Neglect begets

Neglect begets

Never-to-be’s stunted spiritual growth in excessive demand by the resentful at the bottom of the stairs.

Mother would say, “Let’s talk about roses,” and send anger scurrying to the too-cluttered corners; I knew that was the cause of all those thorns pricking my ten year-old fingers. Caught in a servitude competition.

This is the communal journey against the lie of history-father, of bitterness.

How do we explain away stealing the voices of angels from children long blinded by the hopeless.

Fractured conversations flap in memories caught in the draft of bitterness; toss the forgotten onto the rainbow grill.

I’m waiting for the pain to grow past the bounds of flesh, to push outside of myself in 3-4 time and keep us drifting out the door. I just keep tripping over my joyous expectations where they crumble in puddles on the floorboards.

Wish I could turn off that missing part being so vigilantly ground in the earth/ glad that I can’t

Angel on the edge of wing-spread.

If your arms are not the part of you that truly embraces who I am, and yet it’s your love that brings the safety needed for peace enough to dream, then why do I crave them so in restful moments?

At the worst moments of any given day thoughts of stained glass, forested hills, and a bite on my flesh can bring joy.

Why do I reflect so often, find myself wondering, what windmill does your mind you tilt at? Who is your Sancho P, is it me, or am I Dulcenea?

Stepping Stones

What an odd and unpredictable journey this is...

I have been so many people over the course of my life, as I know many of us have; in my brash youth I sold paintings on Capital Hill in Denver, ridiculous pieces with no heart. As  I grew older my boredom still settled in easily and I would ramble from one project to another leaving a junkyard of half-finished projects in my wake.  Five years ago I was told the shaking in my hands and sporadic short-term memory issues were due to random damage to the front area of my brain. Now I find it difficult at best to do any fine work, even reading, for long as it triggers double vision, headaches, and increases the muscle spasms.

I find that by 46 I don't miss the rambling spirit, I hold no lingering regrets for the tolerably pretty young woman I used to be, I do not long for the breathless pace I danced through life at. What I do yearn for is the steady hands and tolerance to continue artistic self-expression. Oh how I wish I had finished a few more projects, or even kept more than the one painting; maybe.

Somehow, I allowed the chaos of the last year and a half to become a cocoon, an excuse, to hide from even an attempt at artistry. Probably fear that I no longer had it in my heart. Silly I know. How often do we let ourselves get caught up in all the "I have to's" of life simply as a subconscious protection against potential failure?

It has been a painful week, yet a week of healing and opening. Though I now know that due to a clerical error, and other oddities, my wonderful marriage of ten years cannot be recognized by a court of law as legal- I have spent the week in reflection and embraced the fact that neither a piece of paper or a judge can change the blessing of watching four amazing children grow to be adults that I value and am proud of. None of it can change the time we had together; none of it can change who I am. What it can do is remind me not to put any of life off, ever. Yes, there are things that must be done: the children must be fed, dogs must be walked, bills must be paid. So too, children and dogs must also go to the park and run with abandon, money must be kept for Popsicles and paints, and time to enjoy those things is just as important as the football game or work.

I found the only painting I ever kept for myself and remembered my dear one telling me he loved my brain fractured and all for the ideas hiding in the cracks waiting to come out. So I picked up a brush and dug out the canvas and paints. True I can no longer do the bold smooth strokes I used to, but it keeps me from getting hung up on a satin smooth finish. I am experimenting with textures and strokes. I will never be a famous painter, then again I never wanted to be. I have found that the patience I have now, even if it takes days to finish a single skull or a clutter of stones, is helping me create work I like better than the quick stylized pictures I used to do. Yes, I will keep the old green me on a wall; it serves as an important reminder.

I have been many people over the course of this life so far, and I am certain I will be more before the journey is over. But for today at least, I am no longer afraid of who that is or what I can or cannot do. I am who I am, just as all things happen for a reason. This is my canvas, I am a work in progress...