Tag: joy

the blessing of dreams

i initiated contact.

As with all the false starts and suffering of my life, i am the root cause.  The blame cannot be pushed aside.

Because i wanted to check in, i sent him the message, asking how he was.  What i did not expect was to be confronted by a video of him with a woman i did not recognize barely two weeks after he had left my life.

While i cannot pretend to know the circumstances, i am also glad he has moved on.  The heart demands both: to be celebrating his happiness – that this transition from a place where he felt so alienated to one where he is among family and friends has gone smoothly and well – in addition to the vicious, visceral grief over this loss in my life.

How i love him.

The intensity of my longing left me blind for so many months; when my eyes opened, i had no other choice.  i could not demand from him what he could not give and i could not keep asking myself to sacrifice what i needed.

That sounds so civilized doesn’t it?  Like i am mature and kind.

So why does it feel like glass moves through my arteries to settle down in my toes and fill my feet?  Why does this piercing wail echo within my skin?

i lament whatever it is that seems to make me intolerable. Doubt and fear scream through me. Perhaps i simply cannot be loved?  Am i doomed to lose my friends? Thinking of the tenants upstairs right now fills me with an irrational sense of dread. How did they manage to abide my presence tonight? My partner would have rolled his eyes and been angry at me for overextending. Of course, he would have been able to soothe the physical distress away – but it would have been a chore for him. There would have been sighing and a stern reminder of my transgression. Instead of just dissolving in insecurity, i also would have been corroded by guilt.

They seem to get along with me now but what will i do or say that will drive them away? Will i start coming home to people who would rather avoid me, again? With all the storytelling i have been doing, could i even blame them? What in specific will spark the transformation? Will it be that one joke too much?  That inappropriate comment?  The wrong name or pronoun given voice by the scattered thoughts escaping my mouth? i cannot let my mind wander to the social stresses of work, or i will be trapped in this despair forever.

If i were not this useless person tonight, i would have been praying more fervently, a disciplined outreach to the Divine.  Only, when i am in this kind of state, i feel irredeemable. It does not matter on which sex or shading my anthropomorphism fixates, the Deity could not possibly look upon me with compassion, much less love. i am rapidly descending into the place where all i can articulate is my own worthlessness.  My lover could not love me back. Our entire relationship, in so many ways, boiled down to the rolled eyes of exasperation. My body is unbelievably angry with me.  i am eating like shit, making the whole body hating me conundrum worse. But for the love of heaven, i can only fight so many battles at one time. i am drowning. Even the good things that are happening barely penetrate this veil of suffering.

More than nearly anything, i don’t want to be writing this.  i want to tell you stories of love that work out – that one magical person who can look at me with devotion and joy.  i might wistfully wonder what it would have been like if i could have found that kind of love when i was young. My prodigious imagination cannot quite grasp what it must feel like to look into your beloved’s eyes at nineteen and be certain that you will still be with that person when you are ninety seven.  Or to be that ninety seven year old, still drunk with gratitude for the familiar soul still vibrant inside those same eyes.  What would i have been if i had been cherished?  Would i be on this path, flanked by cement barriers that keep me from deviating, that demands i learn how to warm myself in this vacuum of space, so far from the sun?

While i can still feel my skin, i can tell you it is soft.  The undulations of the body, like waves of the sea, can move with pleasure as much as they constrict with pain.  The harder walking has become, the more i cherish the joys of the senses.  i live for that moment when i am quiet and still, when the pulse in my back becomes a disembodied throb, because i am living within the fingertips hitting the keys or the music pouring through me.

i want to tell you stories about the dreams that flow through my sleep; i want to talk about philosophy and past lives and those moments of connection to the divine. Let me hear you laugh!  Laughter would utterly transform this night of agony.  Help me expand my experience past this skin, so that i can gain courage from the rest of creation.

Only, no one is here to help me shoulder my burdens.

You are a blank page of paper.

