I experienced funerals.
I found a place in school again.
I told myself 30 was a good time for new beginnings.
I didn't know how much of a fresh start that would be.
I felt a panic creeping in that heralded its way for years.
My ribs opened. I wanted to break through the armor.
I wanted to grow a billion acres inside me.
All I felt was a heart attack on its way.
The road between.
Our last trip together.
When Jeff and I broke,
when I moved out,
when I juggled and pretended to be good at it,
I waited in the bathtub for my heart to stop.
I figured it would, and what a pain it would be for Melissa to come home
to teach a cello lesson and deal with my dead weight.
But all I had to do was slow down.
All I had to do was wander and get lost.
I saw a lot of San Francisco.
And Simon said he hated me. A lot.
Then he turned 4 and decided he just hated my shoes. Or my hair. Or my socks.
Grief is hard on 4-year-olds too.
We learned to draw together
and finally I could hug him again
without his squealing no.
I blamed myself for taking care of myself in ways that hurt anyone else.
Process notes on a work in progress. This page serves to invite you into the way I work, with intermittent posts to show you the hows and whys on the whats I make, as well as prompts and ideas I bring to certain workshops. There will also be some raw, rough content found in notebooks written years ago, previously posted on: