Notice the size of these clay pieces. Notice the size of the door. Rose Simpson created her art in this small room. The staff at the Museum of Contemporary Native Arts in Santa Fe told us of arriving each morning and there it was, more done, more revealed.
And this morning I'm in my small writing studio, settled into the pillows of the day bed, a blanket pulled over me, determined to write. Finish that essay on being a swimmer, start the new novel, revise at the old one - anything, something.
I'm remembering being in that small gallery and placing my wheelchair on the intersection of the clay lines. On one side the perfect square, on the other the perfect circle, each with its clean-edged cut-outs, and in front of me a huge-in-that-space woman reclining and crumbling red earth over the floor.
That question about how to address the specifics of our lives without being categorized - Rose Simpson says "It is simply that these subjects, issues, predicaments, thought, and feelings matter and they deserve to be given the time of day."
Somehow all this is combining in my brain into something.
P.S. Today's post-Santa Fe food yearning - I want that lovely woman to roll her cart of aromatic, multi-colored bowls of ingredients up beside my table and create guacamole as we watch.