Could it have been that my sacred space was disrupted, that creating the baby zone temporarily restricted my freedom and sanctuary I’ve always felt when coming to work? (can I still call it work if I don’t get paid?) That the space I gave up was the same space I preferred working in, laying all my pieces out on the floor, painting and gluing, making a mess, not caring what state I left my studio in because it was mine and mine alone. Now there is possibility of Jack, Fiona, Alan, the babysitter, coming in here, anytime. I can’t leave supplies in reach. I have to pick up and keep track of push pins. I can’t leave containers of indigo blue watercolor out. At a time when I feel like my artwork is as meaningless as the presidential election this year, I can only assume I am going through a period of great change, of give and take, of worth and self-esteem, periods of nothingness, sadness, loneliness, paired with great happiness and love, family, warmth, and safety. Food and shelter, tomato plants and an herb garden, the sun and the birds, the regularity, home.
I must conquer these demons, take out this brush, this paint, the voice inside me, not worried if the things I do have value, not fret about the cost of supplies and babysitters because what is the alternative? To sit mute in a chair in the corner? I will learn how to share my most personal, deepest, darkest, self, open to interpretation. I have to risk everything to speak and live and parent and be a part of this society, of my community. I need to let them, see me, and I need to really see them. Something deep and meaningful. No holds bar.