Painting the Greenhouse

I’m never more relaxed than I am when I have a brush in my hand. I love pushing paint, love its smell, and even feel more at home in my skin when it’s dotted with latex spots and marks. 

HOWEVER

As I paint primer onto the beams and walls of the greenhouse, I am feeling like Icarus worshipping the sun. I soak up the rays that are baking this temple of light, and I calm my nerves with deep breathing – focusing on the paint – not looking down as I teeter precariously ever higher and higher on the wooden ladder – which can’t seem to find a steady footing on the sloped pool floor – that is begging down, down, down. 

I climb up, up , up and face my fear of falling as I dream of what’s to be born in this temple. I’m pregnant with thousands of births – of art – of seeds – of beauty.  I hope that I do not share the same fate as Icarus; afterall, I am a Spring Bird! My wings should be the real deal.