I step over the last of my toddler’s toys on the hardwood floor of the living room, exit my house and enter the garden. I am greeted by the sound of songbirds and buzzing movements of honey bees. My studio is a small red barn on the south side of my home overlooking a canyon in San Diego. I open the heavy doors to the barn and the scent of solvent surrounds my skin. With windows facing east and the doors west a strong coastal breeze rushes through the fumes almost dissipate. Here, I am no longer mommy, wife, daughter or even citizen, I am a creator. A painter. I am me. The biographies of Cézanne, Dufy, Velazquez and others loom above my easel while my prized antique paints and pastels rest upon my table. In my studio I am void of time, but yet in this space, entirely present.