Some Breathe Through Songs (poeTry)

by: a.paige

Some see with their ears.

With eyes closed, they strum their strings

or run their fingers along some keys...

Others feel with their eyes

and glide over their canvas to hear...

Then there are those who tread the page...
for life.

How do you quench your soul?

Some breathe through songs.

The rest tirelessly seek the water from which to drink.

Still Life... Or Calm Before The Storm. [poeTry]

by: amica paige


Ominous sky outside.
Dark clouds surrounding us.
Yet the preachers preach their thing,
and the audience, and the leaves, hang still.
A storm must be brewing near.

Unlike the APPles...red and green,
the brushes—all frayed, unseen...
Yet the hands like to draw neat things,
though the air 'round here stays still.
A storm must be brewing near.

LIFe...eARTh...heART...heARTh.

by amica paige




of joy, of pain
of home, of friends,
of fantasies and predicaments,
of heroes and victims,
at times these are
one and the same—
roses and thorns.

stars and dust,
the stuff of life is deemed
from without, come within,
and the world is seen
this is my subject,
my awed impressions
this is my art and soul’s expression.

Click. Clack. QUERTY.

This was my entry for Writer's Digest Prose Poetry contest.



Click, click, click. Clickety click. Fingers fast slipping across the keys. Click, clack. Clack, click. Back and forth, forward and backward. Up, down, and all around. This is actually fun--Ding! Onomatopoeia, she whispers, smiling. Left to right, and right to left. Fingers pushing and pulling. QUERTY, her mind utters. Why that now? whispers she again. Like you should still be sighing. This happens all the time--Ding! Fact is, she and her mind are forever talking. Talk about being engaged! Click, clack. Deep in her subconscious too, no doubt. Even when heavily submerged in her REM. Click, clack. Call it constant communication on auto-pilot, while still getting some zzz's--Ding! This endless conversation, this often mindless, mental stream, she's used to it by now. She should be. Clack, clack. Unlike those days when she'd pound herself for what she thought was a self-imposed ADD. Self-diagnosed it was really and entirely not her fault. Click, clack. You wouldn't blame a mind that simply goes on overdrive, would you? Clack, clack. Actually, she deserves a pat on the shoulder. And coffee. Starbucks would be nice. Or chocolate, or both. Sweet caffeine for a hyperactive mind. Or a new book. Even a finely bound classic. Would a tap do?--I'm kidding, her mind teases, more often now, it seems. How in the world did she manage college? I helped you, her mind...clacks, for lack of a better word. But even then, she knew better. She started over--Ding! An AA this time. Click. It was a tough decision, but she took it anyway and did not back out. Even with a BBA--heck, after a BBA!--for crying out loud. Back and forth, forward and backward. Clack. How scary was that, to feel so left behind, as spates of new grads flood the gates, all hoping to till the ground, year after year after year. Clack, clack. To have gone back is to have seriously lagged behind those who stayed, those who were now way ahead. But to have continued in a new direction presented great uncertainties and intimidation. Could one expect anything less than fierce competition? In a creative arena, you've got to be kidding. I warned you, chides her mind. I told you to stay in the path, keep your emotions in check, and watch that passion. Your heart would get you in trouble. Clack. I'm just saying...clack, clack.

