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The truth is I “fritter” my life away painting, cooking meals that take forever, and daydreaming. And chatting about life with Jake and the kids, or friends, turning over the meanings, the intentions. I clean when things are intolerable, and approach banking with similar levels of enthusiasm. My fear is that I might find myself or worse my kids, starving in a gutter doing this. I just keep closing my eyes putting groceries in a filthy fridge.

Acknowledging what you haven’t achieved, what you might never accomplish, is painful.

Paintings that are muddy and unresolved hang like an albatross around my neck. Maybe I could fix it?

I interview other artists; it would seem these giant time losses don’t happen for everyone.

I also think artists—along with some other fearful humans- spin.

Terrified of waste, I hang onto things. For instance beliefs that haven’t served me and chime like a chorus. I hang onto the foolish purchase for years, as if cluttering my cupboard was redemptive.

When my son turns on the tap and leaves it running while checking himself out in the mirror, my body goes into a kind of panic. My parents came of age in the war. And while I hold onto things, (On both a physical level, and on a psychic level), I am blind to the real estate drain.

Painting on wood is kind. The layers and layers of “erroneous” paint—footsteps in the sand-- can be ground away with my power sander. Gesso makes me understand Botox. This is the gift of Beginner’s mind.

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