Monday, January 4

this is it :: is this it?

I don't know what to write tonight. I want to say it all. I want to say everything, and everything, and everything. I want to reach and touch, absorb and receive. I want to hear the truth-drum in my ribs. To say that sometimes I am so happy I just sit, and smile, and eat up my moment.  Color pops. The moment is whispering in the long stretched out slow-motion dust motes floating in sunshine. They are whispering this is it. That the love and depth of my life terrifies me, because I know that at any moment it could be gone. And I wonder if the fact that I know this, because it seems like so many don't, makes me more susceptible to it going. That sometimes I am so angry that I go into the basement and violently dash thrift-shopped mugs and plates against the wall, like I'm shooting a gun loaded with all my little-girl angers, frozen feelings, tortured moments of castrated blankness. That some days everything I do is weighed and found wanting by the inner judge: a dreadful carrying linger, is this it? this is not enough from you. The father-voice echoes saying I am disappointed. And other days I go to bed pulsating with absolute contentment, filling and warming like a breadloaf put to rise over the heat of a perfectly fulfilling day. Those days, are studio days. Nothing releases rancor, drains boils, nourishes, transforms, shifts, translates, like a studio day. When I work in the studio I put on my wings. I step into the electric flow. I don't need to eat. I drink gallons of tea.

Why then, is it so hard to get into the studio these days? I feel like a shy phoenix, deferring the step into the pyre. A stagnant Icarus, refusing the wings because although he may soar, he may also fall. All my happiness, all my anger, all my wordlessness and frustration, all my yearning is balanced if I can just get into the studio. There, I am not lost.

But I am having the hardest time getting in there. I've lost my momentum. My ingredients refuse to be measured, refuse to get together. Do I need a break? Do I continue to try, without a muse? Some days this is not a problem. I am able to sidestep the avoiding cups of tea, the computer check, the dog-walk, the extended breakfast, the cups of tea, the laundry, stroll around the block, jaunt to the library, cup of tea, the vacuuming, the puttering (oh! the puttering!) and actually Get Into The Studio. Once I get my foot in the door about 65% of the difficulty is past.  There is still a good 15% to hurdle because the bathroom is around the corner and I find myself inexplicably in there plucking a hair, drinking a cup of water, reading National Geographic. The 20% left is about Keeping Myself In The Studio. I should hang a sign, Turn Around, Get Back In, over the doorway. Because I forget; I wander out. A part of my pysche says, "Don't do it! Don't enter the flow! The flow is scary! You never know where it might take you today. And right now you're warm. You're fed. You're not up for facing your selves, for chasing whisps and going Down That Path. You might have to throw plates after a while to unstick the sticky. Walking the labyrinth can get boring. You might get happy, and then where would you be? And if you make something really good, then you have to be there for it! What if you go in there all happy and you meet The Block?"

Getting into my studio these days is a bit tricky. I hope it will not always be so.


I wrote the following in May of 2009 but it seems appropriate:

the night without demands.


I have sat before my

flickering embers, a long time sil-

ent, and then I have found the shyest,

most beautiful tongue of flame - a high-

tempered tiger in the shadow of my own room,

I have softly taken up the spy-glass which I use

and I have seen her sunned and aired. I listened,

it is she who remembers me and my fireside, my

garden; her body black clouds and crimson sweet

old honeysuckle under the moon, watching the ma-

ny birds. Sitting with her I see that I am begin-

ning to do it; beginning to inhabit distant forest

trees, and behind the leaves I am laughing. I

am sure lately my voice begins to be stuf-

fed with bloom - butterflies, fruit, hon-

ey, everything - the later flowers

- a chance for seeds