I have felt a bit artistically frustrated lately. On this path of journal writing, doing what makes me happy, therapy, and self discovery... I can see the horizon my art comes from, growing brighter and different. In fact I know it is.
I see these images in my mind, more organic - free flowing - and adventurous.
Exactly how I feel at the moment.
I can't put my finger on my frustration other than I'm not getting to produce anything that is my own. I have been so busy illustrating a book that I just need it to be completed. I am frustrated because I have so much congesting my everyday that it's not allowing ample creative time - the creative time that I so deeply require.
Here I am doing things intentionally to make myself happy and return to my roots but also letting deadlines and responsibilities take over. Responsibilities are responsibilities for a reason though, and named such because they are things that must be done or need to be taken care of.
And so, I am changing my art into a responsibility.
Something that can't be pushed away because there is something else pressing in.
Knowing that I'm changing, I also know that my inner growth will also alter my work. In fact, not sure what is going to come out, makes me a little nervous I suppose. Afraid what others will think - I worry my new work won't be as quickly accepted. "Oh why is she doing her new work like this? Why change? Why this, or that, or the other thing?". I know how stupid that is, that I shouldn't let fears prevent me from creating what's inside or allow my inner critic to pop up and #$&@ with my head.
All great artists evolve. Their work changes, progresses, and matures. I'm there. I feel it... my artist soul is itchy. This artistic adventure of mine has me tapping the inside of my chrysalis. What color wings will I have? What kind of butterfly will I be?
I shouldn't be typing today, but I can't help it. I have what I call an artist's thumb but you won't find the definition in any dictionary or hear it from the lips of any other artist's (I don't think). When I use it too much, abuse it too much... it reminds me that it is an artist's thumb. It aches straight up into my arm till it reaches the top of my shoulder. It's pretty bad this time, some other fingers have joined in the artist's thumb party and I'm angry at them all. It makes me worry about aging, wondering if some day I won't be able to use my hand at all. I know that's the overly dramatic side of me, but for someone who's whole life comes through her dominant hand... I can't help it.
Today I can't paint. I can't even hold a pen and write... I am using my left hand, and it's like trying to sing backwards. Stupid hand... stupid useless thumb. That's right thumb, I totally just insulted the brain you don't have... take that!
I am my hand... I'm a person of finger bending. My mind must flow from synapses to finger nails. It's how I speak, it's how I feel, it's my very being. So yes... my stubborn self is seeing the doctor next week, I missed two orthopedic appointments... cause I'm a horses @ss some times. As everyone else, I think I know better. My thumb... reminded me I don't.
But enough complaining from me today!
Not looking for sympathy, just dropping my thoughts down the well.
Guess I will do the next best thing and soothe my creative soul...
Being an adult is both gratifying and hard. The even balance of pros and cons that often feel off balanced is a process of life that proceeds through a series of lessons. These lessons either leave you a better more well rounded person, or break you. It's your choice in the end. Your choice, whether you give in to your emotions or whether you raise from the flames like a phoenix. And you can bet when you come back as a bad ass bird cloaked in fire, that nothing will ruffle your feathers again. At least not as much.
Growing up means becoming responsible for yourself, relying either on yourself, or on the shoulder of another - as a pair. Adulthood brings all sorts of big kid situations, decisions, and paths. Your entire life is a journey, and it should be embraced as so. Some things you don't choose, but they happen. Some things happen, and you know they were meant to be... some things occur and you are filled with the greatest most fulfilling joy. This undaunting progression of flying after jumping the nest, opens your eyes to just what you saw your caretakers experience...that you are now experiencing.
When you are a child you are young, dumb, and happy. Experiencing, exploring, and testing the boundaries to see just what you are capable of. It's the chapter where you are your most naive, inexperienced, and new. Like a baby bird you must first be fed and groomed, slowly weaned, then tossed out into open air. First roots - then wings a friend once told me with tears in his eyes. It has always stuck with me, like flies to paper on a farm porch come dusk. I think it will be one of my lessons... letting mine go someday.
Adulthood means you watch those who took care of you decline, age, and weather through their own storms. Most of time all you can be is an ear, a shoulder, and a hug. Family is about support... it is not compared to a tree for no reason. It's not it's many branches that we all dangle our feet off, but a strong deeply rooted foundation that tangles and keeps itself safe from all hard rains, heavy snows, and damaging winds. It's both difficult and eye opening to watch your parents age, your grandparents decline... all the while you are pruning your own wings and shining those of your children. What is life we all ask? It is a map with an X that you must find. There will be boobie traps, rolling boulders, and darts that fly when you least expect them... but I assure you there will be tears of happiness, moments when beauty grasps you by the throat causing your voice to falter, and realizations that completely take it away.
