Dreams are only interesting to the people who have them

For most of my adult life I've had a recurring dream. I suspect many people have this dream, or a variation thereof. In my dream I'm a student and I find myself panic stricken as I realize it's the end of the semester or the school year, there's an impending exam and I haven't attended the class or cracked a book all year. Overwhelming anxiety plagues me until I awake, my heart racing, and after a few disoriented seconds, I am relieved to discover it was all just a dream. I'm spending a week in the town where I grew up, so that may be why I had a variation of this dream the other night. In this episode...
I was my present self, (only with pink hair) traveling happily through life when suddenly I was overcome with the realization that I had never graduated from high school. Once again I was panic stricken as I wrestled with the knowledge that I attended college, (several colleges as a matter of fact) married, raised children and held a variety of jobs, all without the benefit of a high school diploma. Some might have considered this feat quite an accomplishment, but what I experienced was a sense of foreboding and overwhelming guilt. Therefore, my pink-haired, dream-self felt compelled to come clean, and decided to march herself to the high school guidance counselor's office to make a confession.
It was St. Patrick's Day (everyone was wearing green and sporting squirt guns) the day I bravely walked to the school to turn myself in. As I entered the doors (the ones between the gym and the cafeteria) I had to navigate a gauntlet of students and friends, all dressed in green, pelting me with water from their squirt guns. The walk to the guidance counselor's office was excruciatingly long, the hallway seemingly endless. I sheepishly made my confession, only to learn I had been mistaken, I actually had graduated from high school! As she sat there my pink-haired, dream-self felt, not relief or comfort, but a miserable sense of let-down and regret.

When I awoke from this episode my heart was not racing. No, this time my heart felt heavy with
the thought that my dream-self had lived all those years carrying around so much unnecessary guilt.

In the days following, the feelings conjured up by this dream stuck around like gum on my shoe.
And just like my dream-self, I felt compelled to do something about it. So, today I decided to retrace the steps of my dream by taking a long walk to my alma mater. As it turned out, the school district is taking its spring break this week so after arriving at the high school I could only peer through the windows of the doors between the gym and the cafeteria. I couldn't do my 'dead man walking' imitation down the long hall to peek into the guidance counselor's office. So I roamed around the empty parking lot, thinking about my dream and the years between high school and now, and I snapped a few pictures with my phone. But walking along the memory-laden sidewalks leading to my high school, roaming around the empty parking lot, and peering in the school windows was cathartic nonetheless. I felt lighter somehow; less stickiness on my shoes. And, on the walk back to my folk's house I found myself wondering: now that this dream, recurring and unresolved for so many years, has finally reached a conclusion of sorts, now that my subconscious seems to have finally unearthed some of the feelings that may have inspired it in the first place, will I ever have this dream, or one of its variations, again? Has all that guilt and anxiety and regret been laid to rest or will it only resurface in some other dream scenario? I'll keep you posted, but only if you're interested.

The sidewalk leading to my high school

The doors between the gym and the cafeteria

My alma mater

I could use more of these...

Many hands make light work. Idle hands are the devil's workshop. The hands that help are far better than the lips that pray. Hand me that bottle. Second hand rose. All hands on deck. Lend a hand. Clean hands, pure heart. Hand it over. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. Under-handed. Don't let the right hand know what the left hand is doing. Melts in your mouth, not in your hands. I wanna hold your hand. The hands of time. In good hands.

a breakthrough?

Okay, what if these images of conjoined individuals are the result of my subconscious working through the dilemma/struggle I face, trying to balance my work (and passion) as an artist and the (fiscally) necessary work I must do as a church-lady office worker? omg! And there was no psychiatrist's couch or years of analysis needed! Of course, these drawings could be the result of a seriously flawed psyche which might benefit with a few years of analysis...nah.

Self portrait on a Wednesday afternoon

A rare mid-week post. Feeling a bit bugged, bothered, and beleaguered today. Counting the minutes until I can get outside, as the sun is making a rare appearance.

Sows ears and silk purses

Some of the sketchbooks I've filled over the years have become treasures. Turning the pages is almost like looking through an old photo album with each page, doodle or drawing evoking memories and reminding me of where I once was. Occasionally I peruse these sketchbooks and find inspiration for my current or future work. Of course, there are also sketchbooks that hold very little in the way of inspiration or pleasant memories. Let's face it. All artists go through dry, uninspired, rusty, dusty spells and the sketchbooks from those periods are usually less satisfying, (embarrassing almost) and thus filed away on a bookshelf. But, I believe it's good to peruse those less satisfying doodles as well, if nothing else than to remind myself that if I keep at it, I will reach the other side of that dry spell. I've been mostly dissatisfied with the content of my current sketchbook and have just a few blank pages left. The easiest course would be to fill the last page and place sketch journal on the far reaches of my bookshelf and start anew with a fresh sketch journal. However, my dissatisfaction has been so great, so compelling, I decided to take a different tack. Instead I'm trying to turn this less than satisfying sketchbook into one of my treasures. I've been drawing on the backsides of some pages and drawing on top of incomplete and/or embarrassing doodles. Some of the results I've found intriguing. In particular the "conjoined" sketches. I've always been drawn to multiples and there is something fascinating to me about these women/girls who are now living their lives on top of, entwined with, inside of, each other. This has been a good exercise and each day this once dissatisfying sketchbook is looking more like one of my treasures.

Conjoined 4

Conjoined 5

Tradition!

Two years ago, Oysterville; one year ago, Holden Village; this year, Hood Canal; another book group retreat. Half way through the 451 page book. Here are this week's sketches. I'm off to read. And pack.

bodacious black dress

conjoined 3

Excuses and more excuses!

I continue to live with distractions. Some of these distractions are valid and worthy of my attention...taxes, animals in my care. Some are self indulgent and would be too humiliating to admit to in such a public arena. I've been in this place before, lots of times. And that's why I believe I've chosen printmaking as my medium. Really, it's the perfect medium for me for printmaking allows almost endless do-overs! If this print isn't perfect, there's always a chance the next one will be! Unfortunately I often apply this philosophy to my personal life and then am surprised and frustrated when perfection doesn't follow. But I'm learning. Slowly. Maybe. Enough kvetching. Spring is around the corner, the crocuses are popping up in my yard, the days are lengthening, it's time to refocus! Again.
In spite of the many distractions I'm living with, I am managing to get some time in my studio. I continue to sketch, (albeit not as frequently as I'd like) and work on the triptych continues. It WILL be done by the end of the month. One of my goals for the new year is to produce one print a month. If I fudge the math a little this triptych counts as three pieces.

I still have a lot to do , but so far, so good. The most difficult carving and printing is yet to come.

Still playing with little black dresses...and i have a sick cat who has gone from a robust 14 lbs in her heyday to a mere 5.5 lbs. Not good.

conjoined 1

conjoined 2

Carry on!