These days I feel like I’m auditioning for the part of the dog in Aesop’s The Dog and the Bone.
I am awash in pervasive feelings of unsatisfactoriness (not to mention pervasive feelings of what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-edness).
Thoughts of Aganetha Dyck and how she pursued the whole motherhood option before embarking on a successful art career post age 40 have been circling like vultures above my faltering conviction.
My decision to not go the motherhood route – precisely because I believed I couldn’t focus fully on becoming a professional artist if I did – seems absurdly funny in comparison to her personal narrative. Not to dis Aganetha – she has produced some great work. But damn, there’s something that curdles the certainty of my decisions when it seems like a homemaker can turn around and have a successful art career as almost an aside. Seems that if I wanted to be shown nationally, not to mention regularly, I should have gone about it differently. Maybe gotten married out of high school, raised a mess of kids, and then gone to art school and launched my art career.
Maybe I should just suck it up, quit eying other dog’s bones, and be happy with the bone I’ve picked.