I have wished to be an artist since I can remember.
I wish I could draw, nicely. I wish I could paint, beautifully. I wish I could strum the guitar, musically.
But all these years I have accepted that it just wasn't me. I am left brained. I do math, I make lists, I am timely, I think ahead. Being a whimsical artEEst that wears a beret and lives in Paris, that plays acoustic around a campfire, that paints for hours in a studio... is just not who I will ever be.
I think about this all of the time... mostly when I am scrubbing my house, on my hands and knees, in my jammies, wondering just what it is I am doing here. I scrub and I scrub and I think about my place in this world. Sometimes I feel like I belong to this BIG life of mine. And sometimes I feel awfully small.
But I never feel like the artist I have always longed to be.
BUT THEN I REALIZED...
in my jammies, in rubber gloves, with my head in the toilet
I am an artist.
My life is my art.
My house is my painting.
My children are my pottery.
My marriage is my architecture.
I cook, sew, craft, build, create. I rock out, I dance (alone when I clean), I write...