Then a miracle occurs . . .

So, even though I

1) got up and out this morning and made it to yoga (despite feeling like crap—stupid respiratory crud); and

2) did not dawdle and finished my physical therapy regimen* in 30 minutes; and

3) eschewed the outfit I’ve worn the last three days, quickly and efficiently deciding upon an alternative ensemble: ridiculously ratty—but clean!—jeans and a dapper thrift-store sweater I found in Reeve’s drawer (Hey, he won’t need it—he’s off at school where it’s warm in the winter!); and

4) left the house earlier than usual, making just one stop along the way, at Whole Foods (arnica for the legs and dark chocolate-covered espresso beans for the production team). . .

it still came to pass that as I was headed in to the office, I checked my watch and noticed that it was NOON. How does this happen? Every day? Even on days, like today, when we’re in the production crunch at work? Why can’t I ever get it together?

Bummed and feeling like a screw-up because I can never get to my job before 12:00 (by which time, of course, most people are halfway through with their workdays), I called my sister, who answered the phone with a cheery “Hey, whatcha doing?”

When I complained that I was, indeed, walking to the office, still trying to get to work—like some bad dream where your legs move and move but you never get anywhere—and how I’m always late, etc., she responded, little knowing that her words would turn my day around:

“No, you’re fine. You’re not late. You get things done on your own time, in your own way. That’s just what artists do, you know.“

She’s pretty smart, for a little sister.

*have been having hamstring/piriformis/sciatic nerve issues which are really not a problem until I try to sit for more than 10 minutes. But who needs to sit, anyway?

Photo of evening light (if you can call 4:30 in the afternoon evening) on the roofline of the artist’s studio next door. He works late, too.

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