When my life gets busy, the same things fall by the waist side. I am dependable about handling obligations, but they usually upstage the activities that nurture my soul. During chaos, my life is seldom an example of balance, and mostly exemplifies the burden of everyday responsibilities. Hence the two unfinished drawings in the studio, the box of unread books, the un-utilized roll of roofing felt (don’t get too excited, it is my new drawing surface of choice), the printing press that needs T.L.C., the hiking paths I need to explore, all the nesting activities required to settle into a new house, the gallery I absolutely MUST visit, and the unfinished crossword puzzles.

When you factor in how much progress is disrupted simply by having the Mister at home, it leaves a tired Chica (who often refers to herself in third person when she gets irritable).

The first thing I neglect is any physical exercise routine I’m attempting to commit to (and I use commit in the looses interpretation of the word). It doesn’t matter if it’s walking, abs, or stretching. One neglected day equals reneging on the whole program. One tiny little missed opportunity…and it all goes to Hell in a hand basket. It usually takes months to get started again. It’s definitely a routine that is good for me, if one I deplore, so it is easy to understand why I fall off the wagon with this one.

Reading takes one for the team. I read a few minutes before bed every almost every night, but finding extra time during the day can be a chore. It takes a long time to finish a book when you find yourself rationed to twenty minutes a day or less. In the past I have chosen to spend ten hours traveling by plane only to have twenty-four hours at the destination because I knew I could justify sending the time time to read or sketch.

Art tis the guiltiest of pleasures. It shouldn’t be. I should make it a priority along with clean laundry. Generally, I don’t give a shit about how society views things…but it seems to have found a weakness in my facade regarding this subject. There is a notion, probably left over from elementary school, that art is fun; therefor if you are making art you are having fun, and if you are having fun then it can’t possibly be work. During the days of FICA and fifty hour weeks it was work. There was nothing fun about it. Nothing beats creativity into will-less submission like a joyless project promoting shameless consumerism.

Unchained from the pressure of forced success, it is still work. Just not the soul suffocating kind. Now it seems to be more encompassing than ever. Art is no longer confined to the parameters of expensive paper, stretched canvass, or a yearly Christmas card. It seems to transcends the project and execution, and seeps into my everyday problem solving. I’m not thinking on the page or in the sketchbook; I’m evaluating wide open spaces, and mentally drafting solutions in hopes of making spaces more usable and accessible. I would rather be working on paper, or roofing felt, but spacial needs dictate other priorities for now. When free time presents itself, I will be ready and willing. Until then, I will try applying what I know on paper to what I need in real life.