Blighted

The rain seeped into the crevice on my window while I was away at work. When I got home and finally sat on my bed I found that the edges of my books that I had positioned on the floor so lovingly and just so were soaked-- the seventh book of the Harry Potter series, which I purchased before everyone else but had never read, my guide to becoming French, which I acquired when I first fell in love with France, and my copy of Edith Wharton's autobiography, which the lady at the bookstore said was the only copy in the country.

The crevice on my window was small and hardly noticeable but the rain had been heavy and lingering.

I will not move my books. Perhaps the rain can learn how to be trusted to respect the smallness of the crevice and the books that were mostly sentimental and valuable that stubbornly nested on the floor.

Acrylic paint

For my birthday, my former student and little sister Zia gave me art materials: tubes of acrylic paint, a canvas, a sketchbook, and even a wooden palette. She knew I liked to make things. Last Saturday, I finally unwrapped her presents and spent the afternoon painting. It was wonderful to be able to use acrylic again. I have been using watercolor for a couple of years now because I adored how easy watercolor paintings are to make and how fast they dry. For a couple of years, almost every week, I sat down with my watercolor pad and my tubes of paint and brushes and pot of water and, for about an hour and never more, I painted away. After about an hour and never more, I was done with my picture and it felt wonderful, my prolificacy. Last Saturday, when I used acrylic paint again and, when I was finally done, found that four long hours have passed, I realized how I missed acrylic paint and its tedium and unhurriedness. Sometimes, it is good to wait.

At my new place