It's after 11pm as I begin, and the nearly full moon is shining through the window by my chair. Ben and the kids are all asleep. Puppy, blind and deaf, sits on my feet, protective, loving, waiting patiently for me to retire for the night, while Grace, our 22lb cat, sits on the back of my chair with her tail wrapped around my neck. After 4 days of much needed rain, the skies have cleared to reveal a nearly full moon, and just in time for Halloween. And although I'd prefer a sharp object in the eye to house cleaning, we've spent the last few days removing dust bunnies - well okay, they're more like repulsive rodents - in preparation for Emma's 5th halloween/birthday celebration.
I've always hated halloween, or more precisely, "acting." It makes my skin crawl to imagine dressing up, wearing a costume, playing a part. How sad, to have lost such an intimate connection with my creative spirit, but the extra effort is exhausting. The mask is something I know intimately: as a woman, a mother, daughter, a sister, a friend, a creative. It is my facade, my persona, my comfort. What would others see if they saw me without it? What would I see?
The mask. It is, she is my familiar. Without her, I might cease to exist.