It is very difficult for an artist to create in the absence of pain of sadness. Nobody wants to look at paintings popping up daisies in rays of sun day after day. Characters become dimensional in light of struggle, challenge, heartbreak and consequently we long to see similar (or grossly different) dynamic dramatizations unfold. Because I consider myself somewhat of an artist - a relatively new and externally encouraged insight - I require pain and suffering? Apparently so. For me, pain and suffering is the hardest part of being an artist. I'm just not that sad. Despite what you all may think, I'm not even that emotionally tormented. The biggest barrier to my creative capabilities is that I'm a healthy, well-adjusted individual. Gag.

Do One Thing A Day That Scares You

Thankfully, I woke up crabby and sad today and finally have a chance to paint in colors other than pink and yellow. Partially because I'm having some hormonal fluctuations, but largely due to the multitude of goodbyes I've said lately. Let me step back. I work in an awesome, upbeat, borderline surreal environment surrounded by people who are smart, dance how they feel, and elevate each other to greatness. Every morning when I look through my downward facing dog, I feel elated that I get to share my practice, my life, my spirit with them...and vice versa. In an ongoing effort to develop to our potential, we move around a lot. Saying goodbye is prelude to growth. But in the past few months, the dancefloor evacuations have been getting a little out of control. While I love my new sweat-once-a-day-sisters, eery, lonely silences remind me that something is missing and create small pangs of emptiness. The new people don't know that "Umbrella" is [still] my "jam." They don't know about "jams."

And the feeling extends. Some days I desperately miss the long days on the farm descending the imaginary stairs behind the bar and arguing over my sick (and uncharacteristic) devotion to Mayor Bloomberg. Other days I want to crawl back to my old life where I read the entire paper, wrote something and walked my Turkey, waiting for everyone else to get off of work. And then there are the days that I stare at the ceiling repressing the montage of movie-worthy moments - reminding myself that I can only go forward. Maybe I am that emotionally tormented, but in those tormented moments, even though I have to drag myself to the computer and force my butt to stay in the chair, that the windows open, and I write.

So Beas, Bon Bon, Blake and Genny - I should have said this a long time ago - but you have always been the rays of sunshine that make my life so poppy and pleasant. And now, thank you for creating the sad space in which I can create.