Tag: strength

naked truth

For weeks, i have searched for a way to talk about this through fiction, because i did not want to dwell upon my personal experience more than i already have.  However, telling the truth is what i do best.  And, to be honest, part of the problem is that i do not want to ask for help.  i do not want to talk about what i cannot do alone.

The first person to mention the near impossibility of the situation i was creating for myself was my primary care doctor, just after my divorce.  “Without doubt, you qualify,” she assured me, “with the PTSD alone.” The physical problems – asthma, thyroid disease, diabetes, fibromyalgia (or whatever that diagnosis would be now), the back and hip problems – they would all be gravy.  She all but begged me to accept that I needed to apply for Social Security Disability.

Only, the statement strung me up between two different agonies.  i need to work, for i cannot quite give myself quarter for any suffering – mental, emotional, or physical – but simultaneously, i feel like i am dying by inches, pushing myself too hard.

Regardless of my bull-headed stubbornness, i am drowning financially.  Even though i am working as hard as body and mind are able, i quite literally cannot make ends meet.

This is not a new story, unfortunately.  Nor is it unique to myself.

Over $20,000 of medical debt hangs around my neck like a noose.  This is the aggregate due from years of issues: two major surgeries, a hospitalization, three trips to the ER, two ambulance rides, not to mention every deductible, copay, and uncovered medication. Add to that the small business loan that i got when things were going ridiculously well, that now feels like cement boots.  This past month, in order to pay them, even partially, i had to forgo food, gas money and put off the mortgage for about two weeks. If you want to make me cry, lets talk mortgages.  i finally got it refinanced, but now, eight months later, i will be two weeks late.  The angry letters have already started. Not only am i at a loss for utilities and the cats’ vet bills, i have no idea how to buy the medicines i need to treat the aforementioned diabetes, thyroid disease and despair.

Last night, i wept because the list of things i have bought recently would not stop going through my mind.  i purchased a lawnmower because the grass was as high as my nipples.  My car needed new breaks, because stopping can be a good thing. Then i got $12 of new shoes so that I would have something other than the $5 flip flops to wear to work.  For my birthday, i bought a $28 pair of wireless headphone so my constant need for music would not drive my new tenants to madness.  When i got a promotion at work, two days after my birthday, i celebrated by going out to eat.  Let me tell you, guilt is a terrible seasoning.

For a solid year, i have focused on the regular job that makes reliable money, but its paychecks cover the mortgage, the small business loan and maybe my car payments.  All other responsibilities make me seem like a deadbeat.  Only by the time i am done working this job and making some art, i am exhausted beyond all measure.  Things like selling art have languished.  Too many paintings and drawings are collecting dust.

When i first heard the word foreclosure – only to find out that the mortgage company with whom i had been working for months had sold my mortgage – i reached out to a mortgage specialist.  It was my first day in the studio after having shoulder surgery, and i was still unable to bend because i was awaiting a hysterectomy.  The pain i faced was intense.

“You have done everything right,”  he said gently, “I am looking at how you paid everything off until the medical bills began to pile up…”

i am still digging out.  This month, i am short.  Something will not be paid and i have no clue how i will get the cats’ vetted, my medication purchased or food bought.  Meanwhile, i continue to get messages from clients who have not paid me, asking me if these long standing health issues have vanished so that i can do more work for free. This perception that art or design is not work worthy of being paid for, or that the artist is not worthy of being recompensed for their effort, devastates.  If you value what i do, if you like my art, then this is the time to let me know.

A $100 would pay a bill.  After that, it would be a war within my heart over feeding and maintaining my animals and myself and paying other bills.  The past three years have been, quite literally, hand to mouth.  Desperation has made me put art up for sale again, despite the exhaustion and overwhelm, and with that i hope to at least get the cats to the vet.

However, i bleed over my financial failings.  To a large degree, it feels like i bet on myself and lost – but i knew before i started working as an artist professionally that my health was compromised. Only the call to make art is something fundamental to me, it cannot be denied.  i feel shame that i fell into such disability that i was unable to continue my business’ growth. This fuels my determination to make good on every debt.  Even if i am still making tiny installments when i am ninety, i will pay everyone, even the ones to whom repayment has not begun.  i tell myself – ceaselessly, hoping the repetition will hypnotize me into believing it is true – that things will get better.