But she has long since passed that crossroad and traveled a new road. Click. Her consciousness switches. Click, click. Where did you store that information anyway? Her mind shifts. Typical mental random access mode. Speaking of RAM, as in computer-speak, it's such a common term nowadays. Kind of like Jobs. No, not the workplace stuff. Steve's surname. The apple guy. Besides, workplace jobs are fast becoming extinct these days. But poor Steve... He isn't poor, what are you on? Clack. He's recently rested in peace--honestly, don't you read? Oh...sorry. RIP Steve. Still, such a shame, with all the apple stuff now orphaned...QUERTY. What now? Clack. Wait, she's remembering--Ding!--the convention salesmen used to efficiently type the word, "typewriter", of course! The keys were all conveniently located on the same line. Click. Hence, the potential buyers were impressed--Ding! Thank goodness for Google and Wikipedia for their ever-growing presence to ensure that our source materials are just clicks away. Clack. And to Steve. But I helped too--her mind chimes in--Ding! In fact, I've always helped you. Clack, clack. See, you've written this much already. Wow, sure glad that Writer's Digest has posted this challenge. Or was it Robert Lee Brewer? Remind me to give him a shout-out later on Twitter. Oh, now you need my help?--her mind chatters, as she shifts in her chair. She doesn't mean to ignore it, this integral part of her life. Click, clack. Yet, every now and then, she yearns to call the shots. It must learn to live with her. Her art. Her passion. Her heart. She'd do the same. She's been. I'm really liking this, she says with a grin. Click, click. Same here, if it is indeed prose poetry, her mind yaks. Clack, clack. But there isn't any typewriter in sight. Tap, tap. What's that tapping noise now? What happened to the clicks and the clacks? The ding's gone too. Onomatopoeia. Must have all just been inside her head, and none of it real, she reckons. Of course it is happening inside your head...but why on earth should that mean it is not real?--recalls her mind. Apparently, it's what the greatest wizard who ever lived told the boy who lived at King's Crossing, according to J.K. Rowling. By the way, Rowling initially wrote her stories by hand. With a pen. Burning your eyebrows writing stories with ink on your hands makes you a real deal. Just saying, while tapping on the iPAD.

The Living Door

One of my quirks is catching scenes that most people don’t notice or would probably just ignore even if they did. These architectural pieces at a station, this—I don’t know, adornment?—immediately caught my attention, as my eyes are usually drawn to cool hues or dark reds. But I had very scant storage left in my camera, hence the meager clip, repeatedly pasted and edited of course; the original was a mere two seconds, so why not. Design wise and though they are visually pleasing, I don’t know why the planners even bothered with placing the two windows randomly on just one side of the door; the beautiful door with its artificial patina standing alone between the lamps would have sufficed and been more compelling and magical, if that was the look they were after. Or if they had to have the nice windows, one on each side of the door would have made a more convincing design. I’m just saying. Okay, maybe I’m reading too much into it and the structures aren’t really even what I think they are, but mere decorative wall partitions, though they surely look like a door and a pair of windows. Besides people think differently, I know. I rest my case. Anyway, I call this The Living Door, since it appears to have made a slight movement in the clip, as if it had been standing for a long time and needed to shift its weight a bit. All right, it’s only the camera’s movement. Just don’t ask me what the deal is with the windows anymore; though I do love windows. Like eyes are to the soul, they let the light in. So stay away from windowless souls, I mean rooms, unless you love being in the dark. Okay, enough said.

Zipping through happenings that zipped by

Zipping through life leaves me befuddled, aside from breathless. So, for my sake, as this blog is practically my journal—I record more of the thoughts my reeling mind churns out here and also on pieces of paper and napkins than in my actual, old-fashioned, hard bound journals—I need to log a few things that happened this summer, and maybe even events that took place in recent years, that they don’t just become random fragments floating in my already cluttered head and promoting further congestion. I need to unload them here.

First, The Hudson County Waterfront Clean-up. It was such a hot day in June at the park by the bay. But it was also such a pleasant thing to help clean a small part of Newark Bay with other responsible, earth-conscious individuals. My family's looking forward to participating again next year to help reduce the garbage defacing our earth, right here in our small part of the world, because every little effort, every little hand, and every little heart counts.

Next is Liberty State Park's 34th Annual Cultural Arts Festival, which The Hudson Artists of New Jersey participated in. Here’s the always delightful chairperson, Marge Colavito, who is a truly remarkable artist and also the association's chairperson. She holds painting classes for anyone interested at The Upstairs Art Gallery, where she also offers services such as framing and art concession. And here’s a glimpse of my hand-painted shirts for a sample sale. Of course, the event showcased many impressive works by other artists, one of who had his paintings printed on shirts, and I, being an artist who likes to support other artist/artisans who passionately put their hearts and souls into their handmade products, just had to buy a couple of those creative shirts, one for my husband and the other for my brother.