Today I am traveling to see my 90 year old grandmother, a woman who raised me and helped mold this clay into the shape it has formed today. She was always a rock to beat upon, a home to go to, a fairytale story next to my bed. She is in the slow sad decline that is the end. Her mind confused, altered, and more like an unruly child that doesn't listen, than a brain that has learned for 90 years. Watching her change has been less than easy. It often hurts to realize that the relationship I hold on to is no longer there. She knows me better than anyone else (except my husband of course). She can tell if there is something wrong just by looking at my face. My grandmother likes to hold my hand with hers that is as soft as indian silk, feels as fragile as a quilt that has been through the ages.
I know that this is a lesson on my path of self discovery. I know that walking these steps and experiencing whatever is to come will change me for the better as every test I take is returned with a red script A at the top of the paper. Someone recently said I am good at falling down, picking up, and dusting off... digging my heels into the ground and moving forward. I know the things I have been through in my life have given me that ability, and I am thankful for it.
I sit here and think about the circle of life - knowing that I am part of it from so many sides of the prism. I am watching different parts of it through others, and trying to shape the ones of my children. This life is all you have... what will you make of it.
I hear the rain falling outside and I am thankful for it. Knowing there are no errands to run, appointments to make, or school to attend - brings me to a sense of ease that I so badly at the moment. Every day is a steam train where I seem to get on - but never get off. Nights are restless as well and full of sweat.
The washer churns and the dryer it ticks as the drum tosses our sweet scented laundry around - and around - and around. My coffee nearly empty at this wee hour needs a refill as it sits idle in one of my favorite vintage mugs. It is wedgewood blue with a floral pattern hugging the sides. Probably just a 1970's decal but I love it oh so much for it's simple contrast and comfortable handle... even though I'm not a handle holder.
Artistic deadlines loom and right now with everything that is filling my days, art isn't even a pleasure. I know how awful that sounds for art is my life... but when things get overwhelming it's everything that becomes overwhelming. I used to think that I was great at handling stress... but the more I deconstruct my thoughts the more I notice that I am not capable of giving my full attention to more than one thing, at one time. I want to be good at everything, I spread myself as thin as butter across toast... I am a perfectionist in only certain ways and live by the motto "If I'm to do it, it will be done right... it will be done better than right". I don't like to do anything sub-par... so you see when I'm stressed and everything starts to crumble at the edges... so do I. And by stress I don't mean bad stuff (although everyone seems to have a little)... but the cup of life being filled right up to the top and dribbling over the sides and onto the table, that sort of stress. My body fights against it, it wants to shut down... and I become highly irritable, unhinged, and extremely tired. My body says sleep... turn off... decompress... you need it. So I answer the call and sneak it in wherever possible even if it's just closing my eyes and not fully nodding off.
I feel guilty for being un-hinged and snapping at the ones I love. I consciously tell myself not to do it, all throughout the day I say "self, calm down... self, don't"... then I snap, feel guilty, and repeat those words again. The sleep helps, eating helps, a warm cup of coffee and some snuggles on the couch helps. I remind myself that everyone has these days, even a full week of them and that I am not a "bad person", a "bad wife" or "terrible mother"... I know that I am human and must allow myself to handle the stress the way my body wants to. Afterall... it knows what it's doing. It is important to listen to what your body craves... it's guiding you.
This place here where I dump my words is like therapy on a keyboard.
It's my safe place, the space where I can bethe part of the story where the princess removes the pea and sleeps renewingly through the night.
And so, while the transformation ensues here on the blog behind the scenes (pay no attention the the man (woman) behind the curtain... hee hee)... I must write. Not writing is harming me, it's pulling at my strings until the stuffing sticks out. Not writing is like being a teddy bear with loose button eyes... writing is like sewing them up and sewing them back into their position where seeing clearly is much needed.
One day soon you will log in and see that things look different, but the girl who writes here is still the same... just a little braver... a little more open. You will see that this girl is on a journey of self discovery through art and her sweet intrepid words.
