Stale Breath and Caterpillar Goo

A cost risk analysis of staying small vs. kicking down the walls of your cramped Rubbermaid Tub.

What size is your tub?

I've been thinking a lot about the cost of staying small compared to the cost of taking up space.

I started down this thought path with an idea: What if I want to keep every sketchbook and journal I've ever had? That would be a giant box of journals and sketchbooks.

It would be so good to be able to look at that old stuff because I could see how far I've grown as an artist and a person.
All the pain in those journals that isn't there anymore, or fuck my life, if it is still there.

But the giant tub or multiple tubs lurking in the corner, threatening to topple over—that's a problem. 

And yes, I hear you. I could digitize it.
Going digital is a great solution, except now I must pay for storage.
I'm talking about half a century's worth of journals and sketchbooks here (I am screaming up on 50 years of age (or 38, depending on who you ask)). 

Suppose you were to apply the same thought logic to art.
Making large art takes up space in the studio and in galleries, not to mention the cost of materials and the time and energy required to create it in an extra-large format. 

This is true for any kind of collection, whether it be books, Star Wars memorabilia, records, or creepy ceramic baby doll figurines that will unite in the night to slaughter us all, but that my mom swears are valuable. 

But what about taking up space emotionally in our lives and in relationships?

Asking for one's needs to be met, having the audacity to have needs (The Recovering People Pleasers Club is down the hall and to the left), or having the gumption to go for a big promotion, change careers, start up a new business, or be a working artist.

These are giant emotional tubs that have the potential to be very scary and uncomfortable—it might be easier to stay safe and small in one's little tub. The small tub is potentially cramped, and the air might be a touch stale, but it's mostly comfortable. 

And what if some of the people in your orbit don't understand your desire for the thing? What if they don't see the big reach as worth it or think it's too risky?
What if, even if you've found the courage, they express concern or try to talk you out of it? What if they lack understanding and can't see that your tub no longer fits you?

What do you do, then?!

“At the core, going big costs time, money, and energy. Sometimes, it also takes a lot of guts, gumption, single-mindedness, and the ability to ignore anyone who might get in your way - to outgrow the metaphorical Rubbermaid tub. ”

At the core, going big costs time, money, and energy.
Sometimes, it also takes a lot of guts, gumption, single-mindedness, and the ability to ignore anyone who might get in your way - to outgrow the metaphorical Rubbermaid tub.

So, at the end of the day, what is the best course of action?
What's the best way?
Small, safe, easy, less expensive.
(Bored, stagnant, cramped with stale air)  

Or

Big, out there on the edge, maybe terrified, maybe about to lose it all, blowing through savings account dollars like dandelion seeds on the wind.

What if you make it?
What if you don't?

Here is what I'm telling myself as I stand on the precipice of yet another expansion, having no clue how to do any of it. #wholesalecatalog.
Looking outside of my tub, looking at the other bigger tubs on offer. Looking at the giant tub that I could so easily drown in if I'm not careful -

It's hard, but I've done it before.

It's hard, and I've made mistakes.

It's hard, and I've lost money.

It's hard, and I've lost a lot of sleep.

It's hard, but I survived.

It's hard, but I learned.

It's hard, but I made the money back. 

It's hard, but I did better the next time.

It's hard, but it's been worth every fucking delicious minute.

It's hard, but what else is really worth doing?

The other part worth remembering but doesn't fit into my poem format (rude) is the little tiny baby successes.

It's so so sooooo fuuuuuuucking easy to discount the small successes.
I wish I had kept a journal of all the tiny successes that didn't feel like much then, but because they worked, other things could move forward. I wish I had kept what would be a mountain of to-do lists covered in little check marks—each one a baby success.

Because it would be magnificently HUGE!

I don't need to keep every journal or sketchbook, but I'll keep the ones from the years that matter most. 

I'll play it safe until I can't stand the smell of my own breath from inside the small tub anymore, and then, like caterpillar goo in a cocoon, I will spread my wings and soar because I've done it before. 

I’VE DONE IT BEFORE!

What size is your tub?