Drawing

I ache to draw.

At morning coffee (a ritual like Matins to be prayed each day, alone or in company) a still life image emerges.  Drain Board with Dormant Orchid.  Beside is an inverse coffee carafe and cone, a sharp knife, the glass jar my husband uses for his morning fiber, all framed by perfect taupe tiles. 

I take out a pencil. 

That's when the proportions start laughing at me.  I try drawing only the plant, but its leaves show their undersides and my pencil can't pry the knot apart.  Instead of stamping my feet, I sigh and think about getting a teacher, but what if I STILL couldn't draw?

Trying to draw - even thinking about trying to draw - alters my perception.  Now the man walking past with puffy skin is handsome in his complexity.  The discarded cup in a pile of leaves is a play of texture.  Even crumbs on my desk as I type are precious details that make this corner of the universe different from the rest.

But I still ache to draw.