Less heated

Somehow, the summer is working out better than I expected.  Partly this is because the temperature dropped dramatically, and while everyone else was moaning about the worst July in living memory, I wandered round happily saying, “Oh, NOW I get it!  Summer’s great, isn’t it?” and, having run out of furniture to paint, pulled out my oil paints.  It’s been a very long time since I painted: I keep forgetting to be kind to myself, and spend quite a lot of time in despair, and an inordinate amount of time every morning scraping off all the paint I applied the day before.  But there’s a moment, when I’m applying the next layer, and forgetting to remember that I wished I could work out what I’m doing, when I’m perfectly happy.  And because I think that much of life is made up of tiny moments of isolated perfect happiness, that is enough.

Everything else seems tempered by a rather lost yearning, but I’d still rather have that than not feel.