Still, i never forget, i am the person who is reviled by those who talk about the poor like we are pariahs.  i have been utterly undone – more than once – because if ill health.  Even now, living paycheck to paycheck, the struggle to maintain this level of activity is punitive. Daily i am faced with the choice between taking care of my health and fulfilling the responsibilities placed upon me. Even making art or writing a poem comes at a cost, wearing me down further.

How else can i live, though?

Being able to work feels like a privilege – and one too many have thought i could not manage.  My friends who are on disability are much braver than i am, able to move down a path i could not.  Unfortunately, i know, someday i may have to follow them despite my best efforts, but for now i am doing every dance i can to keep myself from that excruciating choice.

Whether i like it or not, i have to spend money on food, gas, car and house repair and medicine.  Therefore, i have to burn the candle at every possible point, throwing my work out into this world, no matter how exhausted i am.  Even if i were content to make art in a vacuum, which i am not, i am not going to be able to survive without more income.

So, here i am.

For once i am being utterly transparent about my movies and situation: i need your help if i am going to keep going as a human being, much less as an artist.  Your support will keep my animals and me alive.  If you buy a painting, or a drawing, it clears space for another to come into being.

And, if you are in the same position i am financially, i will be grateful if all you do is share this story, spread word about my art, and use both to build compassion for those of who us toil on fulfilling our dreams and who work our hearts out to live on the razor’s edge between triumph and dissolution.

 

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For a few hours yesterday, i published this blog.  However, i woke up after a night of howling nightmares and put it back into draft mode. The dreams kept going back and forth over the same ground – my subconscious pacing – obsessed with the one thing that i had forgotten to mention.  This blog talks about how troubles that i face came to be and how i have to ground my hopes in art again which can only be done with your help. Talking about the naked truth of my current situation made me feel exposed, more than all the poetry that i have written combined.  Yet the thing that my dreaming kept reminding me of was that i should not be alive.  During the past few years of struggle with agony and illness, i have tried to kill myself twice.  Haunting despair crumbled my heart more than i could describe. It has been because of friendships, unexpected blessings and hard work that i am still here.  i have a job that gets me most of the way to solvency and for now, my health lets me manage it, even if the margin is narrow at times.  i have friends that are unbelievably good and slowly i am coming to terms with who i am at this moment, and beginning to appreciate this hot mess of being.

So, yes, I am asking for help, for understanding, for a sense that i am not howling into the darkness – but i need to leave this writing by telling you that i am so grateful to have made it this far.

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.

poem: Love left me

Love left me
undone.

Everything deconstructed,
all the was left
were random patterns
of cells
and electricity.

But, then,
Love returned
in an entirely new guise,
flying
on brilliant wings.

Kindly,
Love
helped me
rebuild,
using whatever we found,
all we had at hand.
Like magpies,
we incorporated
the impractical and shiny,
along with the clay,
wood
and steel.

Still, something broke
that could not be fixed,
a matter of perspective,
an understanding
of irrelevance.
Every illusion
of control
shattered
beyond repair.

This hodgepodge
of being
Love and i created
laughs
and weeps,
following the tides
of time
and sensation.

Unmoored, bobbing about
without a rudder,
yet this movement
does not seem aimless,
or perhaps
these perceived patterns
of incremental progress
are the final fiction.

7 may 2016

poem: the gift of strength

As the sun rose
over a sea of discontent,
the only comforting thought
was that death
might come soon.

i hung my head,
surrendering
to this dejection.

Once i stopped resisting,
i drowned within
the darkest waters
of grief and loss.

Then, the miracles began.

Kindness,
love,
help,
kept flowing to me
from the universe
from those i love.

Over an hour
life turned around.
My arms flung themselves open
rather than hold fast
the doors of my life
against catastrophe.

i had been given
the strength
to keep living.

5 may 2016

poem: shut up

“SHUT UP!”
i can still see her face,
“NO ONE CARES!
YOU ARE A SHITTY ARTIST!
A FOOL IN YOUR SUFFERING!”

The words echo
in the empty room
and i realize:
i don’t care.

Even if they are true,
these brackish, foul waters
taste sweet to me.

They sustain my life.