All i have to keep me sane – the only form of love available to me – resides in these words.  If i look into my heart, all i will hear is howling.  Somehow, these letters give me gifts that i cannot bestow to myself otherwise.  If word after word tumble out long enough, i start to believe in possibility and joy again.

i cry out to story, the truest of lovers: carry me away from heartache and this terrible throbbing in the back of my head, that travels down my spine until it hits that bubbling pool of lava tucked inside my vertebrae, somewhere behind the belly button that i cannot feel any longer.  Lift me up like i were an infant and hold me fast so that the safety of the embrace overrides all the weeping.

i wonder to whom i write those words.  The divine?  A character in one of my novels? The miracle that is language?

So many people have told me that they are proud of me for breaking up with my lover, just as they were proud of me for pushing aside my heart-song to get a job.  They point to all the ways my life could spring forward now, the freedom that i have gained, that i have proved i can make decisions for myself, the incredible opportunities that, of course, they see on the horizon.

Tonight, i am not proud.  Indeed, i am humbled almost to the point of dissolution.  If i thought it would do any good, i would cry out like Job, bemoaning my fate and demanding answers.  Only, i cannot forget: i am the alpha and omega of my suffering.  i reached out to this man so beloved today and got my just reward – the realization of how far i have to go before i could begin to entertain the possibility of being with someone else.  i chose to give my heart to everyone who broke it.  My ignorance and my cowardice do not minimize my responsibility. i chose to be an artist.  i chose to believe that i am meant to write in poem and story. i chose to get a job rather than take other roads.  Even if i were to abandon everything and fly away, i cannot escape my failings as a human being.

My body has betrayed my ambition, or vice versa, but either way i am in an unenviable position, torn between what must be done and these punitive limits to movement.  The journey that begins when i rise from bed and ends when i can tuck myself back in comes at a cost. In the shower i beg for strength to get through the day; in the darkness, head against cool sheets, i weep from the stress of pain. While i can compartmentalize what is going on in my heart and soul so that i can get through the day at work, i am running my reserves so low that i often cannot even write when i get home. Exhaustion becomes a form of impotency.

Once the pain builds to a crescendo like tonight, the walls of my compartments dissolve.  If i am lucky, i can stop the destruction through art. On the nights when i am too weary to do so, i have to soundlessly endure, making the ability to create Gratitude Prime. The tragedy of this is that i also lack the courage (although tonight it feels like bone crumbling fatigue gets mistaken for fear) to release the offspring of my spirit – whether it be painting or poem or prose – into the world.  Artistic paralysis threatens to become complete.

i wish Love could hold me, so that the warmth of belonging flows into me, and speak the magic words that would make me believe in my mission as a poet, as a writer, as an artist again.  Oh, to believe that this was still my purpose, to believe i have some form of sanction for this calling, this folly, whether it makes money or not.  Spirit, i cry out for miracles that i have already betrayed.  My heart slams around in my chest, its beats defying rhythm, as i think about how deeply i have betrayed my greatest blessings.  So many others would have removed this vocation from my hands, because they would have seen it as an act of mercy.

“Please, stop torturing yourself.”

“We are tired of seeing you bleed with unrequited ambition.”

And yet, here i am.  The rest of me prays for relief while these fingers keep typing.  If i have anything at all, even the most depleted vapors of inspiration, i will hide here.  That way i don’t have to talk any more about this outrageous suffering.

Let me tell you about the characters in my book that just dance through their pages.  They get to be the outlet for grace my limbs cannot manifest.  Hear about the universes i have created – they are rich and weird and have kept me safe inside the sanctuary of distraction and story.  Give me a way to write about the chaos of our times, how everything has turned sideways and is no longer recognizable to me.  Let’s construct lyrical poems about all the things that are still good.

To keep from returning to my complaints, i can go on about how when i am too far gone for complicated plots, i try to dream like a baby would. Strip the pretense of sophistication away.  Remember helplessness.  i can be held in arms, loved and cherished despite not having coordinated limbs.  Listening to the heartbeat of the one so steadfast and strong, i would be drowning in the most simple of loves.  You love me, i love you, there are no strings to that, no demands.  i can feel the arms around me, i can hear that steady rhythm, i can remember what absolute trust that kind of love requires.

