No Status Quo

I'm finding 46 to be a provocative, difficult age. It's almost as if being 16 again, adolescent, given the insecurities, the uncertainties ... when only a few weeks ago I wrote a poem about 'bones' and 'brave song of me'. The cycles of knowing who I am versus seeking external validation are killing me. This piece [45 minutes, not 10] is a cry to myself, a cry to my muse, a cry to my relationships one & all [established & new] -- I'm struggling to hold onto myself, so I need to be found, to be sought out, to be assured. It's aging, surely -- a very strenuous mental & emotional process of its own [who ever believes she will one day be 46?]. But there is also the intrusive knocking of menopause at my door, thrusting interruptions into a body & mind I had finally come to possess in an almost full capacity. Up down Up down the heart, along with a body sometimes so foreign to me in its changes that I feel like Mrs. Potato Head, as if some chubby little hand plunked my head down on the wrong spud but today I have to walk around in it anyway.

I will say that in my art [at last!!] I am finally learning to get below the surface -- it is no longer 'pretty pages', it is WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME. It doesn't always feel pretty, I promise. I think it is the time limit on the pieces - I work much more spontaneously, more quickly, WITHOUT ALL MY USUAL EDITING -- makes all the difference in the world with outcome. Much more revealing. I like it. And I'm scared to death of it.