YES I CAN

I did it! Oh serendipitous moment! I picked up my pencils and I drew. I flowed, I was passionate, I was in it, I did it. I finally did that first step. Just to pick up the damn pencil. HALLELUJAH.

I let myself explore for an hour and this is the result. I obviously still need a lot of work... wait, why did I say that? Why do I want to try and reign in my excitement and my triumph?? Why am I already wanting to hide back in my shell with fear? This is a huge step for me. I haven't let myself draw like this in... in years. I'm doing back flips inside my chest. I drew. I draw. No need to quiet this down.

There's just a need to crank it up.

Her Eyes and Other Photos

I have a hard time posting full-on pics of my babies on a public blog. But I captured some amazing shots of my little sunshine.

Or her eyes, at least.


I'm not as scared to post photos of myself... I guess. I took these before my play date with Dharma and chopped all my hair off. I wasn't about to post them on my other blog so, since I'm branching out with this one, why hold back? I'll need to convince more people to be my test subjects...

The light coming through the blinds was breathtaking. This doesn't even show...

I'm holding the composition book I do my morning pages in. My wonderful husband supports my writing and got me a plethora of notebooks for Christmas. I'm blessed to have someone who supports me so fully right in my same household and as my forever companion.

I love my books.

And they love me too.

Chicago, The Musical

I was able to see the Broadway show... on Main Street. I LOVED every minute of it. My eyes drank up all the production had to offer. The dancing, the singing, the music, the passion. Dharma definitely needed this. I definitely needed this. In the book The Artist's Way, she talks about how our inner artist needs nourishment. Whether it be a play, a musical, making crafts, singing in the shower even, we've neglected this inner artist too long and they need to be nourished back to health. Well, I had my fill last night... and I wanted more. I even imagined myself onstage in place of Roxy Heart. Owning that stage, owning that audience, belting my voice with each song and loving it.

I had an incredible time. I have wonderful in-laws.

Mother Mary

I open the door as silently as I can. The room is foggy and moist. I squeeze my crunchy down comforter through the doorway and attempt a makeshift bed on the floor next to her crib. The comforter crinkles and cracks so loudly I am certain she'll wake any moment. I peek over and see her sleeping soundly. Soundly and safely. I wonder what it would be like to be an infant again. Everything new, everything fresh, everything wonderful. No wonder her slumber is so deep. I'm jealous of her calm. I slide into my blanket and notice how concrete the floor feels. Already my hips ache. I lay my head down and close my eyes. A movie screen pops up instantaneously. Images flashing by so quickly, I hardly can make out what they are. Thoughts buzzing through at lightening speed. Chaos, mayhem, madness.

Dear God, I whisper, what is happening? Please God, please be with me. I ask permission if I can pray until I fall asleep. With no formal closing, I fear I'm being disrespectful, but no I just need comfort. I need a barrier between me and my racing thoughts. I plead for angels to surround us, me and my baby, in who's room I've chosen for relief. The last thing I want is to bring the madness in here. In this space of peace and purity. Surround us please. An image flashes by on the screen. My brain presses the pause button. Back up. Right there, amongst the Jackson Pollock of my mind, a clear, distinct picture. Part of it familiar, the other, foreign. It's Michelangelo's Pieta. There sits Mary, large hands, soft face. Looking down on what I know to be Christ after His crucifixion and descent from the cross. Sprawled across her lap, half naked, and limp. I imagine my finger tracing the cold marble. Every wrinkle in her shroud perfectly etched, every vein in her hand expanding and constricting with the beat of her heart. I trace down to the second figure. But wait. It's not Christ. It's me.

Blasphemy, a raspy voice cries.

No, says another, like a bell. I see Mary holding me, quieting my fears and I, finding remedy in her solace, curl closer to her chest. I hold this scene in my mind. I ignore the thrashing of negativity at my door. The cutting remarks, the uncertainty, the angst. Mother Mary comforts me... until, at last...

...sleep finds me.


Last night was hell. Except for my vision. I have neglected my morning pages and have ignored and given zero power to my word.

I'm feeling the effects. Little did I know this would be a complaining blog until I could "get it together" and actually start creating. I long to create and be apart of that which is bigger than myself or bigger than I know myself to be.

I'm working through the sludge, but I sense a clearing soon. I pray.

Ummm, Correction...

And by "open" I really mean stuck.

Stuck, stuck, stuck.