That, i swell with ecstasy at the truth of this epiphany, is how i think about the Mother-side of God. i can be safe within those arms, cheek pressed against that warm chest.  It is the heartbeat of creation i hear. i dissolve in the golden light of belonging.

Then i would dispense with poetry for the night, as it requires me to live too deeply in the body.

i do not want to write about that.

Tell me what it feels like within your soul to love and i will confess to you that the hope and strength and a ridiculous capacity to muddle through actually spring from my ability to love not only strangers, but people who have hurt me or failed me or just turned out to be assholes.  In an ecstasy of exhibitionist conversation, i will keep confessing that this resilience and love all feel like madness during nights like this one.  i will weep over how it feels like people are growing more selfish, colder, turning brittle in their certainty.  But with my next breath, i gather up my broken pieces and tell you that miracles can happen and it all might change on a dime. Transformation can sweep up this sad, round little body, all the people i know and love, all those i work with, all that travel these roads i do, everyone in this state, each soul in the country and the world.  Just as i cannot point to one thing and say, This was the moment it all went wrong, i would not be able to say This is the moment everything got better. The change would be too fundamental to remember how it was before.

That uncertainty leaves me smiling.  Indeed it makes the green electric wail screaming up and down my spine seem like a celebration of life. i hurt, ergo i live.  Not to mention, things are changing even within wretched muscle and nerve.  i have been prone for over an hour and i have begun to feel the screaming in my legs finally make it through the lava in my back to my brain.  That settled glass is now sharp and tearing into my feet.  Surely that is a good sign, even if it keeps me from sleeping and brings on fresh tears.

It gives me time to close my eyes and reach out into the worlds that live within my imagination.  So many voices clamor to be given birth.  Stories float by like gifts to be unwrapped.

Perhaps i am more like Job than i thought. During this lifetime, i have lost my family, my husband, the partner that i still ache for, the chance to have children, too many friends, and all delusions that i am anything other than a hot mess.  However, inside the realm of fantasy and dream, i have a mother and a father and, depending on which story i choose, a lover or a husband or a breathtaking contentment in solitude.  There i can dance and sing and run like the wind.  If words fail, i can paint the most amazing pieces against the canvas of my eyelids.  The hands of dreams can sculpt in a way no manual digits could. This is the most intimate art, the sublime shards of blessing, which rises up within me for no reason other than to get me through.

  Job got his health back, his wealth back, a new wife, and better children to replace those he had lost – although i imagine the way it was all taken away left a permanent scar.  Either way, God’s favor shone on him again because his faith never wavered.

While these words are wet with tears, i cannot hurl my rage at the Divine.  i am too aware of my culpability, my free will to screw up.  And, before, i have had miracles but lacked the internal fortitude to build my future upon them.  So, i have to look at these lines, begun in a moment of excruciating rawness, as the blessing.  They are enough for they have transformed me from a babbling, self-pitying fool into an inert pile of gratitude.

i am learning more every day how to give what i have lost to myself.  Granted, the configurations of love will not be the typical ones, certain opportunities have been lost. If the scars never go away, i have at least learned how to embrace them. Joy, depth of experience and appreciation for every breath weave their way through my days, even if they have to move underneath a veil of darkness.  Letters drop like rain, eventually becoming an ocean of comforts that will be unique to this particular, peculiar experiment in humanity.

All i need to do is make art a rope to pull me out of my suffering, give thanks for what i have been given, and release myself into dreams.

overwhelm


Apparently, this is the third time that i have written a blog that is entitled overwhelm.
i am not in the least bit shocked, as the problem recurs with some frequency.  Lately, it is made worse because of a necessary change of focus.

After nearly twenty years working as an artist and writer (although for many of them i did not have to be obsessed with making my own living) and eight working myself down to a nub running my own business, i have been holding down a regular job since last June.

That sentence still sounds surreal.  Art, i used to say, is all i am good for.  Well, it is certainly my passion and vocation, but i have discovered that i can develop other skills and learn huge amounts of information in a short period of time.  i feel an odd pride in being resilient enough to make such a fundamental change to how my life is structured.  However, a tension has developed by these two opposing forces – creativity and the need to survive – and this has lead to a new kind of overwhelm.

