Just to see if my computer would let me post, I included a mistake I’ve been fiddling with in my all encompassing effort to understand the enigma known as art. Jackson Pollack said it doesn’t matter what the art looks like as long as it says something. I don’t know. All this said was “if I just add another layer maybe then it can be considered okay’. Either way, the bloody computer still won’t let me post 🙁
Just returned from the hospital where I left my poor husband and his kidney stones. I waited with him long enough to see his face, contorted with pain, ease into a more mundane sort of grimace , while the beloved morphine coursed through his grateful veins. I left the hospital in order to let our two large dogs out. They had watched in shocked disbelief as Brian and I rushed out the door this morning rather than fussing over them with dog treats during our routine morning coffee. When I did finally return, starving and wired with every muscle knotted with disruption and concern, I proceeded to do what any mature, sensible, loving wife would do. I made coffee, then promptly started eating one chocolate chip cookie after another. Two cups of coffee and 25 cookies later….Sigh. Breathe in. And exhale. Now to go back and get Brian.
“The heart has reasons that reason know not of”. That’s what Pascal says. My heart had no reason for going into my studio today. My heart said ‘meh’ but duty told me I’d better finish my poppy. I took one look at what I had painted over the past week and thought-I’m done. I was going to add all the little white ‘hairs’ that run down the stem. Instead I grabbed it and brought it downstairs to scan and post feeling at least that I’d finished something finally after this long while. Surprisingly, I have had so many sweet responses. So today, with a poppy that I didn’t think deserved any praise, I received so much nice as to absolutely make my heart swell.
A room packed with people. It can electrify or deplete. Loneliness can be most acutely felt when one is surrounded. Though equally felt sharing space with just one. One who was thought to be your safe cover. Something goes missing and that safe place disappears leaving you destitute. No one to confide in. Nowhere to hide. Where does it go this wonderful safe? Is it like energy? Neither created nor destroyed? Where does it hide when desperately searched for? Is it our minds that delude, altering the truth, littering a situation with lies? I sneak around corners timid and trembling as we prepare a different evening involving change and more people. Afraid to move lest my shadow jump out where I had not expected it. Alone with no compass for safety.
If it wasn’t for routine we could not anticipate the comfort of knowing what is next. The safe pleasure of comfort and control. But sometimes, in the midst of this anticipatory comfort, there emerges a beast. A beast of boredom. It suddenly slashes at inspiration causing unexpected grief and sadness. It lunges in biting the Achilles tendon. I stumble the rest of the day wondering what the hell happened. Disheartened and limping I reach for my list wondering where I went wrong. I created that routine to defeat depression. Change is scary, too much free time is dangerous but beware the beast lurking in routine.
A blog. Some people sing with theirs. Blogs for this venture and that pursuit. Some express the glory of an exciting and fulfilling life. They shine with energy. Souls ring out. They dance with success and smile with esteem. A job. A job well done. Something. Something to hang on to. To be proud of, happy with. Here, alone with my blog, I feel free. To stumble. To admit having spent the day face down in defeat. The blows of discouragement came relentlessly today. Too many failures and disappointments to prevent crumpling. Too many for me to catch a rail and find my balance. Not enough distraction of encouragement. On my own I stagger and become lost. Today the voices harshly berated. I can come here safely to write. I feel less punished. A chance to breathe and forget that I’m sitting in a dank corner of isolation-putting in time until those who have a life eventually come to find me.
An old painting I found under a pile of papers in my studio. I remember painting it when we first bought our old stone farmhouse-back when we were still friends, the house and I. It is not quite the lavender-laden fields of France but the closest thing our savings could manage. Those were delightfully simple days punctuated with excitement having just secured a potential dream. Every mark we made was an instant improvement and equally rewarding. We bought the house with delicious thoughts of family gatherings; wine, food, and friends in huge quantities.
To find the painting under a pile of papers years later seems significant as the dreams were buried there too.
It wins today. Hang on in order to invent and pull a life out of thin air.
I was thinking last night about two cuddles. Vanessa and Charles. I am really lucky. I often think of how lucky I am to have two children and all the wonders that go along with that. Those sorts of thoughts I enjoy and write about often. However, last night I was thinking I was lucky in a different way. I realized that I know two wonderful young people who I wouldn’t be able to know as well had I not been their mother. We would not have had paths that intertwined and I would have been so much poorer for it. Unlike friends, who can come and go, Vanessa and Charles will always be my children. I will always know and really like these wonderful people. They’re sort of stuck with me forever!! And I love it. So as I said, I feel very lucky
I find that there lives inside me something that instantly slides into place the moment I think to get interested or enthusiastic about something. A voice disguised as nothing but completely intrusive and omnipresent. Incognito, a silent saboteur. Subtle and swift. Before a postive thought is even completed the voice leans in and whispers decidedly-you will get frustrated. You will be disappointed. You will fail. I listen and withdraw. I slump back to a submissive posture. This voice sticks to me like no friend ever could. It knows me too well. It helps me fail and keeps me in a perpetual state of limp. The tremendous and unthinkable challenge would be to break from this insidious control. How to fight back. How to resist the limp posturing of defeat. I view it as protective lethargy. Don’t get hurt. Somehow this auto immune feature is misinformed. I’d like to stand up to this lethargy and say I’m going to try. Voice be damned. But I’m still in my safe place where I can’t be reached. Under that false ‘Protective Lethargy’.