Today I painted two walls in our upstairs guest/music/work-out/office room. That is what I do-- I paint. Every year I've painted at least two walls in this house--just since March I've painted 9 walls and one ceiling.
But today I opened all the big windows up there in that room and a cool, perfect Spring breeze blew lilac scent upon me which, at times, cancelled-out the paint fumes. I spread old sheets along the carpet and they felt soft as I sat there in my many-colored paint-splotched skirt and T-shirt with the paint brush dripping green and that incredible lilac scent in my hair.
And for a moment, I saw myself still painting the walls in this house when I am 60. Still smiling, listening to The Andy Griffith Show while I repaint walls for the kazillionth time. Sixty and greyer and still loving this place where I live.
But it would take a miracle for that to happen. We're planning on moving away someday for reasons I thought were clear, but are growing cloudier. But for the record, the written record, I would stay here in this house forever if I could.
At least that's how I feel on this day of lilac flavored breezes.
And then I thought, perhaps I was seeing myself painting in Heaven. To me, it won't be Heaven if I can no longer decorate! I find it hard to believe we each will have our own heavenly mansion--I want to live in a mansion (or even a fixer-upper basic heavenly Victorian little place) with Tom, and he with me, so what is the use of us both having one? Isn't that a bit excessive? ジ
I'm just wondering and thinking aloud, telling you my thoughts on this perfect Spring day, the one I spent with a paintbrush in my hand, songs in my heart, and a dreamy smile upon my face.
A day spent upstairs, or perhaps even higher in a place above the trees-- somewhere a bit closer to Heaven than you'd think.
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