The year begins:  resolutions made, Christmas decorations packed, a deep breath taken, one moment flowing into the next. Typically, I wax nostalgic on the eve of a new year, noting in my journal progress made, things accomplished, dreams lived or un-lived.  Sitting at Starbucks on New Years’ Eve I noted highlights of the 2012 list: Swim a lot–check, get better at African Dance–check; join Austin Samba School to dance–check; Lead Sketch trip to Italy-check; sell more art—check; Make more art–check; Start writing a book–Check.
Finish writing a book…..

That’s where a new list begins.  A Book. Seems large, ominous, out of reach, something others do, what one sees in stores, hard-bound, serious, sitting in rows on shelves. Being in the process of writing one is a no-man’s land of ambivalence, doubt, fear, cautious hope, procrastination, grandiosity and audacity.  It involves hours of doing, hours of thinking and not doing, hours of thinking I should be doing, picking up where I left off a month ago.  A book. Of. Mine.  At the beginning of such an undertaking, there is the realization that it began a long time ago, conceived in the act of making art and teaching it, gestating through countless journal entries and ruminations, nudging me in waking moments and showing up in dreams. Questions remain: will I abort it before it has time to fully develop? Or, despite all my efforts, will it be stillborn? Or, will I give birth to something full, whole, complete that I can proudly present to the world?

It is difficult to be in the middle of anything.

And so on I plod, writing, writing, writing as the new year unfolds, writing for my life.