They give me what i need
to move forward.

Indeed,
the realization
that i can no longer
live for this art alone
fills me with more passion –
more driving, whipping need
to get these words onto paper
and fortify my soul.

So say what you want.

It can’t hurt me more
than losing art.

21 april 2016

poem: love in stillness

This love
dwells
in the stillness.

In the quiet places
it grows strong
and resilient,
able to bend,
flex,
and still maintain
glorious shape and form.

i exist
in this still silence.

i wade in an ocean
impossibly deep
but warm as bath water.

i am becoming
able
or, at least,
capable
of imagining
fierce confidence
and action.

i have begun
to grow flight feathers
on theses stunted,
stripped
wings.

i have started to feel
the wind
lifting me up.

31 october 2015

poem: what drawings teach

They always have open arms.

i am the one
who has resisted –
keeping myself
from welcoming
every moment
with pure joy
or patient acceptance.

i have learned my lesson.

Come to me,
and i will embrace you.
i will find some purpose
to this dance
in which you lead me.

My heart
has survived
so much –
surely
that means
i can be
as open,
as willing,
and as generous
with bliss
and gratitude
as these figures i draw.

i render myself
within their curves
and smiles.

My eyes learn
fearlessness
from their gaze.

Art becomes reality
in small, hesitant steps,
a little more shading and nuance
added to the bare bones
every day.

If i can create beauty
and strength
on the page,
then what will i be able to do
with the plastic material of life.

18 november 2015

poem: like a fragile flower

Like a fragile flower
i am vulnerable to extremes.

Too hot,
too cold,
too hard,
too soft,
any deficit or surplus
can destroy the leaves,
the stem,
the petals.

My roots
do not travel down
far enough
to make much difference –
the wind can still
carry me off.

This is a path covered
with sharp,
unforgiving rocks
and i have no shoes.

Thus, i walk carefully,
with gentle slowness,
ever deepening my awareness
of where i am
right
now.

What do i need in this moment?

To remember
that for all my delicate fibers
i am stronger than i think.

What do i need in this instant?

To listen –
i bend to the whispers
of body and soul.

17 november 2015

on dead mice and personal growth

One of my cats – I suspect Martin – has finally learned how to smite a mouse.  IMG_1225I discovered this yesterday morning, while staggering through the house to get ready for a day in a gallery.

This is particularly exciting for him, because Martin is not necessarily the strongest candidate for cat-mensa I have ever known.  He is, however, beautiful. Ridiculously so. That gets him through a lot.  Also, he sweet and very loving if he trusts you.  You’ll have to take my word on that last statement, since I appear to be the only person he trusts (enough to put ribbons on his head!)

At any rate, I found an entire mouse family that had been brutally shoved across the rainbow bridge.  When I happened upon the scene, Roxi the cat was poking the distorted corpses with a look of horror on her face while Martin ran over to me, started rubbing up against me, purring, awe-inspiring joy beaming up at me through those slightly vacuous golden eyes.

Prime suspect number one.

He does so love the toys that move on their own.

And now for the personal growth part.  Rodent removal has been in every lease I have ever set up as my tenant’s job, but right now I have no renter… so, I had to step up.

He is so proud, beaming down from heaven.
He is so proud, beaming down from heaven.

In previous experiences with such things, my phobias made me dress like I was about to walk on the moon.  I used a broom or long-handled tongs, gloves, glasses, a coat, etc.  This time, even though my aversion was no less strong and I kept apologizing to the wee victims of Martin’s glee, I was able to use the shoveler for my wood stove and a stick – carry them out without protective gear, and put them in the graveyard of dead things (which has not seen a lot of use since my cat Andre the Giant Cat died.)

Necessity, it appears, is the mother of transformation as well as other things.  As I flung the corpses, I thought about how much this actually means – I have conquered a lot of my fears, big and small, and keep making progress on those that stick around.  For the past two weeks, I have been a mess of stress and anxiety, barely able to function, praying that if I can’t feel better at least I’ll learn to fake it more convincingly.  With all my might, I’ve been trying to ooze pain quietly, without the loud and lusty complaints that usually accompany such downturns.  In that kind of distant, observational way in which I notice change in myself, I saw the ability to remove the mice despite my horror and fear as a sign of personal growth.  I am still improving my ability to walk through the world, traveling through both its good parts and its disgusting parts.  Oddly, since I was shaking with the power of the “eeeewww,” I realized the task was vaguely empowering.  I could actually do it, after all, without tears or a full body suit.

