I have a Dream. I walk by the door of the Gallery, my show is being installed. I can see three small framed portraits being hung, the installers say, “not yet”, they don’t want me to see yet. I wake up. I want to clean my studio. Something inside is leading me, a part of me more certain than emotions or intellectualism. I clean, throw away, I paint all the paintings on board, on canvas, white. All the paintings I’m so-so about. I haven’t been able to work in my studio the past couple Of weeks. I write and complain, it’s because my kids won’t take their naps anymore, its because they are being bad, its because they aren’t giving me any space. I throw away three bags of trash from my studio. I throw away paintings on paper that never worked, that scattered the floor, my press, under my table. I throw away junk left from frantic studio sessions, old yogurt containers with dried yogurt. I couldn’t work in my studio because it was too cluttered with the past. Not because of motherhood. Now there’s space here. I create a special corner for Fiona with her easel and her art supplies. I haven’t had a chance to paint yet; I have all my notebooks opened up to clean white pages, painting surface after painting surface gessoed with only ghosts showing from what was. Fiona tells me she wants to paint in her new spot; It’s after 5:00, I should be making dinner. Alan is playing with Jack in the house; Fiona and I go in my studio, she starts painting, cutting string, gluing, she is completly absorbed in the process. I start drawing, reacting with new lines and reacting with lines that connect with the ghosts of the past paintings. Jack comes in and says he wants to throw paint. I set him up with a canvas and black paint, he starts splattering the paint, Jackson Pollock style. I continue to work, my head feels light and my body free from the neck work I did in yoga this morning. Fiona and I paint for almost two hours together. Alan comes in and says he’s getting really hungry and it’s really late. I tell Fiona, we clean up. I go upstairs and make dinner. I have a dream last night: I’m re-writing a story to read out loud, I get up in front of a group of people and I can’t read myown writing. Its so confusing, I can’t tell what happened to the words. I try to skim it and fill in the blanks, I’m so confused. I wake up and here I am.