Reflection - Matters of Mojo

I spend a lot of time muttering to myself about My Mojo, singing woeful little ditties like, "Oh where, oh where has My Mojo gone? Oh where, oh where can she be?", and shooting fast-but-surreptitious glances over my shoulder in case My Mojo is ducking around behind me. Sometimes it seems like My Mojo packs up & jets to Orlando whenever I'm actually going to have time in my studio, like this upcoming 4-day weekend, or the one night in a month I don't have to drive either of my male children somewhere. This picture, though, of Miss Zoe Toes, suggested a truly dastardly thought which is going to require 12 years of psychoanalysis for Toni unless I reflect on it here. That thought was, "Eesh, blimey, & shite, maybe My Mojo is actually always around, somewhere in my close proximity, but skulking & keeping her distance because she feels like I'm taking her for granted." Zoe, for instance, is here sitting motionless by her scratching post because I just shoved her boom-boom off my studio desk, for the 3rd time, so I could write this blog. The way she's looking at me, it's daggers, Baby. She's silently reminding me, "Hey, what happened to wax-paper-wads on Friday nights? What happened to digging out all the bottle caps from under the fridge and your studio desk and us playing soccer and tag? Now it's just blog blog blog. Don't you love me anymore?" Oh, the guilt! === interruption to play wax-paper-wads with Zoe for 10 minutes. == I think I'm equally guilty of treating My Mojo in just such a blase way. Horrors! No wonder she disappears when I'm most in need of her. "NEENER!" quothe she. "Catch me if you can!!" Truth is, My Mojo (& yours, too) really wants to be caught. But if she can make a game out of it, all the better. She's probably just hiding in a new secret spot directly under my nose. Or knees. My Mojo (& yours, too) watches as I blog-surf, glance over my shoulder, peruse every back issue of every Stampington publication I own, trying to find her. My Mojo (& yours, too) watches in dumbfounded amazement at my continuing dumbfounded dumbness. But she's patient, she enjoys the game. She tootles & whistles every now and then, "Over here! Warm! Warmer! Cold, no really really ICE cold." When I start to give up, that's when My Mojo gives me a little help. "Hey there!" "HEY!!!" "I say, I say HEY!!!!!!!!" I have to confess, if my dumbfounded dumbness continues for too very long, My Mojo's claws come out. Her claws, followed closely by a spew of profound expressions, like, "I've been telling you for a month now to get out that origami paper, cuz I have an idea, but noooOOOooo, you don't want to 'go Asian' right now." Or suchlike. My Mojo don't tend to beat much around the creativity bush. And if I still don't listen? Eesh. Blimey. Shite. Ever had your mojo pop her head out, contorted into her 'ax-murderer' face, and shriek, "I SAID ORIGAMI PAPER! ORIGAMI PAPER!!" Or suchlike? I'm not only sewing impaired, it seems, I'm mojo-impaired. It wasn't until this very writing that I realized this about myself. That'll be another 12 years of psychoanalysis for Toni, thank you very much. Up until now [my moment of enlightenment], My Mojo (I don't know about yours) has just given up and emerged, muttering, "Pardon me, you blatherskite blond, while I just go GET the origami paper." Or some such. My Mojo (& yours, too) just wants to play. An apple green Sharpie, the sweet smell of Mod Podge, a metallic acrylic paint -- My Mojo is easy. The only critical criteria are a) my willingness to give her my undivided attention and b) my utter surrender of my compulsive need to commandeer the whole show. Zoe is easy, too -- wax-paper-wads, or else one of Double BB's flat, lukewarm bottles of Coors Light abandoned on my studio desktop. PLAY! ATTENTION! Then watch the creativity games begin! It's really that simple for My Mojo. Maybe yours, too.