I am doing lots of painting. I am pretty sure there is not a single article of clothing that does not have a splash of paint on them. Not counting bra’s or underwear, because painting in my unmentionable’s is a level I have not achieved. Yet.

How am I? I get that question a lot, usually I reply with “I am doing ok” Here I will admit, that I am a hurricane of emotions and burying myself in projects. The projects keep me moving forward. I have gone through my kitchen with Turquoise and touches of red, lime, and yellow. And some black and white. I feel like the Black and white grounds a person in the wash of Caribbean joy. They are happy colors, and I chose them for the sole purpose of putting a smile on my face. I had to walk my husband through this Turquoise dream of mine every. single. day. He is a conservative and does not rally himself in change. The house has looked the same since the day he built it, in 1999. He relents though, eventually. And I pick up my fevered pitch.

Now that I have spun into the Dining room, hurricane level 3. I have changed the chandelier, gave my dining table and chairs to my brother. I have hung new curtains, and papered one wall. And purchased one round rug, for a 100 year old table. The dining table now rests alone in a dark abandoned home, covered in odds and ends and a few dusty alcohol bottles. It used to be surrounded by an active family. Adorned with early breakfasts and nightly dinners, conversations and laughter. Probably angry outbursts as well, as no family is perfect. And the cobwebs have gathered to dance where feet used to swing and kick. It needs a home. I have a strange way of seeing inanimate objects as things that have souls. Like the book ‘The Velveteen Rabbit’ I feel like if you love something hard enough, it becomes real. That would probably make a good session with a therapist, but it just feels nice. Is that bad?

All I needed were chairs.

And the universe provided.

I found them on the side of the road. Six of them. A thin white piece of paper marked in red letters FREE was unceremoniously taped to one of them. The sign was as tired looking as the chipped black paint that was used to change up the original color underneath. The seats are woven in Rush. Like wicker, or rattan, but not. After a bit of googling, I discovered they were French Provincial Ladder back chairs. Their tired trash. My next project. And I will breathe new life into them. I am sure the table cannot wait to meet them.

Funny thing, I was not even going to go down that back road to home. The road where the chairs were cast out at the end of someone’s driveway. But at the last minute, I just did. I flicked the blinker off and went straight instead of to the right. In those moments, I like to think Caleb was riding along with me “Hey mom…” giving me that tilted smile of his before turning his gaze toward the road up ahead. He knows. I need projects to heal. I need this time to process.

What happens when I run out of projects? I have no idea. But, you will be the first to know.

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