Work in Progress Each of us has a dream that we are painting on a mystical canvas with brushes double-loaded with hope and conviction. The joy of living is used as a solvent to spread the colors of this dream as our canvas grows. The margins are poorly defined, far out in our field of peripheral vision. We are reaching, growing, stretching. . .but the boundaries change too, remaining undefined and out of our reach.. A few words, quietly spoken, sever the threads of that canvas. "Cause unknown, progressive deterioration, side effects, incurable." The margins of the work are clearly defined now. But dreams don't have margins....they have no beginning and no ending...they have no tangible dimensions. This is no longer a dream in progress but a challenge to be worn. At first, I fashion it into a small lapel pin, some will notice it, a few will acknowledge it. As I grow more accustomed to its presence, I fashion it into a larger piece. Do I weave it into a basket to be worn on my head? Do I bunch it together and drape it over my shoulder, pinning it in place with bravery? Do I whittle it into a cane that I can lean on and gain security from? Or do I knit it into a thick blanket and cover myself so that no one else need be confronted by the margins of my challenge. You are the critic. What do you want to see? Which medium is most pleasing? What do I think? I have no favorite. . . I am only did them because they were my assignment. I wanted to continue working on my dream. Rita Weeks April 29, 1996