Making measurable progress in reasonable time

The image on the wall grows steelier by the day. The captured elements of pure earth today within the piece for example, like glimpses of peat almost, have come through the foliage most forcefully. Blades of weed, especially to the right of the piece, almost bend as you look. There is a steepness to the hill in which it is set that unsettles, and yet the togetherness, the unity of the piece, ultimately pulls you through. Perhaps it is the two figures, the children, the artist's children, holding on to each other. Also, wonderfully improbable though it is, the roots of a giant tree are above their heads. The roots. The thin trunk to the right, a visual jolt rather than a central theme, loves the light illuminating its bark. As I write all this, the artist sits before it, parked like she is in this sentence. She is finished for the day. Like this sentence. I believe she feels at home on the bright red sofa with a warm cup of peppermint tea. (I can see her profile against the soft white of the wall.) The children's voices drift from their room into this one. It is as if they are coming from the piece. A piece in which they so narratively feature. There is also something about what I call the desert light and lampshade by the fireplace in this room and the atmosphere coming from its crepuscular beam that takes one away from the trivia and trifles of life. Is it spiritual? I suppose it is. Ah, the children are silent for a moment - the piece on the wall too - but then I can hear their laughter again. You know, I love the fact they take it all in their stride that they feature in their mother's work. I wonder if they also know they are universal.