Night falls and I am restless. "I'm beginning," I think. And my mind crowds with details.
What to bring? What to hold? Release? Who will I meet? Where will the road take me? Does it matter? Maybe the road is my destination?
"Not you. You aren't even a real artist. Worse yet, you don't want to be. Your own daughter, only twelve years old, is a better illustrator than you. Someone will notice how flimsy, how barely there you are, how totally unsuited for this journey. They will laugh, or show you the exit ramp."
Do all pilgrims feel this way?
I wake to a new day, rain-heavy. Is this a good day to begin? Maybe I should stay inside just a little bit longer, rethink things.
But Joan, Christine, Joelle, e l k, Erin, and Stefani have already waved hello, as if I was really going, as if I was not the impostor I feel myself to be.
Sculpture by Maureen Connor, 1990.