The Painting Begins

We have had unseasonably warm weather here in the City of Angels. Bright and clear skies, there were numerous star sightings two nights ago. Not such a big deal in Montana, but here in the southern regions of California, a clear glimpse at Orion's belt is cause for pause. 

The warm winds are gently teasing the palm fronds and the last of the golden leaves are floating earthward. Even the heavy orange globes of the citrus tree are sighing with the passing of the wind. I have been taking advantage of the warm days and hanging the laundry out on the line. This is always a pleasure for me and I am always astounded that the sun has such power. The squirrels are busy scurrying up and down the twin palms in the yard while I attempt to rekindle my love of painting. I have never gone this long without brush in hand. The warm January sun is even a little hot on the back of my neck. I recently posted that I was afraid to paint. I still am, but I thought it would be best to simply begin. Take the first step.

While I waited for paint to dry, I was able to snap a few photos of the backyard. There is something in my soul that craves the simplicity of the 1940's. I know, they were hard times. I just have this yearning for a life colored in sepia, household items of wood and tin. Real materials to do my work, a worn bread board, a noisy flour sifter and time. Time to live into the day and into my work. To paint, to tend to the chores, to rest...