I'm in my studio. I am sore and feel somewhat violated even though the surgery was for the greater good. I've just come down here to get away from my bed. I've spent too much time in my bed these last two years. Even though I hurt, I feel so physically relieved.
I've just tidied up the space on my studio floor where I sat the last three months crippled in pain and painting in what I called my nest. I was in too much pain to even sit in a chair at my easel. I had a show scheduled, so I painted. I've always seemed to keep going no matter how harsh my circumstances. But now as I sit here looking at my newly clear floor that was so recently my nest, I see how ridiculous I must be.