Trusting The Flow

Late Afternoon On East BeachThe Southern Expressions Author’s Conference is over. A pleasurable and exhausting two days has left no lasting effect that I am aware of. All I feel is a need to move on – do what I can to get MEANT TO BE ME  (A Dancer’s Story) in print, even if I have to do it myself. Life is good. I enjoy my various creative pursuits, and life is good.

Yesterday – after the conference ended at noon – I walked downtown to The Peter Anderson Festival. I was tired, but wanted something more from the day. A slight melancholly accompanied me as I threaded my way through the crowds past booth after booth – displaying every imaginable craft. Hard work was apparent in many: wood carving, pottery, jewelry, woven goods. Som people work all year in preparations for these festivals, most of which take place at this time of year. I felt for the makers, thinking of expectations and seeing the enormous amount of competition. Would any of them sell enough to make it worth all the effort? Some individuals were lively, hawking their wares – old world style, while others sat back in lawn chairs looking tired and resigned. At least the air was on the chilly side. I’ve known many a festival when the sun turned the vendor’s faces a painful pink, and the attendees grew more plaintive as the day wore on.

I was not in a buying mood – felt slightly guilty for it – and was only briefly tempted by the warm, sweet aroma of cinnamon-roasted pecans. Instead, I walked on to Realizations ( The Walter Anderson Shop) to check on whether my own creations had sold. They hadn’t, and I had to retrace my steps down Washington Avenue, braving crowds again when I’d begun to long for invisibility. A few times I was recognized and stopped, was engaged in effortful small talk before resuming the flow that carried me to the Ocean Springs Community Center and the OSAA show.

It was peaceful inside the old building, though many meandered down this aisle and that, absorbed by the art.  I found no red star by my angel, though she looked her best with the sunlight glinting on her wings – was apparently accepting her place on the pedestal by the door. I forced myself to disengage and walk further into the room amongst the art of others – barely seeing pieces I’d seen before. What was I looking for? Certainly not for bantering exchanges, yet these I found and briefly engaged with half-hearted friendliness. I was ready to leave, suddenly craving solitude and rest. I wasn’t looking for anything anymore, but glanced at my angel and saw the shiny red star indicating a sale. “When did that happen?” I asked the woman at the desk. “It is happening now,” she said, gesturing toward a young woman writing a check. “…and she wants another.” Apparently, she had been there the day before with her sister, who had fallen in love with the angel. She’d returned to purchase it as a Christmas giftfor the sister, but wanted one for herself , as well. I spoke to her of the angel’s fragility – the malleabilty of the wire – and the need for careful handling. Her soft brown hair framed her delicate face and her soft brown eyes looked into mine. I had found what I sought when I ceased the seeking, and all was well.

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