end of february

all day long, i am trying to help 4 and 5 year olds figure out their emotions. i'm trying to help them know what to do when they're angry, or when they're sad, or how to act when they're embarrassed or feel left out. when they're lonely, when they miss their mothers, when they get caught drifting into the darkness of some of their lives. and in the midst of the tantrums, the tears, the picking, the whining, i'm supposed to, somehow, remain calm. and unaffected. and steady. and strong. and in control.

sometimes i feel like the most powerful person on earth. because i can get 8 5 year olds to eat lunch, brush their teeth, go to the bathroom, and take a nap. if you think this sounds simple, i'd like to watch you try.

after i leave work, i often just feel lonely. isolated. terrified of my life. in a day at work, i feel so frustrated, so angry, so mean, so short-tempered, so ugly, so out of control, so powerless - and then at the same time, i feel fulfillment, and joy, and power, and kind and patient and loving. and all of these feelings combined, mixed, churning and boiling and cooling down in my body is tiresome. it's exhausting. i feel hopeless. i feel trapped. i have to open a window. i find myself staring out of the window for 5 minutes without noticing the trance i've fallen into while the kids are playing and screaming behind me. i get lost in the gray. in the tree branches. in the melting snow. in the facade of the abandoned church.

i dream of being in love. i dream about running away. i dream of roads. i dream of silence. i picture water colors moving on a piece of paper, slowly, purposefully and freely. i imagine myself wild, happy and with tears in my eyes because the power of whatever beauty i am experiencing is so big. i dream of the release of this emotion. i imagine having affairs. i dream dreams i'd never even considered before.

and on wednesdays, i leave and go to my painting class.

this week, i was supposed to continue working on a a still life. i'm the only person in the room who is not painting from a picture, except for one woman who is trying to paint some abstract shit. and by shit, i mean, shit. ugly. purposeless. thoughtless. i wanted to do a still life because, in theory, i know that it's the most genuine thing i could do. i'm not going to paint a photograph (because it's stupid. and because i take photographs. why the hell would i try to reproduce a picture i took?), and i'm not going to paint something "abstract" because if i don't know how to paint a vase well - if i don't understand the form and shape and color and texture and shadows - then how the hell am i going to paint abstractly? i struggled with reflections a lot when i was in college. so i wanted to try again. i know that being a good artist is about seeing. it's about being a good looker. a good seer.

i get back to my still life, and i don't want to do it. because it's hard. too hard. panting the reflection of a green piece of pottery in a copper vase. the material behind has all these lines and stripes. so i get frustrated. and start painting something else.

the teacher keeps pushing me to finish it. i keep avoiding him. ignoring him. until he picks up my painting, puts it on a easel and makes me move my body so that i'm in position to paint that still life. and i hate him. and i start to cry. no one sees me. or hears me. and i'm thinking to myself, "WHY CAN'T I JUST DO WHAT I WANT TO DO." i want to throw things. and scream. and break everything.

but instead, i start to paint the still life again. i'm mad. and i'm angry. and i paint over everything. and i'm fucking pissed off. and i look. and i look. and i look. and i paint. and the more i look, the more i see. the more i see, the more i understand. the more i understand, the better i get at representing what i see.

a girl, who i initially hated, like usual, for no reason, walks past me. she tells me how good the reflections look. she tells me that she's been painting for 10 years, and that mine look better than hers. and the teacher tells me that i'm really good with color (which i already knew. my mom told me that when i was 5 and used to pick out her clothes. and my art teacher told me in 3rd grade the same thing. and pat barefoot told me in college too.). i tell the girl that sometimes it's just so hard to see. and she tells me, "yeah, but, once you start to see, it's sort of hard to stop."

and that felt like some sort of truth that settled nicely into my skin.