By spring I had repaired the leak in my laundry room and arranged to have the roof inspected.

I had also registered for a short watercolor course at the community center.

The first day I felt ridiculous standing among people younger than me, holding brushes I barely knew how to use.

Then the instructor reminded us that no one expected excellence from a beginner.

She said practice was a form of attention.

I liked that.

So much of my adult life had been devoted to attending to everyone else that paying attention to my own interests felt strangely bold.

Ruth joined me for the second session.