I feel frozen today, utterly immobile. I know others are acting, marching, protesting and I sort of envy them. Their inner fire must be stoked with outrage, I feel smothered with the ash overwhelming sadness. I have been a hearth and fire-tender all my life, so I know no matter how dead the wood stove appears to be, when I dig out some of the ash I will find glowing coals underneath and I will rekindle the flame.
While my fire is banked today, I will hide here, among the dreamers and artists and leave the madness of facebook and all those other clamoring places to those who's fires run hot today. I really wanted to paint today but find myself exhausted. So I curl up under warm blankets and escape into books. Sometimes I wish I could close the covers like doors and live inside some world or other, one where madmen aren't running amok dismantling all that is good and true and beautiful.