Looking For Bread Crumbs

Once Upon a Time...I was going to be a famous painter. Either that or a famous writer. Then I had children and found with all the crying and diaper changing, the endless sippy cups and messes, and now the homework and volunteer work, I couldn't hear the inner voice that told me what to paint. I couldn't stay up until 2 AM, singing at the top of my lungs, while I frenetically applied paint, impasto-style.

Truthfully, I willingly gave up even trying to paint for a number of years because I felt that the work in progress that is my children deserved my full attention. They still do, but they're at school now, and my thoughts are turning again to my canvases.

I was working on a Fairy Tale series that dealt with the darker stories, but since I also live in The Temple of Bast, I have a fondness for depicting the resident deities. Its been so long since I took brush in hand that all of my beloved paints are dry and cakey, some not wanting to relinquish their caps any longer. It is my goal for the upcoming new year (by MY calendar)to replenish my paintbox and pick up my craft again.

If I were a younger me, and if our heating and cooling system hadn't died this year, I would have rationalized myself right over to the Arts and Crafts store and decked out my paintbox anew. But I am an older and incrementally wiser individual these days (much to my dismay, I assure you), so my inner voice will have to wait a bit longer; or content itself with Prisma-Colors and paper.


I have learned other crafts and skills to fill the void; my girlfriends and I learned to make jewelry with wire wrapping techniques, and tried hawking it at craft shows. I also spent the last six years researching and writing an immense volume of family history, that took my family name back to its origin, reconnected us to our extended family, and paved the way for a fabulous trip to the British Isles. So its not like I've been sitting idle, staring out the window of my prison-life, waiting for a prince to climb my unruly locks and set me free. Like the real Rapunzel, having been cast into the desert, I raised my children and made the best of it. If the prince shows up, he still doesn't change or redefine what I've become in his absence. Hmmm, maybe I've hit on the theme for my next painting - "Rapunzel In The Years Without The Prince - A Feminist's Fairy Tale".