The flowers on the wall

When I was twenty, I had a summer job in the Adirondack mountains. I slept in a big platform tent rife with big toothy spiders, earned a hundred dollars a week, and had no car. No boyfriend, either, but that was okay. On my days off, the best thing to do was sit with my colored pencils and sketch. Usually, I drew leaves and flowers; sometimes, twigs.

I learned a lot. I learned about the texture on the underside of the purple milk cap mushroom, and the perfect twist of a beech fern frond. I learned about the veins on the white wood aster leaf. I'm no great artist, (that's my mom), but I fell in love with the steady, almost meditative sketching I found time for that long, rainy summer.

Where am I going with this? Right. My flower wall. I've been loving working on this thing. It reminds me in so many ways of my summer in the mountains, even though I'm copying a design, not creating my own. I'm learning about the notches in zinnia petals, and the curve of poppy leaves. It is slow, pretty, mindful work, and I'm a little blue that my one wall is nearing completion.

Which has led to the predictable result of: I'm leaning towards flowering the other walls, as well. Come on, now, what did you expect?

This room is really shaping up in my mind's eye: white chair-rail underneath the flowered part, running all the way 'round the room. That fireplace we scored sitting right in the middle, flanked by white bookshelves. I feel like one of those mice in Cinderella, when they hit upon the idea to sew her a dress: Oh, goody goody goody.

Exactly.