Patience is a virtue

I see my patience as sands in an hourglass pouring quickly away. Applying for jobs is an exercise in futility. I can’t stand the look of my resume any longer. I don’t want to be reminded of all the jobs I have had and the stark realization that they have afforded me little more than a long and useless history.

How many phone calls have I answered in the last twenty years? It seems a lot of wasted effort in making other peoples lives easier. I can’t help but think of Oscar Wilde in prison, sentenced to hard labor. He was forced to walk on maniacal treadmills for hours on end, going no where and achieving nothing.

My mother has always said, “Patience is a virtue, keep it if you can, often found in woman seldom found in man.” It has always made me shake with frustration.
It seems more relevant these days because my hands and wrists hurt so much. The pain wakes me up at night. Maybe its carpal tunnel, it could be arthritis. The terror of losing the use of my hands or having to restrict my activities has left me enraged. My needlework has sustained me. Writing with a pen and paper has cleansed me. Turning a steering wheel has given me freedom.

There are too many projects unfinished. Stories that have lain dormant for years should have been scribbled long ago.

Perhaps this missive is nothing more than display of self pity. Inspiration is too hard to find and in scarce supply, maybe I should try to embroider that on a pillow while watching “My Left Foot”. I need to wrench myself from this malaise.

All art is biographical....Fellini

I examine the definition of art like it is a single object. I turn it over, examine the underside, shake it and hold it up to the light. I can't really define what I do now as art. I stitch, I craft, essentially I play with string. I don't create the designs I embrodier or cross stich, I merely follow the diagrams and copy the image on the package. Is that art? Is a painter that copies other painters and artist? I am skilled with a needle, could I become a master at the craft?
Years ago a young neighbor and her friends were drawing with chalk on our cul de sac. The chalk was vivid against the new blacktop. They covered the entire semi circle with words and flowers and a hopscotch grid. I used to park in the curve. The drew all around my car and scribed "Girl Kar". They instructed everyone who passed "not to walk on the art". Remarkable. I never asked myself if the chalk drawings were art. I new it implicitly. I suppose its the game of judging others compassionately and myself stringently.

I think I have let my world become too small. My conception of the artistic needs adjustment. My definition of "art" has become too aloof. I need to pull my imagination down off the shelf and use it. I want to run after inspiration rather that wait for it to casually stop by.