I am a therapist

But

I wanted to be an artist


Clay under my fingernails, in my curls, drying on my skin.
Filling up my moleskine
Occupying my thoughts, my dreams,
each moment of every day




Now.....

Now, I listen to people's pain, their sorrow, their hurt.

5 years of grad school, fancy acronyms at the end of my name, they can call me doctor...some do. some insist. perhaps it makes them feel like I am more than just an imperfect human like they are.

My clients come to me with their pain, I see them, I hear them, I try, I try so hard to soothe them, make them feel worthy, make them feel good enough. make them feel loved. deserving of love.

Some days, being a psychologist provides so much meaning to my life, other days...other days I cry and punish myself for not pursuing art.

Why didn't I do it?
Why was I so scared?
Why did I let the **** talking from my parents and the judgements of my family keep me from doing what I loved?

WHY.



Hey, you want to know how to make me cry instantaneously?
               Ask me about what I gave up to be where I am today.


        what I lost for the acronyms,
        what I lost for the title,
        what I lost for the salary,
        what I lost so my mom could tell people her daughter was a
                            "doctor" (not a real one even still)

Ask me what I lost.

Ask me how I lay awake at night, stare off into space, doing math in my mind, thinking, wondering, planning out how to grow my practice to make enough to rent a studio space, buy a kiln, and make art once again.

Ask me why I got a doctorate in psychology so all I could think about was how to make art again.


Ask me.
I dare you.


My own therapist just did and my make up smeared.
I think sobbed is the technical term.

Or perhaps, I just let all the feelings and sadness bleed out of me. every now and again they do

every now and again I let down my defenses, remove the distractions, and find the time to really think and reflect on what I lost.
what I gave up to allow myself to make money off of listening to people.
I allow myself to be used and profit from it.


JUST like my family uses me and takes up far too much space.

I provide care to others because it's my job, but it's also what I've always known how to do, what I was taught to do.

Taking care of others is ******* exhausting.
I love my job.
I hate my job.


Ya know what?

I never hated art.
I never did.
Art never took from me.
Clay never used me and spit me out or told me things like "I'm not getting anything from you" like my clients have told me.

clay Doesn't take.
clay only gave.
ceramics only ever gave.

WHY the **** did I not allow myself to take?
WHY did I create a life for myself where I am continuously giving and people are continuously taking?

I am so ******* empty and so ******* tired.

I just want to make art.

all i ever wanted was to make art.

So this is love.
Wanting to be near it.
Shaking to touch,
To feel it against my skin.
I am in love with clay.
For Ceramics is the wood that fuels my fire.
I need it in my life.

Perhaps that is a void
One of many voids that cannot be filled by people
Where for art thou clay.
I miss thee so.
My heart yearns,
Calls out.
Can you hear me?

Return to me
Mother earth
Return to me

You goddess of dirt, mud, and all things kind
Come back to me.
The break has been painful, causing me to shrivel within
Splinters forming at the core of my being.
Water rushing in and freezing, expanding the cracks.
Without clay there.
How can I possibly mend the tear?

I need the sustenance for my soul
I am called to it.
It beckons to me.
And I am drawn to it
A slave really
Never in my life have I found a medium
That satisfies me the way clay has.
Can and Does.

Don’t leave me here
Alone to fend for myself in this dark world.
Can’t you hear me calling out?
The ghost of memories past call out your name
Your presence
Your spirit
Mother earth
Where have you gone
I miss you so
Return
Return
And never leave again

It is terrifying
How much power
Lies in these
Two hands

‘The Immensity’   by Stuart Williamson

“La Inmensidad”
Salvador’s words
Vast burgeoning watery place
Myriads of small creatures tumbling to the sands
Spent waves already fighting back against the tide
Cemetery walls crumbled in its wake
The bones of long dead fishermen once again felt the air

And a ***, the work of human hands
Striped with red around its rim
Cradled within a larger bowl
Exposed for us, and all to see
Left for a thousand years or more
To be held with pleasure once again.

You left your honey mouth in the cupboard, so
today your words are fogged glass
Don't you ever ponder upon the bruises you leave?
stained glass is considered art,
but it's not until you put it somewhere
to be admired that people know.
I saw you from a mile away-
like a kitchen fire
and someone's (dead) body.
But you were humming that melody
that made me seasick with its radio waves, and
made me burn bright with shame.
I always thought that maybe you'd see your
reflection in the puddles at your feet,
and that you'd try to change it
with your rain boots, dip them in the unwelcome depictions.
But I know that you'd continue on with your life,
saying that the reflected you was nothing
that you were something. You, in flesh, in spirit
You claimed you emptied your bones and filled
them with pebbles so you'd be grounded, when really,
you were just stuck in a rut,
smelling of sea water,
trying to get some sleep.
I tell myself that you were not wicked,
but why else couldn't you rest?
You sip your lemon tea
out of a little ceramic bowl,
telling me it tastes better that way,
but you weren't always all sour mouth
and sharp tongue.
You used to be fragile like a storm,
and wild as a starlit night,
diving, with the bruises painting you a melody
you couldn't hear, but saw
nonetheless.

you're
crying
and as you walk
down the dimly
lit glass hallway
the faces on the walls
wave
in your breeze
of sadness and
iron oxide tears.

every surface in
your mind is
covered
in a thick layer of
concrete dust
and you wonder
how long before
your nose
takes a dive
sneezing
too often
to breathe.

there is clay
everywhere
and you can't see
the cracks
between your
knuckles
under the
thick layer of
thought.

as far as art
departments go
you're not feeling
so creative
painted or
charcoal
it doesn't matter
when there is more
brown paper offered
to you every
time you believe
you've failed.

would you believe me
if i told you that a
newspaper and a pair
of old blue eyes
reminded me
and maybe you too
that there is somebody
out there
who actually
cares.

press that
thumbtack
into the wall
slowly
pin down
everything
you've tried to
forget
and avoid
stabbing your
finger into
the perforated
abused and
continually
rotated
corkboard.

you're not
wirebound
anymore
i promise
only your
entwined metalic
thoughts.

I miss the feeling of clay under my hands
A spinning wheel, my foot on the pedal.
The rough silver plate always sands
Down the skin on my hand but I don't mind

I can build vessels out of the earth
Pulling cups and bowls up from the ground
In this instant, my hands are worth
A thousand vases glazed in gold

I dip them in thick buckets of color
And place the ceramic uncertainties in the furnace
We both come alive in fire
And emerge even stronger than before