The longer i work at this job, and the more i enjoy it, the worse the struggle between the artistic and practical sides of my psyche grows. i work eight or ten hours to come home too exhausted to write or paint or sculpt or throw.  Indeed, my health has not been terribly good, so i have to proceed with caution. All the sick time has been used up.  This constant fatigue and struggle makes me feel like less of an artist – even though, by any reasonable standard, i am still producing a decent amount of art and verse.  Logic be damned, though, my confidence is deeply compromised.  i have become excruciatingly vulnerable to criticisms.

Suggest that i am not the artist i thought i was, and i will hang my head in shame.  Maybe i am not.  After all, i have found some unexpected delights in this job. Would a real artist have been utterly inconsolable?  Unable to find joy in other accomplishments?

she has no message, because i could not go

When my writing is dismissed as irrelevant or harmful because it deals with heavy issues and are not always sparkling with wit, i hang my head and agree.  This is not work about trivisl things.  Very few poems involve wine or puppies or butterflies.  My overriding fascination as an artist – both in visual and written mediums – is the inner workings of the soul.  What happens beneath the skin, in this soup of perception, knowledge, bias, inspiration, reaction and emotion, has been the platform from which my creativity launched.

There was a time i could swim in an ocean of story without being worried about the anything else.  i can barely remember it. Given the insanity that this country (and world) is facing right now, i feel particularly hoxed.  Not only has the wild river of art that flooded from me slowed to a tiny, warbling brook, other tasks of major importance have to be put off.  i have had to learn to say no, especially to my own desires. Last weekend, kept drawing protesters, mostly because i was too exhausted and sick to go protesting myself.

Curled up under covers, i remembered fondly attending George Mason University in the late 80s, early 90s, and going to many protests in DC.  Getting involved stokes potent hope.

Yet, i have to protect this body (as well as my mental health) first and foremost, because when i am unable both the job and the calling screech to a halt.

Too often, i find myself lamenting the art-obsessed life i used to have like one would a lover.  Oh, i remember being in the arms of flow, being ready to pick up a pen at any moment. At the same time, i am proud that no matter what has been going on with anxiety, or my health, or my bills, or that nagging cloud of despair i haven’t been able to shake since i was a child, i am surviving, working the full day, and letting poetry and sketches leak out.  Some weekends, in a burst of joy, i throw myself into larger works.

i am still an artist.  My sanity continues to be maintained by the written word and the thin ribbons of ink that pour from my pen.

But, this overwhelm brought me low and made me hide.  Forgive me for my absence.  Pardon me for the awkwardness of this writing.  i am still a bit wobbly in my feet.  Ignore the loud laughter and thanksgivings, because i am just so ridiculously grateful i made it this far.

 

 

gratitude

This morning, i awoke drenched in gratitude and joy. When the sun comes out, after so long in the torrential rain, it feels like a blessing beyond measure. This is what is happening with my life.

Too often, i have complained in this blog. In many ways, the last eighteen months had been a tail of woe – told in minor keys while my voice was hoarse with desperation. Now, i am filled with hope and such big dreams. i am adapting well to this life of regular employment. Even better, i am enjoying it. My art, thankfully, keeps pouring out of me. Yesterday afternoon was drenched in love, poetry and drawing. The one i love is once again close enough to touch; the starvation of affection is being sated. Even my face seems to be relaxing from the terrible pain it had been in. A solid three quarters of my face can smile now.

Usually i hoard these moments of joy to myself – choosing to throw myself into them rather than write them down on paper. i am often without moderation or restraint, fully imbibing happiness when it comes. The purging process of writing usually centers around sorrow and stress, not the delicacies of joy and gratitude. Oh, but, this time, i feel compelled to give thanks out loud and in song. That life can transform, even when there are still so many problems and stresses, is a blessing of the highest order. With greater success, i am able to choose in the moment what i want to be: joyous or anxious. Granted, there are still a lot of times when i fall down, but the shifts i celebrate in these words are as much internal as external.

