On my work table are my encaustic palette, with freshly waxed boards lying in wait for more, and oil paints, brushes, solvents and the heavenly (I'm addicted to the smell) linseed oil shoved aside after a day's work, the remnants of which are tacked up to dry on the wall behind the table. Elbowed into the mix are my watercolors and an inspirational photo, with my frantic, wet, painted paper, now primed for the next two paintings of my book-in-progress. I think I may have returned to my life as an artist.
For many years, I have felt bogged down by looming adulthood (I still don't really believe it), and lulled by motherhood and family life. Yes, I kept working all the while, but I felt in a sort of daze, with a non-committal nature that spoke to my secret suspicion of, "I can't really do it anymore."
Maybe I never was lulled or bogged down, but rather compiling, churning, investigating, fortifying. Because the mind I have to use now is so much crisper than before, my goal so much more concrete and exact, and the rewards will be that much richer. These things take many years to cure, I suppose.
