Pen to paper, word to a page, no time left to do what I need to do. I need to do something creative today. I need to work in my studio, I need to write several papers. I make coffee, shower, spend too much time in the land of anxiety. I’m so mad at myself. Yesterday I was re-born. I dressed up in a white suit, wrote a declaration about my new life, I will not worry about lunches, dishes, politics, the world of my anxiety. I want to feel like I did yesterday as I sat in the courtyard and wrote my re-birth announcement, under chimes and breeze and blue sky. Surrounded by artists, participating in conceptual, social, psychological work, all participants parents, dedicating three hours to themselves and to a community of artists, I crawled through a giant birth canals while the rest of the birthed squirted primary colored poster paint on me. I thought, “What if my husband saw this? What about my kids? Was it frivolous? Or was that the point? The point we don’t need to be serious, earth based all the time. Can’t we spend time in the ethers? In a space completely dedicated to art, collaborative art?”

But my time still runs out. It’s close to time I need to be terrestrial. I need to be mom, as much as I’m not ready, as much as I’d like not to talk to anyone and just work and disappear in my studio for hours the fact is the same. I even acknowledge I am privileged to have a thought in my mind that I know I have certain choices, go to my studio at all, I am lucky I don’t need to worry where’s my next meal coming from. And then guilt, anxiety creeps in. Paranoia.