So, today, even with my eye tearing, and my lips still frozen, i am swimming in an ocean of gratitude. Everything was worth it, to bring me this moment of satisfaction and contentment. With every moment, i am growing, deepening and swimming in love.

poem: a smile

i wish i could smile
in that particular way
that always ends
with my shamefully
thunderous laugh.

A delightful fire
curled my lips like smoke –
burning away the damp,
desperate
corners
of my awareness.

Even if this respite
only lasted
for that one
explosive
heartbeat,
oh,
it could still save
the broken shards
of my life,
filling
their jagged edges
with light.

Laughter,
smiling…
all day i have lamented
the problems with my eye,
and begged
for that vision
to be restored –
but
as i lay down,
weary and worn,
i find myself wistful,
longing
for a smile
that would slowly
take over this dour mood
until nothing was left
but the joy.

16 July 2016

on happiness…

angelkissesWhen i was very young, struggling with depression beyond my youthful comprehension, i can remember my mother fussing at me.  “You were such a happy baby!  So joyous! You could be fed last and still be happy as a clam.  You were always smiling!  What did you do to yourself?”

At the time, those were hard words to hear, they made me see my sorrow as a character flaw, but during the past few weeks, i have been remembering her admonition and wondering about it.

i have a job.  Soon, it will even start paying me. To sweeten the deal, i get to work with amazing, hilarious, brilliant people. Even though the financial hole i am in is deep and steep-sided, i can start bailing myself out by the middle of July.  Most important of all, i am feeling better. My endurance is better, my body feels stronger, this endless stream of work – which has become something of an unwitting summer ritual for me –  has not yet worn me down.  Most of all, i am being careful to treat myself with kindness and care – if i come home from work exhausted, everything but rest falls away.  i am transitioning from an intense night owl to waking up when i used to go to sleep, and that requires some soft adjustments.  However, there are glorious benefits.  i get to see the sun!  When i wake up without the crushing pain that had dogged me for so many years, i find myself in tears of gratitude.

Miraculously, with my burdens eased, i find myself content.  Peacefully happy.  Granted, there are moments when i panic; anxiety can still make me her plaything. Despair – particularly after reading the news or working on my bills – can attack me and pin me down.  However, i rediscover joy so much faster.  Deep within, this feels like i am returning to exactly that state my mother used to describe – the one who was smiling, entertaining herself, ebullient without reason.  My loud, rowdy laugh bursts out even more frequently than it did before.  And my art, when i can make it, makes that grin even broader.

All i can do is be thankful, and keep treating myself as i would my beloved: with kindness, forgiveness, understanding and gentleness.  My reward for such compassion, it appears, is a return to joy.

 

–written 26 June 2016–

 

poem: sunlight warms me

Sunlight warms me
until my resistance
melts away.

i am enough
in this moment.

After years of resistance
all struggle dissolves.

My spirit has found
some lovely courage,
tucked inside a box,
hidden in the quiet corners
within my skin.

It tastes sweet;
it fills me
with hope.

For days,
a broken heart
kept me
from putting
pen to page –
but grief and brokenness
have had their time.

i am smiling,
ready to shine,
filled with the promise
of better days.

10 april 2016

a month

13411862_10208363446235263_2117676587360267764_oIt has been a just over four weeks since everything changed.

Honestly the transformation started nearly eighteen months ago, sped up considerably this time last year, but the past four weeks have accelerated the process to the speed of light.

As i write, i have a job, one that requires 40 hours a week and will pay me regularly, and for that i am on my knees with gratitude. The stress of trying to make it solely through art, alone, with my health suffering for so long, was intolerable. i was breaking down.  It made my art – especially my writing – suffer.

For most of this job search, i was afraid on so many different levels.  i am an artist, an acquired taste, a round ball of strange.  To find a place that can tolerate all that – and the terrible staggering awkwardness that my body often adopts instead of graceful movement – is fantastic.

But this is a blog about the business of art.  And, thankfully, that business continues.  In one month, i have written (and typed in) a notebook full of poetry, done more drawings that i can remember, finished writing a novel, and begun working on a short story that amuses me more than i can express.  i have never written from the POV of a planet before.

