Maybe you haven't noticed, but tallulah has been on a haitus of sorts over the past two years. I've experienced a lot of creative unrest coupled with...
TO DO | TO MAKE
April 13, 2016
"Hope" is the Thing with Feathers
March 16, 2018
June 21, 2018
There is something about the season of summer that is absolutely magical to me. Days are longer and sunnier. Everything seems to shimmer and shine. More time is spent in the sun, and wowzers that Vitamin D is like a drug to me. Schedules just seem to unfurl before me, with less hurry and fewer demands. I don’t know about you, but the sunshine combined with warmer temperatures creates an energy for me, almost like a runner’s high. I’m able to possess two seemingly opposing thoughts: I have the optimism that I can accomplish more in a day because it’s longer, as well as give myself permission to do less without guilt. It’s a paradox with which I’m happy to live. There is a never-ending-ness to summer that produces possibility, wonder, and anticipation that fuel me to work more productively, possess more joy, and create wholeheartedly. It’s by far my favorite season ever.
I often wonder if I’d cherish the sun and the warmth and the change in pace if I lived on a tropical island. I’ve daydreamed of this scenario countless times: all I own are swimsuits and caftans and babouche slippers. I let my hair air-dry each morning, and eat fresh fruit with my coffee. Tropical birds chirp and call outside as I write or paint or sew on the lanai. I’m so absorbed in my work that suddenly I look up and realize it’s time to call my family in the U.S., who are just waking up for the day. Receiving parcels from friends is the highlight of my week. I’m isolated, warm, and content. Life is peaceful, slow, and deliriously happy.
Sounds like a dream, right? But would it stay that way? Would simply a change in latitude be the ticket? I feel like I’d eventually sunburn and my caftan would rub. There’d be a parasite in my fruit and things would not be OK. Monkeys would come in the night and steal my oil paint. Shipping artwork to customers would cost one million dollars due to my remoteness and I’d lose my proverbial swimsuit top. I’m isolated, humid, and discontent. Life is uneventful, slow, and deliriously predictable.
I think reality would lie somewhere between the two. And my gut instinct tells me that I love the warm weather because it’s a welcome CHANGE of seasons. If nothing changed, my sheer delight in summer would be less perceptible. My newfound energy would not be found. Which just naturally leads me to a Full House cue the music ‘cause Danny’s about to drop a truth bomb moment: life’s highs are highs because there are lows. Summer feels so sweet because Winter felt so bitter. Beautiful moments are even better because we know at any minute there can be a horrible moment, and we give thanks that moment isn’t now. My tropical island dream is just placid, which eliminates the possibilities of excitement, adventure, and passion. Obviously the moral of this story is to buy a second home on the tropical island and just visit occasionally. Claiming permanent residence there is for amateurs— and we didn’t even talk about mosquitos.