This morning's walk was more like a swim in a mud puddle. The air was so hot and humid, that my legs seemed to warp into slow motion. I felt as though I was still in bed, dreaming that I was walking. Even a car coming out of the darkness towards us, seemed to be gasping for breath and struggling to make headway. As it lumbered by us, I had the illusion of being on a treadmill, going no where. Eventually, we decided to cut our route short and return to cooler, air conditioned existence. The walk was a struggle, but I was content to have prodded myself into exercising, no matter how abbreviated.
That is what my studio time was like yesterday. No matter how much effort I made to resolve one of my paintings in progress, I was mired in the mud of exertion. I plodded away, trying to advance my work, but I was stuck in a wearisome round of attempts and failure. I finally gave in to my lethargy and began to clean my tools. When looking back at what I had accomplished, I realized it wasn't so bad after all. I had not reached a revelation, or any kind of final resolution, but I had made progress. Some days are like that. Slow is better than no go.