6/365.
That's me in the middle in black, rehearsing for a stage play for the first time in more than a decade.

4/365.

3/365.

2/365.
With children:

1/365.

since the end of the year is here, i decided to revisit my treasure map for the year, which i made in march then displayed dutifully on my computer's desktop for months before forgetting about it upon the death of the computer. later, i reinstated it, but my husband replaced it with a day of the dead image and i'm reluctant to argue with him about the matter by usurping his desktop authority.

today i examined the individual parts. read the words, thought about what i'd intended, what i'd had in mind. in large part, there is no way to determine if what i seek will come at all this year or the next. jon being on the job market means that things like "stability," "certainty," and "security" are somewhat difficult to come by. i've learned to try to not get my hopes up too high lest they be dashed in short order. of course, this goes against everything the map is supposed to be. i retain a sort of cautious optimism and continue to make plans, but try not to say them out loud too much. at least not yet...

the entire map centered on a theme of growing: personally, practically, literally, spiritually... i wanted to grow. i wanted to build on the new things i'd already been doing and simply grow them. i wanted to continue and deepen my involvement in my community, my commitment to local foods, my work with my children's education, my relationship with my husband, and my exploration of my place in all of it. most of this was pretty easy: i was already set for it, already on that path. recently i've surprised myself with a sort of dismissal of all of that as nothing much though. it may be simply an end-of-year, post-christmas-doldrums-feeling speaking, or it could be a bit of burn-out (which i hope is temporary).

i'm still sitting here clinging to the belief that all of the work of the last decade will come to a fruition of sorts where the next phase will begin. there is still time for that. it will come one day, one way or another.

the section that really caught my eye, however, was the phrase, "everyday limitless art" displayed carefully on leaves as though dripping like rain. it's hard to say whether it was accomplished precisely, though it was certainly attempted. the "everyday" part struck me. i thought of keri smith, of all artists that i admire, of the notion of free art everywhere all the time. the notions of creating and experiencing and really, ultimately, appreciating the small acts of creation that exist everywhere in our lives all the time.

so i thought, what i really need to do is embark on it with intention and a full heart. what i really ought to do is aim for everyday limitless art for real. be it writing or photography or collecting/catching or daydreams spun in doodle or any other real or virtual object i can see or experience, i should aim to make it every single day of all of my life. but maybe i'll just start with this coming year. i'm thinking art 365. we'll see where it goes. and if it goes. and how it goes.

I am busy and complainy about it. I want nothing more than to write lists and check them off again. When I think of my life, what I might say about what is going on right now, it is all the to-do-list, as ever, whenever I stop any more to think about it and write it out. Occasionally there is the drama between friends, which I cannot blog or really journal as it is not my own drama, but theirs. Or there is the strife and struggle of marriage which is decidedly not good entertainment for anyone other than my poor damaged heart. It needs its privacy and no ears but good friends. Most usually, there is the struggle of children and my feelings about everything with them and how that grows and changes and drives me crazy. But I have the other blog for working that out and feel that I must do so there.

So what I am left with is my own constant struggle to define myself by outside activity - by the writing and the arting and the constant volunteer work. The hum is getting louder by the minute with the volunteer work just now. There is also the whole life to organize and predict and arrange for. I have not the disposable income to outsource all that grief and oftentimes there is much to be haggled over, rather than merely purchased. The efficiencies of capitalism have sadly created infinite bureaucracies that I navigate alone in a sea of the alone.

I was thinking about joy and cultivating joy. It's something I like to say with deep sarcasm - "cultivating joy." It's a phrase I roll my eyes at quite dramatically. It's a bit of an inside joke at this point. It is not to say that there is anything wrong with actually working to cultivate joy, if that's your thing, and the rolling of eyes is not to say that I do not actively seek to be happy myself. It's just a matter of being an incredibly sarcastic person, focused mainly on the obstacles to certain paths rather than the great journey of getting there. I see obstacles as opportunities for problem solving, which is serious work, rather than as fantastic adventure.

Actually, I say all that, but I've not yet been able to articulate what it is that so supremely annoys me about endless optimism. I suppose it's a sense of entitlement. That one would expect the good outcome seems hopelessly naive to me rather than as a method of manifestation. I don't believe in the universe. I do not buy the secret laws of attraction. There is no logic in it because there is too much suffering by the innocent for it to be so. In my mind, it is a mark of utter, blind privilege. And to that end, I instead view the world as a struggle. I expect the worst so as to create the best possible outcome rather than to be disappointed.

Yet I am in the place I always wanted to be in. I have arrived quite fully into the life I had planned. It's just not quite done, so I have a hard time recognizing it at any given moment. I see my children, I see their joy, I sense their adventure and I try my best to give them the freedom to be with that, to feel it. Yet inevitably, I fail. I come down on the truth of an act or event with far more harshness than is at all necessary. Or I skate the edge. It is not every moment, but I am not perfect by any means. And my sarcasm and downer attitude tell you that ahead of time. You know what to expect around here. We are not perfect. We are not perfectly happy, we do not excel at bliss. We excel at reality and at laughing terribly hard at it. We offer our guffaws and our chuckles and our cackles up in open mockery to the universe. I'm convinced the universe loves us for it.