I was in my late twenties when I had this dream: I was tilling rows and rows of soil preparing the earth for planting. When I finished for the day, I went into a stark, single room cabin with one window and a door. I stood looking out onto the sunny field pondering my task and wondering about my future.
Dreams, often times, are metaphors. This dream, I believe, was telling me that my artistic journey and my journal were preparing the way for a new life. The art was a visual record of my feelings. My journal was a written record of dreams and a stream of conscious thoughts and ideas as to why I felt so disconnected from myself. My past was being uprooted through consistent, determined, focused work repeated over and over again.
The hard work opened the possibility for a new, yet unknowable future. My task although lonely and devoid of fun held the potential for a different life. There was a sense that a new future was gestating. In this new future I hoped to feel whole, connected and comfortable in my own skin.
