This morning I drove by Winn-Dixie and wished that I was living somewhere I could not drive past Winn-Dixie. I miss snow. I suspect that snow is one of those things I will never see again. For some reason, the more I try to repair my life, the less time I have. I finished painting a lone regiment of figures and felt I had accomplished some major feat when it used to be a regular occurrence.

I do not think I ever stopped to catalog my life the way I am now cataloging the miniatures and rule books that overflow boxes and spill out everywhere. Cataloging it I would say that I do not accomplish as much as I did in the past. Even little accomplishments seem out of reach. One wishes for the stray day at home knowing they are becoming less and less likely. Today, I hopefully carried in a drawing pad and a box of pastels and now I wonder if I will even touch them.

I suppose the beauty of leading an isolated childhood is that one always has inner places to go to where there is some satisfaction to be had no matter what the world becomes. Still, I wish I had more time and more snow.