Standing next to me on our back deck, painting side-by-side, my son was so excited, “Mommy, we’re all artists!” He sounded as if we had won something.
I’d like to talk about the act of creation, but I keep turning in the opposite direction. Being stuck for so long, I have to remind myself that being stuck isn’t who I am—just the seat I’ve taken on a bus that’s going God knows where.
I’ve had more dreams about bathrooms. In one, I was on a deserted island with a public toilet that was defunct and in serious need of a scrub down. I convinced the others who were stuck on the island with me that the first thing we should do is get the bathrooms in working order. We took a truck into town and while shopping for supplies it occurred to me that I had left the island.
In trying to clean the bathroom, I discovered I wasn’t stuck at all.
Part of me has an urge to get out of bed right now and go scrub my own bathroom. Don’t worry. The saner part of me is too tired to do anything but stay here in bed, snuggled up to my laptop.
Instead, I will do my best to remember the metaphor—how in preparing the place where one finds the most visceral form of relief (literally), I found I wasn’t trapped at all.