All my life, silent but powerful voices pushed me to create, express and be. I have been awash in interior wisdoms, mesmerized by vivid images, humbled by unflagging intuition.
Amazed by such steady, benevolent guidance, I shared my ideas liberally, too young to know the valor of discretion. I fell into exploitive, co-dependent relationships; remained too loyal too long to tribes I had long outgrown.
It takes a lifetime to ferret out from the expectations constricting us those things and people that serve our ultimate purpose. Family, coworkers and friends who previously commanded so much of our attention insist on a return to top billing, unaccustomed to being displaced from the nucleus of our universe.
But the path of an artist is a solitary one. To the artist, space is oxygen. Ideas cannot be borne in the density of chaos and need. The inner voice is lost in the clamor. Addictive relationships, no matter how elegantly camouflaged, strangle us.
Coming back to my own voice has liberated me. My art is my constant companion, my life force. It feeds me like no or none other, placing air under my wings and freeing me to embrace higher relationships and ideas. It opens me to new dimensions, giving my perception galaxies in which to unfold.