When I spend my day quietly easing clay into uniform shapes or laying little squares of fabric in careful overlapping patterns I emerge from my work somewhat distorted, feeling larger than life. I briefly see the whole world as a waiting workable lump of clay. I arrange our dinner's chopped vegetables into neat colored piles. I imagine my words as tools, capable of molding or shifting the moods and actions of my teen and tween daughters. I engage with my neighbors over repainting their dull beige houses. It is no small wonder the stereotype of the reclusive work obsessed artist exists. I experience an odd, wonderful, intoxicating, power when I sit and work with accommodating clay and cooperative cloth. In that realm I am creator, ultimate decider. I shape landscapes and build beings. In the real world there is chaos and the unforeseeable whim of others. In the real world I am merely a participant, an influence, and sometimes even a victim.
