This is Paradise, Orcas, no doubt about it. But that doesn't, alas, translate into uninterrupted bliss. I had high hopes, in the dark of winter, deep in the trenches of leaving Seattle, of having wide swaths of uninterrupted time to myself, to do what I wished.
I brought my sewing machine to Hogan House; my several in-progress knitting projects; my watercolor supplies; my camera, new monitor, and new software; my piano; and many pounds of books, both old favorites and unread anticipations.
I have read some books. Yesterday I had my first piano lesson, and pulled out an old knitting project. But mostly I cajole the ancient dog into eating something good for him (usually by feeding him by hand), or listen, with varying degrees of emotion--from extreme irritation to tender sympathy--to his endless font of squeaks, snores, and farts. It's snores and farts right now, which is why I can take a moment to write.
Most of my time the dog doesn't occupy is taken up with housekeeping. Theoretically, Ian helps with this. In actuality so far this year, he has been in Seattle for two days every week--or, almost every other week, on a work trip for the entire five days. I have done a lot of cooking from our tiny fridge on our small electric range. And a Sisyphean amount of dishes. IT NEVER ENDS.
Don't get me wrong--the quiet; the views of sea, wooded island, sky; the fresh, salt-scented air; the small interactions with people who are already friends--at the farm stand, the bookstore, the post office--I would not give these up for a thousand dishwashers. But they're not going to facilitate a thousand creative projects, either.
So, I'm turning down the volume on my expectations of production. It takes several hours more per week to simply complete the minimum tasks of day-to-day living--and I have regretfully accepted that I am constitutionally unable to leave the dishes unwashed for more than 24 hours. Even with cupboards full of clean ones.
I'd really love to have staff.
one-fingered on my phone