Hand-built clay sculpture, Jessie’s Dragon, by Tammy Vitale of Tam’s Originals.

You know how it goes.  there’s a bit of a dry spell.  The work comes, but not as easily.  The days grow longer, but your body is still in winter mode.  The bank account dwindles and you start looking for pennies on the sidewalk, and the want ads for a job.

The world closes down.

You breathe.  You know the routine:  there are no walls, only stories I am telling myself.  There is no thing I need but that I already have it.  Your head runs the mantra:  breathe, believe, breathe, believe.  Your heart refuses to listen.

No matter the sky is clear clean blue and everything around you is twineing, spinning, flowering, tendriling – you are off in your head watching dark flickering pictures – reruns most likely.  The ending will come as no surprise.

One foot in front of the other.  One day piled upon the next.  You are always thirsty no matter how much cool water you drink.

Its a desert in there.

You move in a fog so long you get used to it.  The blurred vision becomes the norm.  Like a scratched contact lens still allows you to see something, life goes on – and sometimes – on.

Then one day, a day where hours stretch in front of you, say at a gallery where you are sitting and you know it will be quiet.  Something happens.

Last night you finished your latest Anne Tyler book.  Because your longest and dearest friend called – with news of an unexpected surgery in 5 days (!) – you did not have time to find another book to reread or one that is waiting.  So you scrounged around and picked up 4 books, each guaranteed for at least an hour of perusal.

One is by Julia Cameron.  You’ve had it for 4 years – bought it hard book full price – and hated it.  So it’s hung around in the corners.  It was waiting for you to catch up with its message (everything in its own time).

And you read (flipping through because you really have no expectations, remembering this isn’t one of her books you like.  Remembering her most recent book was just what you needed).   You read:

"As artists, when we are sold down the river, we must look to see in what ways we are selling ourselves short…our participation: usually the spot where we shrank back from trusting ourselves is the very point that the tide turned against us.  But the way to change is not berating ourselves for our stupidity…It is by treating ourselves kindly, listening to ourselves gently….Call yourself home to that part of you that is strong enough to continue…There will always be help."

And you get a lump in your throat.  And bright hot sun burns away the fog.  You pick up a pen and write a bit (the computer is at home.  Pen and paper and the actual art of writing – slowing your head down to hand speed – is what you have.  And so you use it.)

And you write a bit more.  Think of all the started books waiting.  Wonder if clay is the sideline and writing the main feature.  Realize that for you there is a dance among words and clay and even painting, though the tubes of colors are dusty and unused.

And you thank whatever spirit, guide, energy, wind brought you to this place today.

And you sigh deeply, take a sip of not quite warm coffee, kick off your shoes, lean back in the chair and turn back to the book to read.

****

Art treat for the day:  If you’ve never heard of Walter Anderson or the museum his daughter founded in Ocean Springs, Mississippi, click over and take a look.  I’ve been to the museum.  In the heart of last year’s monster hurricane.  And it wasn’t hurt.  Even Mother Nature knows certain things must stand.

Thought for the day:  when you can’t find your map, maybe it’s because it’s time for you to draw up a new one, one step at a time.