We all do it, with varied success. I’ve found that it continues throughout life, and has become my coming-of-old-age story. I’ve borrowed slices of life from Marsha’s bungalow, and added more of her musings to this story.
As I, Susan, move over to One Small Walk, I begin to leave Marsha behind, with great fondness. I hope you enjoy her story.
A manuscript I began last year is calling for me to complete it, and I find that blogging has to bow out when a book calls. But I am continuing to read your wonderful blogs, and want to thank you all for the goodness that your writing brings to my life.
Blog On – I’ll see you occasionally in your comment section 🙂
When I was a little girl, my grandfather used to fill graphic design color books with marvelous artwork. What he made of those pages of geometric lines and curves still makes me wonder at his imagination and talent. He did not allow the pages to tell him what to draw or color. He made someone else’s black lines dissolve into his ideas. It must have been immensely satisfying, because he lined bookshelves full of this beauty.
Some years ago, I started thinking his hobby was worth exploring. I always liked colored pencils and sometimes crayons, and often chalk. Instead of talent, I capitalized on my ability to stay within the lines, my stubborn attitude toward completing things, and a great eye for good quality paper and pencils. Television-watching has never been more fun than it is now, because I can pay as much or as little attention to either pursuit – the TV show or the coloring page – as I want at the moment. What a worry-free zone I created for me.
Until now. Everyone seems to be buying adult coloring books and art supplies for stress relief. We have coloring books that direct grief and coloring books that keep you from eating and others that encourage you to quit smoking. I have been years in this pursuit, and show no signs of stopping. I don’t remember picking up the hobby because of stress. It just seemed like a good idea. But it’s sort of like if the medicine helps your condition, didn’t you have the disease? And then another thought occurs to me. Shouldn’t I at some point in time feel cured and leave the books behind? All this commercialization of coloring has me perplexed.
I am left with one question. It’s not should I be worried? It’s how worried should I be?
There are so many ways to think about that question, but this time I am asking it literally to myself. I have been Marsha at the bungalow for quite a few years, but Marsha is not real. She has been a writing alter-ego that I cherish and enjoy. When I started adding my real name, Susan, to my comments in other blogs, it had a nice ring of truth.
As Susan – who else? – I am beginning a blog devoted to walks at home and around the world. I hope you all will join me at Onesmallwalk.com.
It’s simple – click here, then look at the top right of the webpage and click on ‘follow’ (I think a ‘follow’ button also hovers on the bottom of the page.) Of course, you can also click the link above.
For the first several walks, I will link the two blogs, and you can – almost – always find me at Restless Jo’s Monday Walks.
So if you see comments in your blogs from a Susan who sounds familiar, it might be because Marsha has become a real girl – Susan@onesmallwalk. See you around!
Strictly photos today, as we wait out the brooding season, take a vacation away from the nest, and hope for a late spring hatching. I am truly nervous to be gone from these two for a month. I can plan for Sadie’s care, and will hear the stories when I return. But for the Hawk family, I will simply miss a huge part of the story. Well, it’s not so sad that it will keep me home!
On our daily walks, we look for Mr. Hawk in his usual haunt. Normally, we can count on seeing him at least once in the clearing by the dunes, where he has been busy hunting. But we don’t see him there, day after day.
Mrs. Hawk has taken to perching inside their great nest, seemingly day after day after day. It has been difficult to get detailed photos of the nest. It is built into the eucalyptus near the highway, far up in the tree, sheltered by large branches, leaves and smaller twigs. Look close – you can see her tail.
But where is Mr. Hawk?
Close by, of course. He is in one of the eucalyptus trees opposite the nest. And he is showing his strength and voicing his warnings to any flying creature near by. Stanley says there is something in the nest worth guarding.
It’s a beach walk, for heaven’s sake. There should be shells, right? On my almost-daily walks on the beach, I watch the waves, I look at the birds, I notice the changes in the hillsides, I always admire the rocks along the way. I rarely pay attention to the shells. Today, though, just for the shell of it, it’s going to be a different walk from my usual.
I have always comforted myself when I mistakenly step on a seashell by reminding myself “I am helping the beach make sand.”
Especially the sand dollars, whose crisp crunch I try to avoid, but it is inevitable that they turn into sand. We get hermit crab shells, or parts of them, clam shells, sea snail shells, shells from abalone and oyster. I love the shells that have urchins making a home on top.
And curls in shells next to the smooth surface of a rock.