I think I've realized why I focus so much on the weather (something that had been annoying me of late as it seemed every time I sat down to write the first bit I had to share was always the state of earth and wind and sky): it is because I'm deeply immersed in the outside world.

I know, obvious, right? (And they say you can't survive being slammed in the head by a lightning bolt). But somehow, this was not so apparent to me. It seems I think I live in a city apartment that just happens to overlook a really great park.

Seriously, it has only just occurred to me that the time I spend outdoors coupled with the time I gaze out the windows at the wilderness around me results in a person rather consumed with refractions of light, quality of shifting breezes and ripples on the lake.

So, as much as I am dismayed by my never ending weather updates, it may be that as long as I'm blogging from the side of a mountain, they will figure largely in whatever it is I am dithering about.

July marks the exact midpoint of my four-month, unpaid, unofficial sabbatical. You remember-- that amazing gift of time when I was going to become, all at once, Martha Stewart, Georgia O'Keeffe and a serene zen master emanating nothing but quiet, peaceful hums -- yes, my very own Frankenstein. Alas, as those of you who know me well, this has not come to pass.

Some things are getting done bit by bit, but I'll never accomplish all I thought I would when I contemplated this break. However, here's the real late-breaking news: I no longer care.

Okay, well, that's a lie. There's a part of me that will always want the moon-- but the good news is a bigger part of me has stopped driving, and that is news.

In a decidedly odd twist of events, my friend Lisa came up this past weekend and we nooked about in the studio making stuff and then bumped around town hitting second-hand shops and library book sales, etc. At the booksale, Lisa picked up a memoir by Julia Cameron for a dollar. It was written in 2006 and neither of us had seen it before so hey-- could be good, non? (I mean, most of you know that The Artist's Way had a profound impact on my life).

Um, no.

But then, in a bizarre way, yes.

Reading her memoir (which, sadly, I cannot recommend as it is so poorly written it seems there wasn't an editor in sight) I witnessed a bright, talented woman obsessed with writing, obsessed with success, and obsessed with a drive that could only be described as compulsive. It drove her into alcoholism, drug abuse, and eventually multiple mental breakdowns. (Well, it should be noted that both her parents suffered from mental illness but as she never explores any of that in the book-- we'll just let it be). The weirdest thing is that she seems to have no perspective on it at all-- as if any of us do, I guess, but I just expected her to-- you know? The Artist's Way is imbued with great understanding of this nutty process and yet, in her own life, she is mired in profound self-delusion.

Again, like many of us.

However, reading it helped me in a way I couldn't have anticipated. It actually helped set me free from that same crazy driving energy. Well, you know, sort of-- we'll see how long I last-- because as I read I wanted to scream, "Just STOP! Why are you PUSHING SO GODDAMNED HARD?!" I wanted to shake her, hard.

And then, I got up and took the dogs out for a long, leisurely stroll-- left the kitchen full of dirty dishes, great drifts of dog hair had the house to themselves, emails unanswered, letters not written, work not started, paintings unattended, laundry from last weekend's guests waiting to be washed in readiness for this weekend's guests sat in a heap by the stairs-- I just walked out the door with a commitment that when I returned, I would have the same disregard, the same indifference to how much I accomplish in a given day.

How's that working for me?

Hmm, the road--- she is unwinding.

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