Today, as i gallery sit in Southwest Harbor, i feel more centered in my calling than i have since Darwin the dog died.  Going into my studio has been hard, and something for which i have had very little time.  13483087_10208363947087784_3077929633202552197_oAs soon as i could throw again after surgery, my kiln died, so the pottery side of everything has been stalled rather horribly.  i await a paycheck or art sales to get new elements and relays, and then, i will be back up and running after this year and a half long stream of catastrophe.

i imagine i will release a deep sigh as that first kiln begins to click and heat up.  This will be the physical proof of my breaking out of this confining suffering and into a new, (glorious!) stage of life.

Indeed, it gets even better: sometime in early August, i will be teaming up with another artist and potter. He is phenomenally gifted and i am truly honored he wants to work with me. This is an endless source of personal delight, but will alter the flow of my life (and creativity) again.  This change could not be more welcome; it will be wonderful to have the studio being used more frequently. i cannot wait to see what art pours out of its doors.

Honestly, i have begun to realize that this recent journey through the darkness has given me wonderful gifts.  Somewhere underneath all the poetry and daydreams, there lies a core of tempered steel.  It can flex and move without breaking. As long as i remember that this resilience resides inside my core, especially during moments of overwhelm and despair, i think i will be able to survive.13490800_10208368963573193_3510292570587586590_o

Also, i needed to prove to myself, and maybe to the source from which my art flows, that i can actually do the hard work of life.  i have been scared and anxious for so long – to have fate force me up into a standing position, to demand such sacrifice from me, was deeply uncomfortable. Yet, i am standing.  i am slowly, haltingly, moving forward as an artist and as a woman.

Running this business for so long, alone, had left my confidence gutted.  i did not have all the skills that i needed to be successful.  This is not a whine, this is simple truth. i have grown too tired of self-recrimination to give myself a hard time over this anymore.  We all have our abilities, our talents, and i cannot keep hating the fact that there are aspects to running a business – especially finances and marketing – to which i am not equal.

Also, perhaps, i have grown a bit wiser – not many people can survive flawlessly alone.  Why would i think that i am any different?  The condition of lonely solitude had gone on for so long, i forgot that i could reach out and ask for help.  Now, i know i can.  There will be hands to catch me.

So, today, i am simply grateful. i had a wonderful dog, i have had all these years where i was married to making art.  My body is tired but functioning; my mind, likewise.  And here i am, once more, handing poetry and art to you in my open hands.

 

 

poem: dancing joy

Joy
ran off
like an unfaithful wife.

She giggled
and in her swirling skirts
started dancing
with others.

i couldn’t even be jealous.

It is how she is.

Better to have
a sliver of her kindness
than none at all.

Before,
eventually,
i won her back,
but this time
none
of my awkward swaying
has seduced her.

She refuses to move
into my arms.

So i wait.

i sing songs
while she twirls
with indescribable
beauty and grace
around others,
and i remember
the glorious miracle
of her fingertips
and her laugh.

14 may 2016

the face i dare not show

Again, today, i heard something familiar.  When discussing anxiety and the trouble it can cause, the person i was talking to smiled brightly and said, “Yeah, you say you have anxiety, but you always look so cheerful and confident to me.  I don’t think it’s real.”

At first i felt frustrated.  Her image of me spits in the face of the reality i know.  Then i realized, to her experience of me, she must feel fully justified in her opinion.  There are faces i dare not show.  She only sees me on my best, bravest days.  For, thank heavens, i have days were i can walk through the world unhampered. Whether it be from medication or a sense of duty or just a miracle from the divine, i get these gifts of days when i am useful and reliable. Responsibilities have always had enough power over me to push me past fear and worry – only, i tend to fall apart when i get home, once the adrenaline wears off.

Yet, on the highest anxiety day, no one will ever see how fear and self-loathing can cripple me, because i will be hiding behind locked doors with the computer and the phone off.  Pain feeds the anxiety, and they will amp each other up over the course of time until i am rendered impotent. If you come to check on me during one of those spells, and knock on the door without my expecting it, i will hide in the bed, or crawl into the tub where no one peering in a window can see me, utterly terrified.

