A Sketchbook page, March 7, 2020
Nothing lasts forever, not the good nor the bad.
Winter in Seattle, without fail, with her short days that are often bone-chillingly cold and gray, buries me head first, tail tucked, deep into a foxhole.
Down here, I hold my breath.
I am frozen and numb. But atleast down in the dark, I can’t feel how cold it is above the ground.
I can’t feel... anything.
The numbness thaws at pace with season, and I start to feel a warmth I am certain the sun knows nothing about.
I notice the days are becoming brighter, the gloomy winter sky welcomes back her sun.
I look up from the dark safety of my burrow where I have nearly forgotten what the sun feels like.
Nearly forgotten what anything feels like, for that matter.
Above ground, I see the cherry trees have started to blossom, everything begins to thaw.
The sun gets back to work sweeping the last of the winter frost away.
I can breathe again.
After a hard winter, I exhale.
I can feel again.
This is part of the narrative for a current project on my easel (well, the first of several upcoming in this 🦊 series!) And wanted to share this in time for resetting the clocks. Sadly, my painting did not finish itself while I was out of the country for most of February so here is the sketch draft outline for the piece. I needed to see these foxes very badly and ... much more to come.
Take good care
Aliza and Her Monsters