Every day for the next week I was busy, not just from sunrise to sunset, but during every hour of the day. I would wake long before the sun and head down to the ancestral fire with my sketchbook and my charcoal sticks, then later in the week with my travel easel and over-sized tablets of paper. I would stay there until deep into the night before I"d finally pack up and trudge home again.
But the work wasn"t done even then. At home, I would look at all I"d sketched while sitting by the fire and focus on the most significant-feeling images. Only then would I fall into bed, holding those images in my mind in the hopes that my dreams could unlock what my waking mind was failing to unlock.
This isn"t a recipe for restful sleep. And it didn"t even work.
So I was busy, exhaustingly busy. But i
