I was kicking myself today for not being better at sewing, because of Clare Beaton whose adorable handstitched art looks so fun. Click for the enlarged image to see what I mean.
And then I opened up a note from Binnie with pictures of art recycled from old, unplayable musical instruments and got a double whammy because I'm not an artist OR a musician.
Then I remembered chatting with one of two musicians who had just blown my socks off (okay, it was hot out and I wasn't wearing socks, but if I had they'd have been over by the door) with a gorgeous performance, and moaning that all my sibs learned to play and there I was, kicked out of piano at age 12 for being lousy, and still only a listener and not an artist. She said, Er, writing is an art, isn't it?
Why yes, it is. And it's so easy for me to forget that, even when I finally managed to put the old lady vs. armchair story going yesterday with, once again, a different voice than before.
Ya gotta be happy with what ya got, I guess. Except when what you've got is a crummy view from your back window. That's something I am totally addressing this weekend.