Speaking of my brother, he is also an artist, and is quite exceptional as well, especially for someone who just recently graduated with a Fine Arts degree and hasn’t had any professional experience. Here’s a glimpse of his work in sculpture and the eagle in the Senior Art Exhibit 2008 poster pictured below. He had already bequeathed three of his original pieces to me—the eagle done in graphite (shown in the picture), a pelican in pastel, and another bird in acrylic are all perched in my hallway. They look so realistic that I could almost hear the birds sing. Well…

Anyway, here's a video of him painting with his class at the University of Guam. (I envy their al fresco ambiance; which painter wouldn't be inspired to paint the colors of nature? Surely, the bright and boundless nature can always spark something magical to transpire. You just have to keep your eyes open...and you'll see the guy, with a white shirt and a full head—thick hair—standing while he paints; that's my brother :)

Finally, Fourth of July was nice and relaxing this year, just like last year, and unlike in 2005, when we camped at Liberty State Park and trekked back to the light rail station when the fireworks were over, which was quite grueling with all our packs burdening our backs as we guided our son through the exodus in the dark. There was one consolation. Yoda communed with us...

This time, we just sat by our town’s Waterfront Park while the fireworks fascinated us. See…

On my next posting: trip to Salem last year, coffee shops, Strands Bookstore, Gray’s Papaya Hotdogs, summer at the Washington Square Park in the village and Ocean Grove beach, this year’s Halloween, and a few other happenings yet to be mentioned...I hope...

Artsy Etsy

For a while now, I’ve had great ideas for dolls—that is, how I’d want them to look if I were to buy one for some reason or another, one of which is to play, though rather cruelly, with my husband who cringes at the mere mention of having another baby, a girl that is. Not that I’d be ecstatic at the prospect of going through the whole period all over again, from pregnancy to the toddler period—though at this age, the little creatures are so insanely adorable, well, minus the crying bouts and diaper sessions—to grade school, of which we're currently still in the process with our only child, our son. Yet, I’ve always imagined myself having a baby girl, though I love my son dearly. I guess my longings for caring for a girl can be traced back to feeling deprived of that motherly love as a young girl, that the promise of giving my own daughter that tender affection automatically grew in my subconscious. Anyway, I wanted to see if anyone else out there already has the same ideas I have before I invest my time creating the dolls, so I searched the web and stumbled on what I can only described as an invigorating artist haven. Etsy. Have you heard of it? You probably have, if you’re creative and have been creating and selling, or even buying original products from other artists and artisans like you. It’s not only a market place, but a community, for artists and/or anyone who has a heart for truly unique and hand-made things. If you haven’t, I know how overwhelming, even intimidating the creative communities could seem, let alone market places, especially for a budding creative person who has been itching to create something distinctive and looking for a stimulating place to belong. My advice is, check Etsy out. I haven’t signed on, but I know I will be when I have enough pieces to show. So get busy with your wares artists!

Here’s a bit on Etsy—"The Handmade's Tale":

And since I've always enjoyed making things for gifts, as well as occasionally purchased original creations by other artists, I'm actually quite glad that

This is a sign that though I can never fully separate myself from the world, I will always cherish things creatively made with bare hands, inventive eyes, and passionate hearts.

Beatrix Potter's Legacy at The Lake District...

...just ask Peter Rabbit, Benjamin Bunny, Tom Kitten, and the rest of them who frolic about the land.

Thanks to Beatrix Potter who helped the National Trust organization preserve the Lake District out of sheer love for the countryside and out of her income from the Peter Rabbit books. A conservationist, a farmer, a writer, an artist, Ms. Potter continues to charm us, if not in person, in spirit, with her fascinating and fanciful characters and stories. Even an occasionally disgruntled "child" like me can't resist delighting in her creations and remembering her legacy, which has reached 142 years on July 28th, just three days ago, since her birth in Kensington of Victorian London in 1866.

Here is a link to the official Peter Rabbit and Beatrix Potter website and video clips of the delightful stories...

...and another to Hill Top in the magnificent Lake District...

...and still another link to a movie clip of Ms. Potter...there couldn't have been a better Norman Warne than Ewan McGregor, who played the character superbly; interestingly, one of the characters in The Tale of Peter Rabbit, Mr. McGregor, was a gardener whose wife had put Peter's father in a pie...some sort of a McGregor redemption perhaps? Anyway, Beatrix Potter's story is as endearing as her charming creations and the movie is rightly and whimsically seasoned with those delightful, animated, little creatures popping in and out of the scenes, either inspiring, peeving, or just keeping Ms. Potter company. This movie has no pretense about it whatsoever. It is real and insightful and a sure delight. All you'd need is a cup of tea to accompany this genuine delicacy...

