The Artist's Way May be Through a Minefield....

Three weeks ago I began the work of The Artist's Way because I need to make a worthy place in my life for creative expression. Sewing and quilting have transcended hobby and become my late-life's passion. No longer willing to keep wedging my art form into crowded physical and psychic spaces, I wondered if The Artist's Way could help me define my artistic destination and to map the way there.

Coincidentally, my longed-for creative space/studio/workroom (the title will come to me) is suddenly within my reach, no longer as elusive as "some day." The last child has moved back to town; there is no further need for a frequent-flyer guestroom. In my head the double bed morphs into a single, the huge computer armoire into a tidy little cupboard, the creaky old computer into a comet-fast beast hungry for creative purpose.

But nothing worthwhile in life comes without struggle, and this effort is to be no different. I spend two weeks softening a stunningly hostile husband into passive-aggressive cooperation. "I think you're getting the cart before the horse to get the computer now—but do whatever you want," and "Before you move anything in there, I'll shampoo the carpet." Air seeps from my chest; I politely decline the carpet cleaning and go shopping for a racy new computer.

I listen patiently as my impatient and elderly mother insists I throw everything out of the former guestroom, including the little bed I plan for my sweet grandbaby's visits to her Mam (maybe for sewing lessons some day). Mother believes she is only thinking of my needs, but of course that is not true. I find myself arguing with her about what my sewing room should be, until I finally and firmly say I will have what I want. More air seeps from my chest.

I tell my daughters the time has come to reclaim their belongings from the guestroom and its closet, belongings they wish to keep but want me to retain custody of. They are agreeable and cooperative, saying they are happy I am claiming A Room of My Own. But I recognize their patronizing expressions toward their impatient and elderly mother as my own. My sentimental first-born, who weeps at supermarket ribbon-cuttings, asks to see the studio in progress and I proudly lead the way. She surveys the mess and sighs, "Aww….Makes me sad." 32 years old, she has never lived in our 8-year-old home except as a guest, but for a moment I feel brutal and ruthless. For a moment more air seeps from my chest.

My sister offers to exchange my double bed for her daughter's single bed, a serendipitous swap that sets our mother into orbit. She rants about the ridiculousness of the idea. Her stake in this decision escapes us both, and I am impolite in responding to her.

When I take a major step toward progress, the purchase of my new computer, I collide with an infuriating sales experience. My chest barely contains any air now, and finally my fury explodes onto two innocent boys behind cash registers. A delicious errand deteriorates into a fury I have not experienced in longer-than-memory. I am completely derailed by my anger and as shocked by its intensity as are the boys. My fury seems almost to have a separateness, unrelated to me.

By weekend's close, I am overwhelmed with fatigue and frustration, amazed at the obstacles I encounter, stunned by the number of people who seem to have a personal claim in this decision, confused by the intensity of my anger. What on earth is going on?

The weekend is so hectic I forget to do my morning pages on Sunday, never mind any artist's date. All I feel is weary, angry, guilty about the anger, guilty about forgetting the notes, and I fall reluctantly into bed. I pick up The Artist's Way, thinking a moment's read will calm me before sleep—it is Sunday night, my designated night to begin each new chapter. I open the pages and gasp. How is it possible that the new chapter's first heading is "Anger" with a sidebar reassuring that it is natural at this point to experience frequent anger? Predictable, even!

So I am okay with the anger. It is out of proportion to the context, but if I examine where it really comes from, I conclude that I probably was due; no real harm has been done; and the recollection of the anger may help me stay on course.

The weekend is finished, the sewing room is not. But progress is made, and with the completion of each step I feel closer to the dream. I have come through a minefield of resistance mostly intact. A hostile husband now lends constructive support, not mere cooperation. Fury is replaced by promise; my chest expands with fresh air.

My new creative space will never be "complete," never remain static. It will mutate in its use and appearance, as will the creations nurtured there. A hushed prayer in my head now asks only that this cozy space become the haven I seek, a conduit for the alternating current of creativity….