Making The Most Of Things

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..is sometimes all there is.  Today I'm in bed.  I've been slowly deteriorating over the last couple of months, so this is mostly a preventative measure, and I may be here some time.  My bedroom is possibly the nicest room in the house; it's huge (the size of a double garage), has a gentle colour scheme (white and lilac, predominately) and is light and airy (it has two windows).  There's no view, really, just the grey of roof tiles against the massed grey of the skies.  No camera up here, so no images; the image is from a much earlier blog, a manipulated image of a photograph taken in France, as I recall, the right colours for the room.  I wrote a haiku, though...

layer on layer
grey ethereal softness
smothering the sun

The sky is heavy today, filled with heavy grey clouds.  There was some brightness, just above the rooftops, but that has gone now, though the sun seems to be trying to break through; the haiku reflects a moment, a snapshot in words.  I have a few books to look at, 'The Art of Joan Schultze', one of the few quilters I really admire, 'Art Textiles Of The World : Great Britain Volume 2", which speaks for itself, really, and 'Hat Anthology', ditto.    Lots of images to consider, the kind of books you can dip in and out of without getting overtired.  There are some novels, too, though reading feels too much like hard work today. And my third window, the computer, my window on the world, where my friends live.  It's a small life, but it's mine. And I do my best to make the most of it; there is art in everything, even this.