
Tad arrived late Saturday night and left very early Sunday
morning. I would have stopped to see him before church, but he had already finished
painting and catapulted off to his next destination.
Contemplating that amount of energy is exhausting. Then I
remember that Tad is the same age as my youngest child. It’s no surprise that
he bounces around like a corn kernel on a hot griddle.
The motto of coastal Maine ought to be, “make hay while the
sun shines.” That’s also the guiding principle of plein air painting, and art festivals and craft shows. Spin
like a dervish while you can, and rest after the season ends.
Still, everyone needs some down time. I received a horrifying
photo from a friend. She has a second infection in her face. Last year it was a
sinus infection run amok; this time it’s in her eyes. Like me, she works an
intensive summer season. Cutting corners and being overtired resulted in some
impressively ugly mug shots.
I try to identify the signs of overwork before I get sick.
On Thursday, I painted at Rockport harbor. I forgot my palette, so I whipped
home to collect it. I careened back into the closest parking spot, only to
realize my brush holder wasn’t in my backpack.
You can't finish a painting when your central boat leaves, or that's my excuse. |
At noon, the central boat in my composition cast off its
buoy and headed out. I packed up, and found a parking ticket on my windshield. “Three
strikes and you’re out,” I told myself. Instead of working, I went out to lunch.
Noting that I’m mucking up small things usually stops
me from screwing up spectacularly. I have a busy week ahead and then I’m on the
road for three weeks. I will steal my rest where I can in the coming days.
Still, I’m flying to Baltimore as you read this, on a
24-hour, last-minute visit. I wish the circumstances could be different, mainly because I’m
going to pray with a friend who’s gravely ill with cancer.
“I’m no good at it,” I told my friend Helen when the idea first burrowed into my consciousness. Years ago, my cousin was
in hospice in Atlanta. I picked up my brother in Virginia and we tore down I-81.
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Self portrait with cancer, charcoal, by Carol L. Douglas. |
We arrived to learn that she’d just awakened from her coma. She
moved from hospice to rehab and lived another eighteen months.
I told this to Helen as an example of how my praying didn't matter. She read it differently. “I think you need to go to
Baltimore,” she said. I gasped as I grabbed the implication.
And so, I go. You can set your sights on Tarshish, but if you’re supposed to go to Nineveh, you’d best just get on with it.
And so, I go. You can set your sights on Tarshish, but if you’re supposed to go to Nineveh, you’d best just get on with it.