I have come to the realization that I am solar powered. A potentially rough fate for a native born and raised Oregonian. Today the rain came. A dark day, rain coming in sheets. I ate a nice, pre-workout snack, then failed to find the motivation to put down the novel I am engrossed in, change from fleece robe to workout gear, and get in my usual Sunday morning two hour workout. Yes, it makes me feel a bit of a failure. The rain promotes snuggling in bed, under a warm blankie, with a steaming cup of coffee, and a good book. Which is exactly what I did for an hour or so.
Normally, I would have managed to pull a workout from deep inside, but today I had to brave the elements and head west to my Grandparents' property. I have written about it often enough this year, I have spent a lot of time and energy out there. My Grandparents are gone now, Grandpa died two years ago, Grandma left us last December. This left their home, dubbed The Art Farm, in the hands of the family to get cleared up, tidied, and ready for the real estate market. This weekend was an art sale. The selling of some of the vast collection of art assembled over the decades, as well as my Grandma's massive inventory of paintings. Pearl Wright, my beautiful grandma, was a prolific painter. Her work is bold, graphic, and coveted. The number of paintings she left behind is staggering. I have no idea how many hundreds are out in the world, in private collections, but in her own home, in the upstairs that was her gallery and studio, there are hundreds more. Canvases of all sizes, including some that are taller than I am. She is a driving force behind who I am, and where my inspiration for many things comes from.
Driving through the downpour, heading to her home for what is likely one of the last times, I felt my need for sun all the more. Although, in reality, the granite sky with its weeping clouds was much more fitting for my frame of mind. I haven't quite come to terms with the idea that The Art Farm will not be ours much longer. It has been such a cornerstone of my life. I can't remember a time when we didn't have access to the steep, forested terrain dotted with small artist studios like small moons around the big house that was the center of that universe. I inch towards the edge of knowing, realizing that it will be gone soon. But my throat tightens and my eyes burn just enough to make me back away from that abyss. It is not a place I want to visit as we head into winter rain. I want to revisit the heat of summer. Those torrid, humid days that I spent hauling load after load of brick, concrete block, and lumber. The hazy days of foraging and salvaging out a place from my childhood. I want the sun. I want The Art Farm. I want my Grandma. Instead, I have the rain, and beautiful paintings, and materials to build my own art studio. The Fort has been my homage to Grandma. But I still want the sun.