The times, they are a changin'.... It was an exciting weekend, one I will give more details of later, but which included my first attempt at songleading since Sophie was born. I was told I sounded great. The un-great part was when I passed out in the middle of a song, fainting in front of the whole congregation and taking the podium with me. Never let it be said that I do things halfway. There's more to the story, which I'm not prepared to divulge just yet... but let it be said that I need to ask for help and stop pushing myself so darn hard all the time.

Strange days, indeed. Snapshot of my life right now as a plate of french toast: soggy, undercooked, and yet burned all over. There's a basket of incredibly luscious strawberries to go on top, but they're in the refrigerator and nobody has time to go find them so they get shoved in the back, forgotten behind last week's leftover meatballs. I need a new recipie. There are forces at work in my life, and they all say that change is imminent. The last time I got this many prods from God/the universe, it was telling me that guy I thought I was getting engaged to wasn't all he was cracked up to be. And though it was painful and hurt like, oh, say, gnawing off your own leg to save yourself from the bear trap; it was the only way to get me pushed in the right direction (i.e., the direction of Paul, Sophie, normal relationships, etc.). And now I'm getting pushed toward big changes again. I'm not even sure what they are and what form they'll take, I just know they're coming for certain. This time I want to try to make friends with change, instead of trying to fight it off with a spatula.

I'm feeling exhausted, wiped out, at times exhilarated, ravenous, overflowing with ideas, and crippled with staggering burdens. The other night I cried and laughed at the same time until I didn't know which way was up. I worry that someday I'll look down at myself and find that I'm spread so thin I've become transparent. Through all this, I'm consistently creating, as absurd as it sounds. I'm painting and writing and designing my behind off because I don't know any other way to be, even though I'm feeling an overwhelming amount of indifference and lack of appreciation for my work. I feel invisible, dependable and taken for granted. And yet, I have to go on being an artist, because that's all I know how to do. In the end, I think that's what might save me.

The webpage looks a little different today, for good reason. It'll be back tomorrow. (The memorial page can still be seen here.)

I am literally struck dumb by the amount of stuff I am denying myself, or just forgetting about. Since I have been runningrunningrunning around, trying to line up sitters, launch my cards, work full time, return phone calls, blah blah blah adnauseum, I forget that there is a little place inside me that longs to be nurtured. Not a humongous, champagne and roses nurturing, but a small and worthy glimmer of an inner hug. Breathe, it says to me. Stop and give yourself an artist's date. Stop and just eat dinner. Just stop, okay? So I have been trying to recall the teeny things that make me smile inside, and feed that inner flame whenever I can. I listened to the Beatles, hungrily, wanting desperately to set up the turntable and play all the records I haven't been able to hear in an age and a half. I've been singing along to Muppet Central radio and froze when I heard "Little Things", and forced myself to be still for the heartbeat and a half the song takes and let it seep in to me. I took Sophie on a date to Trader Joe's and bought interesting and unusual food to try. I have been leaving SARK books around so that I can read at random and let myself nibble here and there and be fed. And I've dug out my journal - unwritten in since May, for crying out loud - and put it right next to my bed so I can remember to write again. Why does it take so long for me to notice that I need nourishment? I look down and see that I've been dug out of my pot and my roots are all tangled and dry, and I'm not sure how I got halfway across the room on the floor when my nice pot on the sunny windowsill is all the way over there. How did that happen?

'Do what you can; that is good enough. You are already doing too much if you have a classic American nuclear family. As novelist and poet Opal Palmer Adisa said to Ariel Gore in Gore's book The Mother Trip: "Being a good mother is too many jobs for one person." ' From an article from Yoga Journal sent to me by my best friend Kirsten. So true. Doesn't stop me from doing my best, though.

It's amazing how much you can get done when you stay up for 20 hours straight. I am setting into motion the plan for getting many Christmas cards done in the next month or so. My cards are going to the printer, I'm 1/3 of the way finished with our family's original Christmas card for this year (I didn't do one last year and I really missed it!), and I've been commissioned to paint the office holiday card for work. Goal: to have ALL cards finished and printed by mid-October. I don't think that's too unreasonable.