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4. Thirst

When I’m away from painting for far too long my insides start to crumble like stale coffee cake or canyons made of sandstone.

On the outside, it may not seem like I’ve abandoned my painting practice.  Hell — look around my studio and you’ll find proof that my beloved paintbrushes have been in use diligently.

Though my heart has a different story to tell.  One that starts with I wish...I wantif only I could figure this out.

So listen here mama, I’m done skipping rocks across my own rivers of desire.  I’m done crafting a life that only fits a former me.

I spent all of last year loosening up the anchor, now eyes up — watch with me as I let the whole boat sink.

But only with good intentions and my deep abiding knowing that this…this is how you drive the stake in and claim your sovereignty.

As one season slips into another with only heartache as the delicate sutra holding them together, this is the passageway that the ancestors whispered about.

This is my sacred transition.

My letting go.  My stepping forward.  My sinking in.

This is what I thirst.

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