But what is being resisted? My instincts and body are bracing for a change of which my mind is still quite ignorant. My chest has an apprehensive weight on it, making normal breathing an effort, and I feel as though I am missing the point, failing to cotton on. But to what, to what, to what?
Here is what I think, for the record: a change that will upset life as I know it is afoot. In my heart, or in my art, something new, disruptive and most probably good is imminent, and I'm scared.
I don't know what to do, except to keep on doing. More parasols, more ink, more dreaming and longing within the bounds that have yielded love before. What can I do differently to summon the good storm, to make it welcome and to minimise its damage, when I don't know its nature or its source?
What if it passes me by? What if its winds are already propelling me forward and I am hampering them, planting my nappy on the pavement and insisting on doing things the way I have always done?
Oh, how hard it is, sometimes, to even know how to be open to the world!
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