Is this my Aunt Hunter holding me now? asks Cecilia. And will I look over to see Aunt Lynn in a moment? Is this the life I’m creating for myself?
Little Cecilia, growing by the day, came into this world with no means to support herself. Unable to do anything. Or so it seemed.
Rather, she was surrounded by support. She was held, rocked, nursed. Loved. She was in charge. No one near her will deny that.
And as life goes on. And as more and more elements enter, the story thickens. And who’s in charge plays out in more complex ways.
So with my art. Yes. That too. It seems to sit innocently on the side. It needs me to get it going. It needs me to keep it going. It seems to need me to do it all. But at some point: the art starts challenging me about who’s really in charge. Who it’s really all about. The tango/tangle phase where it is determined to make it clear that it, the art, is its own thing.
It wants to let me know: that’s why it can communicate with others.
Apart from me.
Its own reality.