The little AU: Winter Hopes: Steady
The little AU: Winter Hopes: Steady
slashfairy
~~
Two weeks until filming starts. No, three. Well, soon, anyway. Not soon enough, too soon.
For such short month, February will have too much in it. Too many places to be, too many flashbulbs, too many comparisons, too much hurry-up-and-wait, too much getting into character.
And too little: too little time for art, too little time at home, too little sleep, too little warmth, too little cushion.
Still, it will, like every other month in every other year with its artificial divisions of hours, minutes, seconds, consist of a series of sunrises and sunsets marked by the sensation of being at the center of the universe which being a small person on a large globe causes, and all he will be able to do, all anyone can do, really, is hold steady in the stream of them, and let grow in his life what will.
In that, February will be what it is, have what any time, all time has: enough.
Enough opportunities to do good, to be wise, to have compassion, to give generously, to accept appreciatively, to be honest, to notice kindness, to accept effort, to denounce fraud and decry evil.
Enough time to move from task to task with a good will and an artist's heart; enough breaths to draw one after another [unless they run out, but that is not something tied to any month or moment]; enough monkey-minded madness to create innumerable chances to settle, to calm, to regroup, to rise above.
Enough smiles, enough hugs, enough nights with the men, enough days with fulfilling work, enough adventure, enough peace, enough of everything as long as he is open to remembering that it doesn't take so very much for something to be enough.
Steady as she goes, boys, he sings to himself, some old sea chantey made over into a cowboy's song and brought back from Appaloosa. Steady as she goes, and mind the wind and weather- weigh haul away, we'll haul away, Joe... He mixes up lines and verses, singing the same way he paints, the same way he writes poetry, the same way he becomes a character, and the song weaves itself through his day, one of the last of January before February arrives.
previously: The altar of small things
next: In Between
slashfairy
~~
Two weeks until filming starts. No, three. Well, soon, anyway. Not soon enough, too soon.
For such short month, February will have too much in it. Too many places to be, too many flashbulbs, too many comparisons, too much hurry-up-and-wait, too much getting into character.
And too little: too little time for art, too little time at home, too little sleep, too little warmth, too little cushion.
Still, it will, like every other month in every other year with its artificial divisions of hours, minutes, seconds, consist of a series of sunrises and sunsets marked by the sensation of being at the center of the universe which being a small person on a large globe causes, and all he will be able to do, all anyone can do, really, is hold steady in the stream of them, and let grow in his life what will.
In that, February will be what it is, have what any time, all time has: enough.
Enough opportunities to do good, to be wise, to have compassion, to give generously, to accept appreciatively, to be honest, to notice kindness, to accept effort, to denounce fraud and decry evil.
Enough time to move from task to task with a good will and an artist's heart; enough breaths to draw one after another [unless they run out, but that is not something tied to any month or moment]; enough monkey-minded madness to create innumerable chances to settle, to calm, to regroup, to rise above.
Enough smiles, enough hugs, enough nights with the men, enough days with fulfilling work, enough adventure, enough peace, enough of everything as long as he is open to remembering that it doesn't take so very much for something to be enough.
Steady as she goes, boys, he sings to himself, some old sea chantey made over into a cowboy's song and brought back from Appaloosa. Steady as she goes, and mind the wind and weather- weigh haul away, we'll haul away, Joe... He mixes up lines and verses, singing the same way he paints, the same way he writes poetry, the same way he becomes a character, and the song weaves itself through his day, one of the last of January before February arrives.
previously: The altar of small things
next: In Between