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Crisis - Veronica Roth
Brief explanation: There is no art and there hasn’t been in quite a while. I can’t make myself “do” art. I end up staring at a piece of paper, tools, lino…whatever, spend four hours trying to “do” art, and end up throwing the thing away. The regimented push-pull of my days have become so extreme (with mom’s recovery from her broken hip, with my relationship with Robert and my children, with my must-do-art-and-not-just-any-old-art-meaningful-art mindset, with finances, cats, housesitter, house, Trump, a burning planet, isolation, disillusionment) that I was just managing to hold it together without tearing myself apart. And then, a routine mammogram revealed a shadow. One more week of tension while I waited for further testing, a couple more days of tension while I waited for results. Turns out the shadow is a fibroid which attached itself to some tissue. Then, relief, tears, a crisis of the soul. I tried to keep it together. I tried just to pick up the broken pieces of my soul and carry on. So here at the cabin in my fortress of solitude, (read: no electricity, no phone signal, no landline), I stare into my eyes rimmed red and blue, and grey with …