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.
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