Kathleen Avins
Crafting a life of art and heart.
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4/29/2013 1 Comment

April, in a series of verbal snapshots.

--I am on the phone, talking to the Wizard, my beloved partner.  He is in South Carolina; I am in West Virginia.  Today is the first day of his new job.  He is staying with my mother for now.  The rest of us -- the Samurai (my other beloved partner), my daughter, and I -- will join him as soon as we have a home down there to hold us and all of our stuff.  This could take three months, or it could take forever.  I can't tell which.  I probably look tense.

--The four of us are looking at three houses in South Carolina.  They all have pools and lots of rooms.  The first is run-down and sorely in need of love, but has potential.  The second is a recent foreclosure, hastily vacated, and too spacious, sprawling and scattered.  The third is still inhabited, an artist's beloved haven; the tour feels like a private gallery showing.  We can't afford to make a move on any of these properties yet.  What are we doing?

--I am looking at my treasure trove of blank journals.  It is such a comfort, knowing where the next journal is coming from.  I choose a teal and cream volume with birds and wildflowers on the cover.  It feels right for spring.

--I am sleeping sitting up, in the den, on a peaceful morning.  I am asked if I want to go back to bed, and the answer is no.  I want to drift through layers of consciousness, right where I am.  These are important journeys.

--We are packing books into boxes.  We still have no idea when we will be moving.  I begin to refer to this project -- selling a home, buying a home, packing up and moving from one home to another -- as Operation Relocation.

--My daughter and I are watching a local production of Cats.  I haven't seen it in years; my daughter has never seen it before today.  She is enthralled; I am in tears.

--I am (with the Samurai's help) putting henna in my hair for the second time in six weeks.  I feel good about this.

--I am singing Mozart's Mass in C Minor.  I have laryngitis; my singing voice is hanging by a thread, and I'm singing anyway.  Somehow, I dig deep and find enough voice to see me through.  For days afterwards, I can barely speak.

--My daughter and I are getting haircuts together.  We both leave the salon happy.

--I am standing up for myself.

--Oh, look, there I am again, standing up for myself.

--And again.  See me?  Over there.  Yes.

--I am having adventures.
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    Welcome!

    I'm Kathleen Avins, a music therapist and an artist.

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    The Dragonfly Effect! Created for me by Tori Deaux. Thanks, Tori!