I sit here typing to you, eating edemame thinking about spring. How can I not with the newly exposed leaves and spring green that emanates from every inch of outside!? Spring to me is about firsts. There are so many firsts... spring is the beginning of it all and that's exactly why I love and revel in spring so deeply. I used to think summer was my favorite, and when the snow falls I say "this is my favorite!", but no it's spring. You wait so long for it... and anything you pine and wait for is worth it. It's the something that makes your heart pitter patter, thud thud, and boom boom until you can barely contain the sound bouncing around your ear drums. Spring is beginnings.
Spring is the beginning of warmth... bright light through the trees!
It's the beginning of color... after a season of blue, grey, and white... it's a feast for the eyes...
Spring is when children grow just a little more and try out challenges they have never attempted before...
Spring is birth...
And spring is the opportunity to be born again... into something better than before.
One can not explain the connection to a place they may have. Perhaps it's just a love for what's there or the feeling you get when visiting... but I feel in my heart a place you feel connected to means that somehow over time and space... perhaps a past life, you had a reason to love this spot and once again love the same place but without knowing exactly why or how.
For me... this is and has been the Liberty Loop. It's a 2.5 mile walk around a large marsh area (Audubon Reserve), where a plethora of different bird-life resides and flourishes. Egrets, herons, swans, geese, mallards, bald eagles, hawks... and well my list could go on and on of the feathereds to be seen. Turtles... my favorite small aquatic creature perch on mounds of grasses, logs, and rocks. They mull around in depths of water that are just low enough for them to feed and wander... like a toddler in the shallow end of the pool, perfectly delighted to be doing their turtle thing.
I walk this place regularly and feel at peace. My feet take the pace of the beats thumping throughout my ears from my ipod that plays emits bands such as The Paperkites, Xx, and The Staves. This place isn't meant for anything too loud or demanding... it deserves a background set for heartbeats... not drumbeats.
The Liberty Loop changes by the day and season. Not only by scenery but by wildlife. My place is a place for holding hands, walking silently, and smiling at the giggling children running up on geese.
I can think clearly at the Liberty Loop, feel deeply there, and find a rhythm and space that I need to feel what I need to feel. It's a place I try and not answer texts, return emails, or even touch my phone at all unless it's related to changing a song.
Everyone needs a place to go, to feel in, to breathe in... everyone needs that serene banquet of earth and sky and feathers.
Fingering through the pages of an old book, long forgotten and placed on the used book store shelves, it is my intent to bring home these words and transform them into my own. I sit, I snip, I place and rearrange... until the words flow into reflections of my insides turned out.
Poetry flows through my mind and out through my fingers. When I am satisfied I glue them into their final resting place, a natural toned brown journal.
As I sit with my books, I graze my eyes over the the pages looking for phrases, sentences, and single words that stick out only to me. It is my mind, my soul, and my heart that sees the words that are meant for me. I am fascinated with the thought that given the same pages, and someone else, that a whole 'nother set of words and phrases would evolve.
The words are waiting like seeds in the winter, suddenly given light and warmth... another chance to live.
This personal meditation gives me a sense of ease in a body that breathes anxiety. This time of self expression gives me the opportunity to dilute the rush of beating wings inside my chest.
There's is mental relief to be had in the dirt. The release of bottled up emotions just seem to sink out through your feet and back into the earth. The ground is so receiving, malleable, and reliable. I don't pretend to be a master gardener, know every single plant by name (although I do know a ton), or think I can grow every little seed in the Burpee catalouge. What I do know is I need my garden as much as it needs me. That this winter was so long and so cold that it seemed like forever until I could get dirt under my nails and into each crease of each of my palms.
My garden never stays the same from year to year. I'm never patient to just let things grow and tend to themselves. My ADD tendencies need to move, relocate, and dig up what grew in one spot last year but seems oh so much better over here this year. I split the day lillies into smaller mounds and sink them into places that my eye has decided is just right. As I decorate my patches of dirt like I would a piece of bristol board, smoothing the surface and making things to my liking... I envision the growth to come. In my mind I can already smell the peonies and hear the buzzing of bees.
This year another piece of lawn is gone... less to mow right!? HA! Every pleasant and warm day has been spent building blisters on my hands and collecting mosquito bites like girl scout badges. It's a game of connect the dots from my ankles to my neck.
Tis the life of a gardener!
This year I will be taking a more serious approach to vegetable gardening. My husband is making a beautiful raised bed for me and I have already put up chicken wire fencing complete with burgundy green beans that turn green when cooked planted below. I want to have enough vegetables to not only provide for my own family but to give to neighbors and friends. I know that sounds a bit ambitious, but I'm an ambitious kind of girl!
