Zen and the art of painting a room

Ahhh, a slight break in painting. As arid as it is here, the walls dry quickly, so painting goes fast. J’s room should be done today and we’ll start A’s room tonight. Thank God the boys are having a blast sleeping in the basement. For the first time in forever, neither kid is leaving his room to whine about being hungry after bedtime. Hm. Must ponder why.

Painting a room gives me plenty of time to ponder. If I think about how much has to be done, I get all twitchy and find any reason to avoid starting. The computer is a fantastic way to procrastinate. So is cleaning, believe it or not; you can pretend you’re getting something important done. So when I paint, I focus solely on what I am doing at that moment. This is not easy for me; I’m usually planning several steps/days/years ahead. First, the ceiling: cut around the edges, when that’s done get the roller, when that’s done pull the tape. Second, cut in the blue paint: this wall, then that wall, then inside the window, then that wall. Just one thing at a time, and I’m relaxed. I’m focused on the brush going up and down and side to side, getting the tiny specks of old paint covered. I concentrate on painting, but not overly so. Oops, missed a spot, get it, move on. I don’t beat myself up about missing that spot in the first place, I just fix it and keep going. Wish I could do that in real life.

As I paint I write blog posts in my head. I wish I could download them straight from the brain because blue paint just ruins the sleek sexiness of MacDreamy2. I imagine if he had eyes, they’d be this color blue, but I’m not providing the tint today. I dream about the future; places I’d like to visit, other home improvements I’d like to make. I think about the boys, and my hopes and dreams for them. This last one is tough, for I can very quickly run that puppy into the ground, stressing over what might be. I tread lightly on that topic. Painting is as close to a meditative state as I can get with my eyes open, sweating like a construction worker, and breathing in semi-toxic fumes. I enjoy painting, and I’d do it more often for the meditative part of it, if it weren’t for the fact that having my house torn up for several days makes me a snarling bitch.

All this said, no, I will not come paint your house.

The walls should be dry enough for me to continue now. More taping and caulking and painting and thinking and before I know it, the room will be lovely. At least until the little boy moves back into his room.

But I won’t ponder that now.