Pretty little dilemma.
A reluctant letter about art, capacity, shame and the answers dilemmas give.
If my current ways can no longer carry me, I don't want to row in that boat any longer. I stand face-to-face with dark-yet kind storm clouds, smiling at me with secrets of splendor; and just like a song, I sing right at them with fierce ocean eyes, asking them to sway toward me—I want the change & the thirst & the mess & the surge & the growth & the freedom & the creativity—I want the alchemy of it all to charge at me like a dance with no shoes.
We were never created for comfy.
I write this after having spent an hour and a half untangling knots from the long thick hair that belongs to my three daughters.
It is not uncommon to need an entire bottle of conditioner to wade through Summer—a Summer spent in the sea.
Brushing their long salty hair, is just one of the many things, that I let steal my time.
Life and the way we choose to spend our days is often given to the unspoken and the sometimes unseen. Pretty little tasks that go unmentioned.
It is not often that when someone asks me what I did with my day that “brushing my daughters hair for an hour or so” would be of note-able mention within the conversational exchange, even though it was predominantly a large portion of time that I gave my day to,
you see, I have been having some quiet curiosities—
a pretty little dilemma even,
bear with me as I grasp words, on your clock, in the most clunky way…