...or this...

Hoboken Arts and Music Festival, Wicked Monkey, and May is So Over because of hasty June...

May is gone and June was hasty. School already ended for most students and as anticipated by many, summer is here. (The last time I checked, I was just watching the 4th of July fireworks dazedly; I need about another month to catch up with July which is a couple of weeks shy of being kaput as well, so I’ll put that subject off until then when I’m entirely there.) Apparently, time just zips by, leaving me utterly winded…there’s never enough of time to do anything much with and, much less, everything. So I’ll just have to make a minor adjustment and forget about all of my plans this summer. There. That should take care of this funny business of hyperventilating. And to think, I was even so ecstatic about this fiery season during the spring showers…

Blame it on May. It—my ludicrous perception of summer euphoria—all started with May, which I’ll return to shortly since this posting is supposed to be about my spring events, an account of which is already two months delayed, thanks to the flower power that is May and its onslaught of activities. May subliminally instigated my blasted, out-of-control summer notion that is almost uncanny and not funny at all. She (May) is the culprit that spawns events in an incredibly rapid succession, leaving one with hardly a break in between to heave a second wind, and spews them to an already swamped and robotic yet still very acquiescent society who knows naught but to mechanically nod through their overscheduled days and recite phrases like “What time does it start?” for confirmation—such confirmations are sure to satisfy man’s insatiable need for affirmation. (Wake us, George Carlin—such a loss to society, who shall continue your reason and your fight-less fight?—and those of you who are brave enough to act on your grumbles, Wake us!—us—mindless drones of mankind drifting listlessly, though fully functional like robots, in a world submerged in a mass hysteria for “filling”. Forget about doing—there is great and inexpressible spiritual sense in the doing of something that is united with the heart. Otherwise, it is only filling… gorging… hording. We have an enormous craving to fill a huge void—an immense, dark hole that is man’s unquenchable thirst for approval. Hence, the birth of palm pilots—aha! The power to connect, confirm, and ultimately organize—or control—is in our hands. Once again, we have achieved instant gratification for our immense need to belong, at least for the time being. And palm pilots are almost archaic due to the speed of our technological advancement. We have moved onto smarter, sleeker, more sophisticated technology that boasts more features and functions and buttons; buttons are easier to push, never mind the ancient levers as they require more physical work like playing with a stick that requires more mental exertion otherwise known as creativity. As Carlin clearly expressed his thoughts on society and its children, albeit abrasive his views are, children aren’t allowed to play with sticks nor stare at a tree anymore; they are far too busy to merely commune with nature and stare and think and wonder. These children are now a new breed, highly advanced and ambitious. They are a class of their own, a modern hybrid that needs to belong, attain, and win. They are serious and focused. And they mean business, or their parents do, at least. Hence, the emergence of after-school, weekend, and summer programs, because the normal schooling just isn’t sufficient to hone a child anymore, and the adults at home are crammed (their palm pilots say so) to engage with their kids with as little as a mere glimpse, never mind a conversation which requires too much mental effort. In fact, the standard school’s performance is now substandard, so there is only room for higher expectations and excellence by providing more school assignments and activities. And the adults are of course extremely concerned. They can’t take their invisible eyes off their kids as they wade through their pool of commitments. These children are going to be our future leaders, so there is no time to waste. There is only enough time for grooming these youths to perfection—we need future leaders like Bush and Clinton, and majority of the government officials that currently manage our society. Doing more is the only way to keep up. And make sure that you fix others and their backyards first before your own. Keeping up is the only way to prove something—to gain another human being’s admiration and approval to ultimately mean something. Because “God is never pleased”. A catholic church newsletter said so. Wait something feels awry. Eerie actually. Maybe it’s just my neurosis.

Okay, maybe I am just connecting dots and being totally neurotic. But listen, it is probably really April’s fault. Perhaps, she is the one liable for this sort of event obsession with her spring and Easter hype and, also, whoever it was responsible for making March cover Easter too, as if there were not enough leprechauns and clovers to manage its merrymaking all through another month of craze. And weren’t we still suffering from the hang-over that was valentine’s madness and its colossal stuffed teddies that lined up the store shelves?

