Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
Monday, March 04, 2013
Long time, no post, no paint, no nothing...
Okay, rousing myself out of the lethargy that is intensive psychotherapy, hoping that writing will be cathartic and light a fire under my admittedly rather heavy ass and get me working, again. Very cathartic, therapy, however not so hot for my creative juices. This go-round is all about shame, my emotion of choice, liberally spread by my parents, the Catholic church, teachers, employers, ex-husbands, yep, the list goes on and on. And of course, at the head of the list is ME. Now working on moving from the intellectual to the emotional level, and have I mentioned how PAINFUL this is? Well, it is. I have this baby therapist, in his last year of his doctorate, who has to peddle pretty fast to keep up with moi, as I have three times the life experience he has, and some pretty effective methods of deflecting the focus away from the real stuff and onto the fluff on top. I gave him the imprimatur to call me on my shit, and he is getting really good at it, so much so that I didn't want to go last week. That means it's working. There doesn't seem to be any growth in my life without a significant amount of pain. Wonderful teacher, pain. I always move faster whenever that happens, like sitting down on a hot stove. And the image today is one of my iconic cow paintings, this one a quick little pastel, that just found its forever home with a friend who bought her. I admit that I miss my paintings when they leave the little yellow house, like I miss my children. And I am feeling that it may be time to do another retrospective of the bovine kind. This is, after all, my signature here in this strange little blog. Cowwoman, over and out.