it’s my life

it’s my life, originally uploaded by katiek2.

I’m holing up in my bedroom. I’ve had it with not getting to be alone. I’ve had plenty of time to go out, be without my kids, be with good friends…but. I am feeling the result of not having time to just be. I feel guilty asking for time. I feel like a jerk locking doors just to use the bathroom by myself. And I’d like to say that I miss my husband during the day, everyday, and wish he was with me so we could have more time together, but ya know. Sometimes I just want my time. When everyone is home I have to work with those 4 other agendas. I love all of them. I want them to be around me most of the time. But when, when will I have time to sit. Listen to my music. Not talk to anyone. Escape into my world and stay there for a couple hours. Can I have a couple hours?
I have felt this tension in my upper back. It comes and goes but it always comes back. It is intensified when I have to deal with stressful moments with Josiah’s schoolwork, or trying to juggle a unhappy baby and get dinner done before 6:15ish. When I have so many errands to run but I put them off until the last minute so I could a) get a shower b) eat breakfast c) convince the baby she still needs a nap. I love our community but sometimes it’s just too much. Too much activity.
“I need a studio!!” I declare. But really that’s not the answer. I long for inspiration. As I evaluate the art I made 5 years ago and the art I’m making now I just sigh. Where is that inspiration? Can I websurf enough to find the perfect picture? Can I listen to music long enough to conjure up something beautiful? What happened? Why am I empty?
It’s almost impossible. That’s what I’m seeing right now. There are so many demands made on me that I am used up by 9pm. I have nothing left to exert.
If I have Joel take all three kids somewhere I feel I have to make it up to him. But can’t time to reflect and create just be? Just be part of my role? Just like when the baby was little, I’m the only one that could feed her and I didn’t have to make excuses, I was the only one. Dinner didn’t get made if I had to nurse Tessa right at 5:45. I didn’t have to apologize.
I’ve shared this sick feeling with Joel and with Cat. It’s been interesting what the reactions are. There doesn’t seem to be an easy solution. Cat is almost finished with a book that I’ve owned for years by Madeline L’Engle called Walking on Water. Now I don’t read, I barely read magazines or blogs. But I want to read this one. Just to have something that fills my brain with things that I want to meditate on. Things that will prod me toward painting my life. Not what I think people want, but what I actually want to do. Screw special projects and prospecti, screw art shows and comissions, screw the former and let me lean on those things that I am being shown. It feels SO HARD. Like scraping plaque off your teeth.
Making art is not a hobby for me. It’s something I’m commanded to do. I’ve been mighty cranky, trying to cover up my dissatisfaction with other vices, hoping the tension in my shoulders will go away. I’m not complaining about my life, I love it. I just need this like I need sleep and physical touch, and the sun. I will become more of a shell of I can’t figure this out. So that’s it. I’m going to stop writing about it and I’ll actually spend some time before I have to put my apron back on and make Sunday night waffles.


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