I went to the park after work today – after a bout of inertia – where I decided that it was time to start acting like the artist I am (instead of gathering dust in front of the tv). So I packed up a sketchbook, a set of watercolour pencils my mom bought me in Italy, my journal, and an extra-thick-and-fuzzy hooded sweatshirt and walked on over. I went straight to my new favorite spot: there’s a big weeping cherry tree that spreads itself over a brook, and its branches hang down in fringes and almost touch the ground. I parted them and sat inside in the little room it made, right at the water’s edge. I started sketching. In front of me and all around me were these dangling branches of blossoms, white but stained a delicate blush pink at the edges. Just beyond this curtain was the brook that winds away at my feet, and I think: I could step onto that glossy surface and walk away somewhere. Somewhere where I’m free to draw and paint and I actually have the energy to do it. I sat there until all the children playing in the park had to go home for dinner and I got cold. I picked a blossom to press in my journal and wandered home to paint.