Now back to May. What happened in May…hmm...oh, I remember now. It was my son’s interview for another school on the 5th, his birthday party on the 10th, his friends’ party on the 16th and the 25th, also the day of our friend’s get-together, Hoboken’s Art’s and Music Festival on the 4th, and oh, mother’s day on the 11th. The month was also stuffed with school activities such as field day, fun night, and early dismissals. And as if that weren’t enough to keep me panting on all fours and trying to hold on to dear sanity for the third grader living with me—forget about the roses on mother’s day, I definitely had no time to smell them…wait, I can’t even remember if I received any…I remember going to our friend’s get-together that afternoon…I had breakfast in bed, courtesy of my thoughtful son, assisted by my husband (check); cards (check); lunch at Houlihan’s and having on my dainty, chiffon, light pink dress (check); and Chip Kidd’s edition, Peanuts: the art of Charles M. Schulz, a treat from my husband which I absolutely enjoyed, because Sparky’s work is truly remarkable, and I consider him a genius like Theodore Giesel. So, I hope to write more about this special edition of the Peanuts in another posting.

Anyway, as I mentioned earlier, as if the excitement weren’t enough to last well into the summer and past it, both Indiana Jones and Narnia happened to emerge from their creators’ closets on the same month. So, we packed our weekends with events that included the movies, like we were packing for a long vacation overseas. (How I wish it was actually a vacation overseas in a tropical oasis, like last year’s in Guam.) Fortunately, Iron Man was released around the time of my son’s 9th birthday party, so we took care of seeing the movie and having the party simultaneously. Ahh, what joy!—one stone took care of a couple of birds…there really must be something to be got from aphorisms... My son was allowed to invite a few friends—a few meaning as much as the fingers on a set of normal hands, because the day of inviting the whole class, in my book at least, had culminated in 1st grade—to the movies which was immediately followed by a party at our house. What else could you do for a 9 year old boy? Clowns were creepy, and arts and crafts a little too cheesy for these slightly older children, most of which were boys. In previous years, we had been there and done a Veggietales’ pizza party, Star Wars with Darth Vader as a special guest, and Sam’s Green Eggs and Ham a year after Bob the Builder turned the cake into a nice yellow property with sugar grass. No way could we have snuck in time for cloud-watching or tree-communing for the kids. Sorry, George. Ah, but for us adults, my husband and I, at least, did I mention having squeezed in time at the park before sundown for our sanity’s sake and for planting on Memorial Day, the 26th , too? All these activities happened in one deep, long breath that is called May, which was also crammed with schoolwork and karate classes every week. And that’s just my son’s life which apparently overlaps my husband’s and mine.

And by the way, as those events transpired, I was also in the middle of unfinished paintings, shirt and bag designs, and unpublished writings. In fact, I’ve been in the middle of all these projects for a while now. It’ll be a great relief if I could complete a dozen paintings for a small showing at a bookstore, café, or other similar venues, and definitely a huge treat to have prepared a good amount of shirts and bags to sell at future art fairs.

Before I cease babbling, I have to talk about the Hoboken Arts and Music Festival that took place on the 4th of May, Sunday. It was somewhat enjoyable. Detecting a hint of boredom in my tone, don’t you? Well, I don’t know if it’s just me and my self-detected ADD, but the event has become tiresome for one reason or another. Maybe because I was not given a chance to prove that, unlike most of the silly shirts that currently plague our malls, there is real art in my shirt designs to the snooty phone lady, who had rather tersely replied during my application inquiry that “they”—the mysterious and sacred festival committee—would just “ignore” my samples,. The festival air also reeked, not of art and music, but lifelessness and the unpleasant odor of mere business hullabaloo. This is not to disregard the market’s role in the creative sphere at all, otherwise the artist wouldn’t be able to cultivate his craft and carry on. But once commerce undermines the creative process, the very heart of creativity is lost, leaving only a creative mirage with the stench of commercialism at its core.
Okay, on the other hand, I did enjoy the Wicked booth, its lively staff, and promotional perks, which included sunscreens and a free snapshot of you and your group complete with props and backdrop. And my son enjoyed the foot long hotdog, as he always had since he started coming along and been able to consume a hotdog of that length. And since I began coming to this event twice a year in spring and in fall, my husband and I have started collecting a souvenir or two. So far, we’ve acquired jewelry, an African musical instrument, and toys such as a pirate marionette, a set of wooden bow and arrows, a wooden rubber-band gun, all unique, and absolutely hand-made. We even tried some delicious dips. This time I decided to pick up another musical instrument, which was some type of a Mexican recorder or flute, in addition to my son’s second marionette—a blue-eyed, lavender alien. That’s just the point of these festivities, to discover, celebrate, and support artists and local musicians, and sample a variety of international foods. If only the foods are a little less pricey and the music’s turned down a notch, these treats could be appreciated more, while the people get to enjoy their food and conversations with music in the background. The $5 tin cup of old fashioned soda poured out from wooden barrels was a real treat though. And other than wishing that I saw more people supporting the artists by buying their products, I actually am looking forward to the autumn event. Do I really wish business to pour over these artists, my counterparts? I do…I have to, as it is also one of my deepest desires for my art to be seen, appreciated, and ultimately purchased for my official validation…
Ay, humans…so simply complicated. Can’t live with or without…just like summer.

