It's a Stretch!

I like to think of myself as a writer. Something grows in me and I have to tell the story; in my mind, out loud, or on paper. But at times it's like a fire hose - if you can't tell it fast enough it bottles up and creates rage. . . or passion. This morning I had an email exchange with a friend who helped me put a few things in perspective after a particularly difficult few days. She reminded me about a story she had told me about a meeting she had with her son's teacher and his attention span - it was pretty short! He gets bored easily, quickly grasping one concept and moving on - and when he can't express things fast enough he overloads. She was told he was not average.

This was something I could totally understand - his mind moved fast; he got bored easily - he created his own challenges, and when they didn't work out he got frustrated.

The other night, in a fit of rage, something went airborne in my kitchen. As expected the dog took refuge behind the couch and my regular dining partner focused more intensely on the pages of her book while I let the expletives fly. It wasn't that I was mad. . . I was brutally frustrated - I could not translate the picture I had created in my mind onto the plate.

A little later, after cleaning things up in the kitchen and pinch hitting with something that would have taste but less presence, I apologized to my regular dining partner. . . sort of. I referenced the tale of my friend's son; I spoke of my frustration - the vision of what it should look like and how it disintegrated in the oil; art and passion was my rationalization. In defence of my behaviour I drew in a comparison to artists. . . to Michael Jackson. . . . to Jackson Pollock. . . and to Beethoven!

And her response will forever ring true.... "surely you're not comparing yourself to Beethoven!"