Yesterday, after I got to the gallery, the sense of empowerment persisted.  I sent out sixty-one post cards to promote my art. My good mood lasted until this morning, when I awoke from nightmares feeling utterly hopeless.  Like a zombie, motivated not so much by need as an inability to figure out what else to do, I started going through the list of things waiting for my attention: including writing a blog about rodent removal and personal growth.

And, like magic, writing this has made life better.  Halfway through the blog, I felt brave enough to place an ad about the rental. I think I might actually have enough strength now to deliver pottery and run errands before the torrential rains come.

I keep looking for solutions to my loneliness, to my fear, to this outrageous, crippling sense of vulnerability.  Perhaps the only way to really see any progress with such things is to focus on the tiny, small improvements: personal growth, one mouse at a time.

Dismissed at a cooperative

Well, today’s blog was just handed to me. A woman came in, wanting to apply to this cooperative next year.  I told her how the jurying in process went for me last year, then began searching for some applications (telling her that I didn’t fill out mine until the day of jurying.)  While I went through a binder of paperwork, she waved her hand in my general direction and proudly told her friend (as though I weren’t standing right there, binder in hand) that I had to be a consignor or somethingtimchin_may2014_0044Her tone was so dismissive, as though my being a full time artist, or a member of this cooperative, could not be remotely possible.  She judged me solely my physical appearance – and seemed absolutely shocked when I asked why she would say that.

She became flustered, stammering, “Well, I don’t know anything about cooperatives.” However, she admitted to being in one a few moments later, using the information to cut me off when I tried to explain our levels of membership and consignorship.  She kept talking about me to her friend as though I were deaf or stupid.  It wasn’t until much later that she thought to ask what I make and how my sales have been.  To the latter, I answered honestly, even though it made her seem even more dismissive.  I wonder if my lack of sales at this particular venue made her comments throw me a little more than they would normally.  Just like I wondered if she would have treated me more like an equal, raised her eyebrows with a little less sadness, if the printer had not jammed while her receipt came out?

But, what surprised me most is that I called her on her assumptions.  Instead of just sitting here, wondering why she thought to define me so completely, I asked her why she spoke those words.  Rather than worry that I might look unprofessional in my dress and jacket, or that she is judging me because I am as round and soft as one of my Buddhas, or because I had days worth of sales receipts spooled out in front of me when she arrived, trying to update the calendar with neglected sales totals, I asked her why, specifically, she insisted I couldn’t be a member.

There is nothing wrong with being a consignor. In retrospect, that would have been the much smarter choice for me this year, but what, in specific, screamed to her that I could not possibly be a member here?  I never did get an answer, just an increasingly awkward social interaction.

Her work is awesome, I have seen it at the aforementioned other cooperative.  I sincerely hope she gets juried in.  Having her work here will be good for the store.

And, I am oddly thankful to her.  She taught me something about myself this morning.  Even with all the meditation and the prayer, I have grown impatient with people who prejudge me. Like Harlan Ellison, I cannot stand being laughed at.  Countless flaws dwell within me, I know, but I am not a bad artist, nor am I unprofessional, nor am I lazy, nor am I dimwitted.  I do not deserve being made fun of nor dismissed out of hand.  Thankfully, I no longer suffer foolishness lightly – particularly when I am the fool – and I am apparently willing to challenge it when it wanders out of someone else’s mouth.  dishes

So, I’m not as nice as I was yesterday, but I have discovered that when I broke down and asked her why she judged me lacking, she could neither define or defend her assessment.  All she managed was that short dishonest stammer.  After they left, and I fixed the register’s printer, I stood in front of my art for a minute.  I reminded myself that each piece was made with my two hands.  The serve as proof of my joy, strength and courage.  Even if my dress and jacket look bad, or my hair is curling more wildly than usual, or the random blemishes on my face deny my 44 years on this earth, or my focus on the missing sales totals made me seem less effervescent than usual, I am still a good potter and have art coming out of me, in tiny beads of word and image, like some kind of blessed sweat.