Sushi?

Nope, these figures laid on the table aren't mannequins. They're real people just like us-yes, you and me, but models, of course. I came across the article about this scene on The Urban Recluse, another writer's blog, which is as interesting as a box of chocolate, or feel free to replace the chocolate with anyone of your other obsessions, because we all have our special favorites.

Anyway, as I commented on the article, this only proves once again that there's no end in man's genius and creativity. And this is only a morsel on the tip of the iceberg of man's brilliance. We haven't seen anything yet; there's undoubtedly more behind the curtains, or in the closet. But we will behold all of man's brilliance, in time. We will, because we are a progressive class and we're the highest order. And we'll always find ways to economize. Forget dinnerware, tables, clothing-especially clothing, it's hard enough to keep up with the rising cost of everything nowadays. Save your money for rice and gas; rice is currently being rationed as it is and gas is just ridiculous. Rice is more vital, especially for sushi. Hopefully, one day we won't need gas. That's what our feet are for. It would be like Eden's paradise again. There's no doubt we'll get to that state in time. That would be when our refined culture fully fuses with our primitive nature. It's the ultimate liberation of the self, when we finally refuse to separate our human traits apart and accept them all as our one, true selves. It's perfect freedom. This is real ART we're dealing with and discretion has no place in it. It's as raw and real as life can ever get, like real sushi. However--yes, there's a pause here, because what follows is extremely important--however, there'd always be a place for shoes. We have got to have our shoes. It's one thneed the lorax can't deny our society. Shoes are made for walking, remember? Modern and primitive in total union, it's utopia. The onceler has to keep making this great thneed. We need our shoes. And soap. We need to continue producing soap. Soap is good thneed. It's among our basic necessities. Shoes and Soap. No, Shoes, Soap, and Sushi. Now, that would be a great topic for me to write about, if it hasn't already been covered by another great mind.

So what of Art?

I don’t do art. I breathe art. It’s my fuel, my coffee, my life. It’s evident in everything I do and everything I am. It’s in the way I dress and in the way I wrap gifts. It’s all over my home, in the basket of candles and the cart of books—of Poe, Hawthorne, Willems, and Seuss; and Emily, Rowling, Carlin, and Clarke; of Beatrix, Burton, Southworth, and Charles ; and Steve, Kevin, Moliere, and Anne among others. It's in my ice bucket, occupied not by cubes of ice but paint brushes, and in my red kettle plant pot. It just can’t be contained by canvases bound by frames, when it starts to simmer in and seep out of my head, as I see the colors around me take shape to form words and pictures, poems and stories, rhymes and reason, and seasons. And, the images get so vivid that they flow onto everything I touch. Am I an artist? For as long as the sky is blue in the morning’s light until the last leaf of the last tree fall on the ground.

