I was a sculptor just today
though my hands never touched soft clay.
I stood and jumped,
no studio light.
The shirt was gray;
I wore black tights.
My hair was tied back with a string.
The task was to make the art lean.

I looked around and saw so many
artists operating machines aplenty.
They lifted, leaned, squatted, pumped;
the way to sculpting: crunch, crunch, crunch

I admired the work of the artists in the rink
all focused, balancing, trying to think.
We all had one, uniform goal:
get smaller, tighter, leaner, toned.

I floated once above it all
watching all try to get small.
As beads of sweat ran down their faces
comparison showed in noticeable traces.

There is no shame in joyful movement.
There is no shame in work.
But there is a line where suddenly
the art becomes a shirk.

A shirk to our relationships,
a shirk to personal best.
A shirk to our own happiness,
a shirk to needed rest.

So go, and paint, I don't deny
that passion is a part.
But don't forget
without sculpting
you are already art.

"insecurities" by Nicole Navarro