FUNK

I am not a person who does more than one thing well at a time -- I am not talking about multi-tasking. I can easily talk on the phone, read the mail, feed Silas, cook something and make myself a drink simultaneously. What I refer to is doing more than one thing well that involves my heart and creative energy: When I was teaching, I felt conflict with writing; when writing, conflict with visual art; when raising Silas, conflict with everything else. It is hard for me to divide my passions...

Some people do not experience this, which I find fascinating (and perplexing too).

I have a child. There is no going back on that one. I like him. I love him. I stare at him for hours a day and laugh when no one can hear me. My skin gets the chalk-board-scratch-feeling when I think of anything bad every happening to him (which includes thickening skin with other kids and ever becoming a teenager).

That said, if a sparkly fairy appeared out of the blue and could magically *poof* him away to a happy place and make him instantly disappear with no pain or sadness --not die, mind you, just magically disappear --, I think I would kiss him goodbye on his mushy little cheek and let him poof.

Ben, of course, balked at this. But really, it would be sudden relief from this place where not only is there no turning back, but where I know I MUST continue to go forward. Silas WILL have to elbow his way through adolescence. And worst yet, sometime in the near future, I will embark on this whole thing all over again and have a second one. Why is this?? A very fair question. Being one of 4, my conscience simply won't let me raise an only child, despite myself. He must have a sibling to survive and laugh with...

So what I am wondering, as I sit here sipping rose bud tea that Sara sent for Valentines day (first taste is campfire, then roses) is what to do in moments of feeling transparent, of feeling like my life work -- not just Silas but all life work -- is a washing machine full of clean, warm, soggy sweat socks? what to do when the only idea that stirs the crackling current of aliveness through me is the idea of leaving tomorrow on a plane for France alone for 3 months -- travelling in Provence, staying in Paris on a houseboat or in an apartment with un petit balcon, which of course, is a complete impossibility.

But maybe that's just it -- the root problem -- that I believe in impossibilities...