The Artist's Way

I’ve been a blocked artist for a long time now. It’s taken a great deal of courage to admit this. Somewhere between being a wife and a mom, and stifled by past discouragements and disappointments, and ongoing frustrations swirling inside my head, I got lost and ended up in a little corner, silent, while the voice and images yearning to come out through stories and artworks flitted endlessly in and out of my consciousness. Nevertheless, I managed to take care of my daily routine with enough sanity for my son’s sake as the artist in me slowly shriveled. In due time, unexpectedly, and quite casually, a book landed in my hands. It was nonchalantly passed on to me as another interesting read by a friend who was the former director at H.I.G.H.W.A.Y.S, where I volunteered. Or maybe, the friend could sense the pent-up artist right under my nose, whom I couldn't see as I went through the motion of willful but rather intense decorating and rearranging the store while talking about art and paintings and shirt designs and gift baskets and coffee shops and book publishing...And I had no clue the whole time that I was gasping for breath...for creative air...as I inhaled my frustrated artist's fierce struggle in a paradox of artistic passion and inhibition.

The Artist’s Way, which had traveled through several states and passed through different hands to finally land in mine just in the nick of time when I unknowingly but mostly needed it in my life, sat in my red, tin wagon for about two years, along with other books I didn’t take seriously enough to read but were merely there for skimming and for guests. Then, one day last winter, I noticed it. I would have finished reading it overnight had I not followed the book’s advice. So, I spent a whole week soaking up each chapter. Despite my couple week lapse during the holidays due to, well, holiday shopping, I managed to complete the twelve week program in about four months. It’s been about two months since I put the book down which I plan to re-read with my husband then pass on to another unsuspecting artistic soul. I must say that my experience with the book has certainly been a wild ride, but one that is liberating, exhilarating, and empowering as much as it has been emotionally difficult as I've had to revisit, acknowledge, and grieve past hurts and also face present fears head-on. But it's better now. I’ve discovered new strengths and gained new hopes to keep me afloat. I'm persisting in my creative endeavors as I experiment with the words and images that surround and fascinate me. They are starting to emerge and be written or painted, or voiced out or drawn, to be seen or heard.

I refuse to label something so specific and that affects someone so particular, with some big, vague name like coincidence, as if I just had some big, fat chance or probability happen to me. Neither was it accidental. It wasn’t luck either, not on this occasion anyway. I’d probably have more luck winning the mega million and I’ve surely had more luck stepping on dog poop on the sidewalk. I want to be as honest as I can possibly be and simply say that God intervened. This is not to shove God or religion down anyone’s throat, since I’m not a religious zealot. In fact I’ve been a skeptic and that’s about the most genuine thing I could ever be, especially on incomprehensible matters. And I currently don’t go to church. My husband, my son, and I commune with nature at the park when we’re not at Target trying to beat the mass going there from mass at noon. Providence? Well, I’ll certainly consider the book arriving in my hands as the creator’s providence in my most desperate need.

Thank God Julia Cameron trusted her inner voice and let it flow through her hand, which recorded the words that are read by many--the many who are creatively barren and are unsuspecting of it. I now realize that there’s always room for one more artist in this creative world. I just have to trust that I am indeed guided by the greatest creator. I recognize this universal creative flow and accept it that I commit to the process...the creative journey...the creative life. I'm living life more fully...with wonder.

Speaking of wonder, I finally gathered up enough courage and took a copy of my painting titled "Wonder" to Unique Bookstore this April in an attempt to put it up for sale. The owner gladly accepted for a minor fee. I actually painted it in 2006 as my first entry in a local art exhibit sponsored by the Hudson Artist Association. My only other major painting is hanging in a church reception hall, if it is still hanging there, since I don't attend anymore, and the last exhibit I participated in was years ago in college. I also hadn't read The Artist's Way at the time even though I might have had it already. Hence, I really struggled with this painting, because even though I had a strong urge to paint, I didn't quite believe in my talent.

"Wonder" was inspired by my son, of course, and the magic of a child's wonder. It symbolizes a child's awe, when it is still almost entirely innocent, unfettered, and impervious to fear, and when it could still take him to unfamiliar but possibly incredible places. Initially, I was going to paint an adult sitting on the bench for contrast. A grown-up would probably cease following the path at the fork, or crossroad, to wherever it leads and prefer to sit on the bench by the lamppost, perhaps out of fear, apathy, or mere comfort...Then I remembered the theme, so I refocused on the child and his "wonderment", that even with the slightest fear of the unknown, his great sense of awe and curiosity would continually nudge him to journey on...