can't even find the time

Time to create is somewhat elusive. I thought becoming a stay at home mom would allow me that space (as did many others in my circle) but with the demands of a three year old, finding time to do anything extra can be difficult and trying. Did you know three year olds change their minds within seconds and take approximately five hours to get ready to leave the house but can also run away from you, naked, screaming and destroying the pile of clothes you just folded in about two seconds? True story. Especially when you have a wandering, head in the clouds type of child. It doesn't help that I am also a wandering, head in the clouds type of person.

I do feel as if I'm constantly creating...in my mind. Creating something visual takes time and space and it helps (for me) to have little to no interruption when I am really into that creative zone. But first it has to ease and flow out of my mind and out into the real world of paints, pens, inks and paper. I imagine most artists have journals or sketchbooks to help capture ideas. I have a sort of "life book". Lots of things go into this journal. My thoughts, doodles, poems, artistic endeavors, recipes, wish lists, dreams, goals etc. 

The most breathtaking feeling is when I find that time to turn something from the pages of my life book into reality. 

Yet, typically, I can't even find the time. Of course, the honesty in me must show its snarky little face. Time is hiding in riveting movies and tv. It's lurking behind book covers. It is a shadow at the park while I push my son on the swings. It's sucked up in the swirl of dog hair rushing into the vacuum. It's stuck in the couch cushion as I stare out the window for much too long. 

Sometimes time is very direct with me, staring right into my eyes, and I pick up the pen or brush and then...nothing. Something beautiful is hiding inside my mind and it does not always want to come out and play with time.

But then. Oh, then...bliss. Time and the constant creation in my mind bump into each other, share a shy smile and hold hands for a while. Those are the moments when you step back, look at your work and think "damn, did I do that?!"

I mentioned in my previous post that I broke up with painting. Well, we starting flirting again and we got together last night. It was fun. It's still kind of a casual thing but it piqued my interest. I have a project I've been thinking about and I'm ready to let my mind spill onto the canvas.

Here is phase one. Next week I'll share my new painting project.

the dilemma

When I was a little girl I always knew I wanted to be an artist when I grew up.  Back then, I didn't realize that was a fairly lofty dream. I also didn't realize I might not ever actually grow up. 

I'm still growing. Still dreaming.

Why is being an artist so difficult? Is it just difficult for me? I will say I had fair warning. My parents were not too excited about my majoring in art, especially fine arts. They were sort of okay with a concentration in graphic design. I desperately signed up for graphic design courses when I registered my freshman year of college and later secretly dropped those in favor of painting courses. 

I didn't even want to go to college. I have always sort of drifted along in my own world, scribbling weird poetry in my journal, writing short stories or drawing little people that developed from stories in my mind. I had no true aspirations other than to become this vague notion of an "artist." I was forced to apply for college and I'll be forever grateful to my parents for the not so gentle push as well as the ability to actually send me on to higher education. I blossomed a lot in college. I turned into a different sort of dreamer and my art grew beyond my imagined capabilities. I had some incredible instructors whose passion for art history and non objective art helped my realize I needed to narrow my focus. 

I was (constructively) criticized by several professors for not having direction with my art. For being all over the place with my paintings and my artist statement. Now, at nearly 35, I am still figuring out my focus. 

I feel naive at times for all the things I do not know or understand about art, about my supposed passion and my craft. Recently, I broke up with painting. We just had such a rough patch and I couldn't bear to look at all the memories we created together. I gave away many paintings, trashed some and others I painted over. It's very disheartening to be told you have talent but not understand where to direct it, how to make it work, how to make it marketable, how to make a living. How to grow up and become the artist I always wanted to be.

I wish there was more support for this abstract life of an artist. The questions that arise when you major in art include:

"Art. huh. What are you going to do with that?"

and

"How will you make money?"

The questions and ideas that fill your mind are even more specific and frightening. How can I create something new? Everyone else has already created something better. Art is just a hobby. I will never be unique enough. The final product looks nothing like it did in my mind. How do other artists make money? Why can't I? What if no one comes to my show? Why am I even bothering?

The insecurity piles in and it becomes a mind numbing fog. If this is my passion why is it surrounded by so much heartache, anxiety and frustration?

Fellow artist, creators and dreamers: how do you find your way through the fog?

on wednesdays I blog

I am lost in the abyss of motherhood. 

That sounds so awful, right? I could apologize for making the beauty of mothering children sound like an infection but I won't. It's the reality (sometimes) and there is beauty in the truth.

My husband is out of town for the week and I am left with my sweet bundle of three year old energy and an anxiety ridden dog who possibly needs more attention than my child.

The stay at home mom (SAHM) gig sounded pretty amazing back when I was still working, dragging my milk heavy breasts and spit up covered clothing to work and crying in the conference room while I pumped, imagining every breath, giggle and coo I was missing. I remember telling my best friend how I was so miserable and if only I could stay home with my baby, life would be glorious! She was already a seasoned mother of a toddler and she gently suggested the SAHM life might not be the glitter covered, sprinkled cupcake dream most people imagine. 

