Here we are

It could be argued that bringing a child into the world is the ultimate act of artistry. It could be argued that parenting resides in the Work in Progress chapter of the artistic process book. It could be argued that every choice we make, as well as the unconscious ones, every dream we share, every kiss, every battle, every game and every cuddle-- every word we utter to our children echo the painter's brush.

It could be argued that the artist's voice is like a shiny pea, warm and radiating, within the brain. It could be argued that this pea is responsible for the noticing, connecting, reflecting and generating that are the hallmarks of the artistic mind. It could be argued that this pea needs a mere moment of quiet to exert its influence-- pulling and weaving thoughts and images like a loom, plopping conceptual products down upon nerves that stretch down to the hands.

Finally, it could be argued that at the moment of birth or arrival a mother's brain begins to hum a tune of ancient instincts. Full of vibrations of love and wonder, of fear and longing, the brain repositions itself as a keeper, a guardian, a parent. One is left to wonder what has happened to the pea? Has it temporarily silenced itself for the greater good? Has it turned its back to cower, red-faced and crumpled like a spurned sibling? Has it shriveled to a tenth of its size for lack of nutrition as the faucet of heady introspection is spilling its nectar elsewhere? Will it ever comeback?

These are my questions and fears. Someone told me that the sooner after welcoming a child you can accept that you will never be the same the better off you are. I do not doubt that. I was hoping pieces of me would grow, not whither. On this vibrant screen of digital paper I will attempt to sort through some of this mess, and perhaps a drop or two of heady introspection might trickle down to a certain parched sesame seed the color of moldy toast so that it might awaken, so that it might shine.

Here we are...