A Burst Here, A Burst There

Like I stated in my first post. I get bursts of inspiration, of energy, of desire and a WANT. A want to get my hands on something, to express. It's sustaining that burst, that is my real challenge. I made this collage a while ago. I typed and pasted the lyrics, "you belong among the wildflowers..." and then "you belong somewhere you feel free..." Good ol' Tom Petty for ya.

I love those lyrics. I have put towards the bottom a girl spinning. She looks utterly free. The sun is shining, the grass flowing. It's a perfect representation of how I'd like to be all the time. In any given situation. I think inspiration wouldn't need to be mustered up, it would just exist, all around me. All I'd have to do is tap into it. I, of course, got most of these images from Urban Outfitters catalogues and Anthropologie ads. Once again, using other people's work to help aid my own. I love their ads. So clever and so rich with texture and palpable color pallets. I'm a big fan... needless to say.

There's a flame, grass, flowers, trees, an open inviting widow, clouds, birds and the sign Come In We're Open. I definitely let Dharma out with this one. I think this whole collage does in fact represent the freedom that I am working towards. The freedom of my art. There's a large ominous beetle at the very top, forewarning me of times to come. And the Come In We're Open sign is sort of an invitation, saying, "Yes, I'm open to whatever comes," 24/7, baby.

A Playdate With Dharma

The second Post and All Those After...

Right smack dab in the middle of a town's expansion project, lies a farm. A neon super CVS on one side and a noisy freeway on the other. But this farm, when looked at completely separate from the chaos that surrounds it, seems untouched, unscathed. As if in a time capsule, this farm clings to it's charm, quaint, and simple life.

There's a rosebush, in particular, in full bloom. The bright velvet red petals can be seen from the road going 50 miles per hour. They are astounding. Behind that rosebush, green grass grows, golden leaves fall from the mammoth tree above.

Chickens and cows cluck and graze, seemingly unaware of the construction rustling about them. The dainty sounds of the cattle chewing, the sticks cracking under the hen's feet would surly seem impossible to hear over the bulldozer's ferocious roar.

But some how, some way, this farm invites you in, and you can hear.... a bee buzzing, a leaf brushing up against her neighbor, the grass pushing its way up towards the sunshine.

The First Post, the First Step

I'm always in a rush. I am, about most things art related. And about most things in general. I want that instant gratification at times. Or a result that I like straightaway, because according to some part of me, I don't have the time or I don't want to make the time to learn, or to mull it over, or to create. For example, with oil painting. I can't stand it because it takes too long. Layer after layer and the drying process, are you kidding me?! So I don't finish anything. Or with my writing. My mind is going a mile a minute and my pen can hardly keep up. Thus the missed words, extra letters and atrocious handwriting.

Taking the time to create might mean to me a number of things. It might mean that inspiration is fleeting. And if it comes I "gotta do it in one sitting" because it would be impossible to be found again, brought back up to the same intensity... over and over. It could mean that I might really put my heart and soul into something and be so proud of it, only to receive "constructive criticism" and have my heart torn apart. It could mean that the time it takes me to complete a painting, a story, to pick up that guitar and learn, takes me away from my family, my baby mostly. Creativity makes a mess I don't want to clean up, doors that I don't want open, and awakens a part inside of me that is hidden so deep, it's painful pulling her out. Creation means letting that "artist" out that I've worked so hard at putting away. Then pretending I'm artistic or merely dabbling in things without fully being apart, so as not to get hurt by the end result; the painting, the book, the song. Or crushed. Or thought wonderful even... Pretending means my heart can still be guarded, my heart really isn't in it. My heart wants to be, but no, too painful. So rather truly letting my artist out, I put her away, bring out a phony one and then all is well. The phony one is detached. The phony one receives criticism and says, "Oh no bother. I didn't really put that much into it anyhow..." But my artist. My artist. I've been such a poser all these years. Such a fake. Living through artists of the past or the artists in my family, pretending to be one of them, pretending to talk like them, "be into the same things" as them, force myself to. When it's all an act.

Oh I feel her in there. I feel my heart ache as she whispers in my ear "let me out." She presses on my ribcage from the inside out. My genuine, my true, my real artist. My Dharma, as my father-in-law dubs me. Dharma, honey, I'm letting you out. I promise you I will not stop working until you are free to express, free to create, and you and I are one again, like we were when I was a child.