I nodded and ignored her, of course. I knew better, didn't I?

After my babies first year, my husband and I decided we could afford the transition to a one income family. I was overjoyed and a little annoyed because I heard the three little words that I probably said myself before having children. They felt different when someone else used them on me and my situation. They felt very, very different after being home with my son for two plus years.

"Must be nice." 

Well, yes, I guess it is nice. Or it was nice. But trust me, reality sets in super fast.

There is no escape.

I know, that sounds dismal and probably a little ridiculous. Perhaps it is when you compare my life to those who are struggling and suffering and barely making it through the day. In moments of extreme frustration I do reflect on how lucky I am to have the opportunity to stay home with my son. I know it's rare today.

It doesn't take away the fact that being a SAHM is hard. It's lonely. It's isolating. There are issues that no one knows about or understands. And there is another layer for me, personally. I am an artist. (snort) Well, I try to be. So I definitely heard a lot of this as I made the transition to SAHM:

"Oh, great! Now you can work on your art and your writing!"

That sentence alone makes my heart sink. The guilt sets in.

Even now, as I frantically type this and hope I don't sound like an absolute entitled "you know what" for even daring to feel anything other than grateful...my heart is down below my knees. I need to get this written because I promised myself after starting my blog again August 1st I would blog at least once a week. I already broke that promise. 

I have not fully worked on my art or my writing. Until now. On Wednesday's I will blog. I hope it will be about creating, writing, about fun artsy projects with my son. Maybe sometimes my blogs will be about fighting my way out of the abyss as I answer questions like "what's a face?" and clean pee off of every bathroom surface while tripping over my dog. 

On Wednesdays I blog. It's my new mantra. And now, it's time to play with my son.

It is pretty nice. 

who are you?

Who are you? I am a woman, a wife, a daughter, a best friend. I am an unsuccessful artist, an unpublished writer, a dreamer. A mom. Why does it feel like it stops right there with that word..mom. Your sweet baby comes screaming into your world and you suddenly absorb “mom” as yet another label and everything stops. You say and do things you claimed you never would. Your world becomes very small. You scream into a pillow in the darkest parts of the night, the parts no one wants to talk about, and wonder what the hell you got yourself into. Can you go back to the way it was? Do you want to?

You might sob on the couch because nothing has ever felt as terrifying as keeping another human being alive. How do you go back to work? How do you create? How do you ever do anything again other than feed the baby, change the baby and cry.

Eventually you start to do things again but you wonder if you will ever do anything right, why everything feels so difficult, and if you will ever find your place as anything other than a mom. Will you ever stop crying?

Time settles in. The days turn into weeks and those turn into months and then years. You are wrapped up inside your child’s eyes and twisted around their needs and wants.  Sometimes you feel as if your soul has drained out of you and become this giant puddle you keep slipping around in while you try to maintain your footing. You ferociously grab onto the moments of joy that sometimes seem few and far between. Those moments keep you from sinking completely.

One day, as suddenly as the mom fog fell down around you, the haze lifts a bit and you realize you have a little breathing room. Your child is growing and becoming their own little person. You might remember then, that you are more than a mom. You are a woman and a partner and a person too.

Maybe you feel like a crappy mom for even worrying about yourself at all in that moment. Are you selfish? Were our mothers and grandmothers so worried, so sad? Did the word mom feel very different when they tried it on decades ago? Maybe it was easier because they didn’t have other mom’s lives thrust in their faces for comparison.

Every screen screams at us with those glorious photo-shopped pictures of moms frolicking in nature, painting abstract art in perfectly lit photographs shot in weathered brick lofts with white couches. Moms drawing cute cartoons that exemplify motherhood perfectly. Moms turning their kids scribbles into incredible works of art. Moms being fit and toned and eating healthy foods prepared with vegetables grown from their gardens. Moms who are successfully blogging and selling their work. Moms who have already written everything I’m trying to communicate, only better. Moms who are working and handling the mom business at the same time like total bosses. Maybe when you see all of this it feels easier to retreat into a mindless abyss of a Real Housewives marathon and forget about everything you hoped you could be.

Maybe you feel worthless.

Bringing a life into the world isn’t enough. Sometimes the fact you would even consider motherhood an accomplishment is ridiculed. Being a mom isn’t enough when your creative spirit is withering inside of you.

This is the part where I tell you it’s going to be ok and it’s all worth it. I think that’s what I’m supposed to say. I’m not quite there yet. It is a beautiful sacrifice to raise a child and yes, it’s worth it to see your babies happy and experiencing life. But when that day comes, when they fly away and start to explore their own dreams, where are you? Where are you when their little lives become their big lives and they are not so wrapped up and twisted with yours. Who are you then?