On the next step up, i might interface with you through social media or text or email, but i cannot get past my fears to pick up the ringing phone.  i stare at it in mild horror as it bleats for attention. It jars the fragile zen i can maintain while alone. Those moments are what caller ID and voicemail were made for.

Those days, i meditate for hours to keep myself calm.

Most of the time, i feel like an overfilled apple cart, one more apple and the whole thing will fall apart. My wheels will roll off in opposite directions, the structure of my being will collapse into a thousand pieces, fruit flying everywhere.  Worst of all, that new apple could come from anywhere.  Someone asks me to do a job, and i don’t feel like i can say no and i am suddenly (more) overwhelmed.  Another medical bill comes to me, that i cannot pay, because i am still limited in how i can make money.  A lot of days, i cannot check the mail.  The thought of it makes me start to tremble with angst.

The worse it gets, the more impossible it is to reach out for help, because people can be too helpful trying to solve my problems, as though anxiety means i cannot know what will work for me.  For every useful piece of advice, i have also had my heart broken.  What if i unburden my anxiety and someone uses that as opening to stoke my greatest fears (thank heavens you can’t make art so much any more, it was really awful) or my most tremendous guilts (Is that why this paperwork isn’t done?  What do you do with your days?) and the whole rickety construction of coping disintegrates?

Even worse, what if i do ask for help and then i am too needy, i keep talking too long, my need for a sense of belonging or compassion overriding my common sense? When i am in great pain, i distract myself by talking – it uses up so much less focus than listening. i am aware that i am listening too little and talking too much just like i am aware inside a dream.  Seeing that look of boredom or imposition on someone else’s face in response to my yammering can wreck me too.  i do not want to be the one who complains all the time, one of those people who see doom in every moment and cannot begin to have a positive thought or feeling.

For the anxiety, the depression, always live in tension with the joy i get from making art, the love that i feel for my friends, the multitude of blessings that i freely admit exist in this life of stress.

There are those tremendous days when i can move mountains. Thanksgivings pour from my throat until i am hoarse. And, there are the terrible days when no one sees me because i am hiding in a dark house, too afraid of everything to turn on a light.

It’s both.  Most of the time, i am in some kind of middle space – not moving mountains but not paralyzed either – and there’s no magical solution.  Progress can be excruciatingly slow, but inching forward nonetheless.  If i can work, i do.  If something urgent needs to be done, i can often put on the big girl pants, despite the chafing, and get it finished.  Often i am better at a regular job than my own art, because i am less invested in the ultimate outcome.  There are clear rules and procedures that help guide me. i can be glib and funny and am expert at hiding my pain.

So, with me and, i imagine, with many others who have anxiety and depression: what you are seeing is the best of us.  The worst is reserved for my cats, my dog, the two or three people closest to me, and those moments of solitude when suffering echoes around inside my own skull.

 

shifting heartbeat

A quick moment of joyous celebration!

My taxes are all but done, all the background work done, ready to be filed tonight.  Slowly, i must be becoming an adult, because i actually did it this year without tears or weeping or too much of a desire to drink.

Responses are coming in to the 30 resumes/job applications that i sent out over the past week.  Now, obviously, none of this guarantees me a job, but still it is delightful to experience forward movement. Plus, after this long year of debilitating ill health, to feel strong and able enough to have a regular job feels like a treat in itself.

It’s odd how things turn, how heartbeats shift.  For so long, i had looked at a ‘job’ that wasn’t making art as a defeat, suddenly it is a blessing of the highest order.  i know i will continue to make art, and to write, but being able to pay my bills would be a major boon.

Best of all, for this is where my soul resides, i have been drawing and writing again.  The current story enchants me, the ones that have been stalled for the past year have begun to invade my dreams and thoughts again.

Several times, I have gushed my gratitude at friends saying, “i feel like i’m becoming myself again.”  However, the miracle goes even deeper.  The whole character of the world changed while i was down – it became a place of tremendous kindness and love – and now, i am able to put my weight on those blessings.  i am walking on different ground.  Oh, how that makes me sing, and laugh, and dance as much as these hips allow.

After the taxes are totally finished tonight, i will paint.  i already have the canvas on the easel, waiting for all my stuff done.