The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing




I lay in bed for around an hour trying to figure out if I should continue with this meditation, this effort, the therapy—all of it—any of it. 

I did a general cruise though of my life, the things that I feel I need and want to keep: work—yes. clay—yes. 


I don’t know. 

The Sandbox feels like the engine that drives it all but oh it doesn’t feel very good right now. 

I feel that I have failed, that I have nothing to show for all the effort, for the city I’ve built, the mountains I’ve climbed. 

I play now a pretend game that I do have something to show…I pretend that having a website is that something. 

And see something still missing. 

A gap between me and what I need or want. 

Me and…health. 

Me and…happiness. 

And it makes me want to walk away and consider that the only way to remove the gap is to remove the effort. 

I consider what the Sandbox will look like if I freeze it all here, in this moment, in this volume, at this page count, at this stage online. And what it would feel like to come back to it years down the line. 

It’s been a long December of hoisting self and process up and onto a website, the considerations around what to put up, how to organize it, how it feels to have visitors. 

And then to not have them. 

But with the new year comes new considerations. 

Leaving therapy is one of them. 

Last night I woke up in a semi panic realizing that at the two year mark with Teresa that totals nearly $25,000. My Not Gods that is a lot of money. I seem to wake to the cost of $1000 a month for this and feel it’s not worth it. 

I don’t relish resuming this week. 

I don’t feel the dependency I felt with Eileen; nor doI feel like I’m looking forward to resuming sessions. Which is good in a way to not feel this. 

But I thought leaving therapy would be worst case this time around bitter sweet. But in this moment now it feels like there would not be any sweetness. Not for anger with Teresa but for such disappointment that I never did anything with my work. 

Which to me means I need to continue with the work—therapy or not. I need to keep working. Maybe not every morning for hours like I did in Hawaii or when I have time when work is slow. 

But I need to, I believe, keep going. 

Despite feeling pretty lousy. 


What makes you feel most lousy?


I don’t know, A. Probably the journey in the dark that is mostly alone. To have this massive landscape inside and to feel that I’ll just die with it being unshared. 


This is a sad thought to hold.


It really is. I think through it all over the past years and even the darkest valleys I’ve always had hope that someday someone would peak inside my little house, would see the forest that surrounds me too filled with all my work—would see something in it. But the more I consider all this the more I begin to see that this city, this effort, this process—my life’s content and work in so many ways, will be washed away with the tides. 


It is in many ways truth; when we die we are gone. Our life is washed away. But in other ways, perhaps untrue too. 


I cannot believe this would all amount to…nothing. But, I suppose this morning, and maybe these past few days or week, I begin to believe it may. 


S, arms around you. We carry this morning a heavy heart, one without hope.




If I were to use a fairytale, if I wanted to write the man in the forest filled with pantings into a better place….how would I do it? 

Where would I find this man today? 


The man would have opened up a small gallery in town to show his paintings; it is lonely most days but he continues to bring work to the gallery. He curates older work and paints a new each morning. 

He begins to see that there are moments of deep pleasure in this new life he has created; when he makes a connection in town with a new customer. 

And he begins to accept too that life is often times lonely; that one morning he might paint a piece that he dislikes, that he may never want to show the world, but he begins to accept that this is part of life’s ebbs and flows. 

He knows that not many will come to his gallery; that a little bit of him goes a long way. But he begins to see that he doesn’t need a lot. One day, one visitor to share with could create warmth in his heart to heat up most of his week. 

And where he thought he needed one wise woman or another to guide him he begins to consider that these wise women, the first one who harmed him and now the second that helps occasionally are not what is needed. 

What is needed is the company and conversation he makes by continuing to paint and continuing to share and connect. Having his gallery, bit by bit, helps him to change. 

He begins to consider the gold coins he has been giving to the second wise woman he sees. These amount to one thousand a month. And while she does not harm him and in fact tries to help, the gold that he gives to her begins to feel more like a crutch than salve or solution. 

He considers that in paying for a conversation that he can have with self and others for free that he continues to put himself in a position of less power than he truly has. 

He looks up and out into a new year and considers leaving the world of wise women for good.