I’ve been circling my art supply laden dining room table like a dog on a walk, looking for the right spot to relieve himself. It’s a strange analogy but certainly reflective of how I feel lately. I’ve been slow in getting going, rooting around in my imagining, sniffing out the root of that creative kernel… that ah-ha moment when you hit pay dirt… there it is! So fleeting, though… if it’s not immediately captured, it shifts in the sand and requires more digging, more sniffing.
I’ve been so busy lately… with work… with a whole new project that I brought forth into the world by virtue of my indignation at being shut down so completely that I was made mute. I’m not good with mute. To summarily remove my ability to express myself brings about a sort of rage, an all-consuming force that propels me into motion. So out of chaos was borne cohesion… and a re-ignited community of phenomenal beings.
I am resentful of the days moving too fast, though too slowly as well. I live for the freedom of the weekends, but even those seem to be overladen with responsibilities that I can barely scratch off the top of my to-do list without adding them again to the bottom. I used to be so organized… what happened? I had this whole chore thing down to a science. Somewhere along the way I lost my oomph. Now I just sit and stare at the list and short circuit, and wonder how I will get all of that done and still have time to do what I really want to, which inevitably involves the creative process in some way. But when I sit down to create, I am unable to dig deep enough into the silence of myself to pull anything out. Frustration ensues… they say that sometimes the act of lovemaking is enough, even without coitus. Perhaps I need to apply this same concept to my creative efforts. Just showing up is sometimes enough.