The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing




I’ve been eaten up these past months with envy. Specifically it’s around someone who has what I want. 

And so yesterday I attacked it. 

I read a bunch of articles on jealousy and how to combat it. 

One in particular really helped. I put together what it was that this person had that I wanted. 

And a list of what I had. 

And I saw that I had a lot. 

A lot to be grateful for. 

And that the envy was unrealistic and destructive. 

I’ve been envying a fantasy that isn't real. So I turned my head around it. And I think it’s working. 

Speaking of turning things around, we have re-oriented the bed and Pete and I both now have more room. The light feels differently, the window I look out of is new-ish. This arrangement is in preparation for me bringing clothes here, stored in half of the drawers beneath this bed. 

Things are changing. 

And I woke wondering what things would feel like if I took the Sandbox—all of it—off the table. 

Nothing daily. No book. No website. 

And I’m still wondering this.

I wondered what a forced break would feel like. 

Would it teach me that my Sandbox is filling a void I need to confront? 

Would it make me feel relieved? 

I find even just the imagining of taking it away somewhat difficult to do and—is that a good thing? 


What remains….


I’ve felt lately that I genuinely want to book-a-fy my process, my story, so that I could move onto some kind of next step. Lately the next step has felt like another book—a different book or a new book. 

It could be related to the Sandbox—or not. 

But just something…other. 


So we do have a purpose right now. And that is to finish this book. 


I think so. And I don’t know really what else I should be doing. It’s been like this for a while; one foot in front of the other but not sure where I’m headed. Same with the clay. Just keep going. 


We have more direction than we think. And there are many things to do with our one foot in front of the other approach. We are finding self.


I’ve not liked my day job for decades. But it has afforded me the financial freedom and daily flexibility to do a lot of growth and exploration. So I need to stop slamming myself for the way I’ve made money and try and view things differently and with more gratitude. Life is filled with compromises. 

My money-work is not my passion but my money-work has allowed me to find my passions. 

Just lately, passion has alluded me. 

My journey seems to remain and to feel necessary. 





I feel just especially lonely. Maybe it’s the leaving fish that don’t exactly swim away so quickly or easily anymore. I can’t seem to dissociate away from hard feelings? 

I don’t know. 

I don’t want to be negative. 

But I also don’t want to be in a state of denial either. 

What’s your best advice, A?


Continue with our work. For we are, in essence, a truth seeker. Perhaps we need to view our life this way. We are a truth seeker. 


I stretch my arms

Up to the sky

I reach for truth

Or at least I try.

I stretch each day.

My arms get tired.

But if I at least don’t try. 

I’ll surely get fired. 


Thanks Monkey.


De nada.


It sounds weird but this re-framing my work this way feels…right…feels…good. 

Because it accurately describes the writing I do—in the mornings where I try—but also in the book I tinker. I’m not looking for language. The language is secondary. It’s the truth. 

Language is just the delivery vehicle. 


When your life moves towards finding truth it cannot stop. Whatever frame you want to put it into—Sandbox or clay—it is a direction and determination that can never be taken away. 

It is painful at times. Joyous as times too. 


So what the underlying pain these days?


Our truth is complicated. Our truth is about feeling what is painful, and living with it. Bearing it. Developing ways of coping, of realistically and rightfully developing gratitude skills for there is, S, so very much to be grateful for.


Man, this is hard. 


Let us be grateful for these talents we find inside for they are, S, mightily rare and robust. Let us be grateful for Pete who sleeps to our right, who supports and loves us and whom we love back just as much. Let us be grateful for our physical and mental health, grateful for our strength, grateful for the runs and the swims we can do. Let us be grateful for the gallery that sells our work and supports us. Let us be grateful for the positive relationships with family members, with our parents who were deeply messed up in the past but with whom we have positivity now. 

Let us be grateful for our Sandbox, for the many thousands of pages we have produced, for the container and process that it is, for the way in which we found finally better mental health by filing a complaint that has allowed us to move ahead in our healing. 

Let us be grateful for finding better help, a solid therapist who has her head screwed on properly most of the time who has helped us to understand that we are healing. A therapist who has helped us heal from wrought dependency and toxic transference. 

Let us be grateful for the healing we have done to date, the book we are re-working that is going well. The content that we can more easily hold inside of us, the clarity of our voice that tells us very directly what work we need to do. 

Let us be grateful for our website, for our flexible mind and spirit that found this solution that allows us to air our process and self in a way that is safe. Let us be grateful to be born at time where we can have something like a website and have something like an e-book. Let us be grateful for the tiny ad campaign that brings us visitors which make us feel a little bit less lonely and perhaps does the same for them too. 


Why then, A, after all this, do I begin to feel kinda sad?


Our truth is complicated. Our truth is about feeling what is painful, and living with it. Bearing it.


I broke our butter dish last month. And I took it and placed it on my work table, a reminder that I was going to try and make a new one for us out of clay. 

Finally, yesterday, I just put one foot in front of the other and allowed myself to express what I would express in making something like a butter dish. 

A simple stupid butter dish. 

And everything inside me said to not animate it. That it was wildly different from the creatures I'd been making--a completely different road, a path that lead to an old house, in the country, a farmhouse with a porch, a hot summer’s day.

It lead me to lace and buttons.

To this place that spoke to me about how different I could be. How I am not just one thing but many. 


The journey of a thousand miles begins with two butter dishes at a time.