Synchronisity Rocks

I love when the Universe throws random shit together and plunks me down in the middle of it.  It’s kinda what I live for.  Here’s the deal:

A few weeks ago, when I had nothing new to bitch about with my therapist, she said, “Let’s play a game.”  Since she works mostly with kids and teenagers, she’s used to sullen silence and keeps a cupboard full of games to sneak in a client’s back door.  She apologized for not having anything for adults, but we found a box of questions (does anyone remember The Ungame?) and took turns asking each other get-to-know-you questions.  It was fun and definitely perked me up.

I remembered I saved some art journal prompts out of my magazines and took those the next week to see if they might be appropriate for an adult version of the Question Game.  Sonya loved them, so I asked if I could make a game for her.

I tend to make things for my caregivers.  They give me so much, and I love making something that I can pour all that appreciation into in a healthy, non-creepy, all-boundaries-intact way.

So I dug around in my stash and pulled out a full box of Pictionary cards that were the perfect size.  I gathered the prompts from all my books and magazines, then went to Pinterest to find a gazillion more.

Meanwhile, I’d been thinking about finding rocks to paint for my little garden.  At Lowe’s I found Egg Rocks (perfect), then wandered the store a bit.  Searching for masking tape, I stopped in front of the paint sample display.  I’d always wanted to try using paint chips in my collage work somehow, seen how other artists had done cool things with them, so I grabbed up one of each and added them to my stash.

I noticed that the larger paint chips were the exact same size at the Pictionary cards.  Boom!  The perfect substrate was born.

So, now I’m whiling away these sultry summer days surrounded by color, creating a fun tool for my therapist, while binge-watching Six Feet Under.  Sonya told me once that the artistic daughter on that show reminded her of me—the final loop in the thread that ties all this synchronistic, yummy juju together.

Like I said, I live for this shit!

When There is Nothing to Be Done

Discomfort.

My mind is itchy, scabby, oozing where it’s scratched itself raw.

My body aches and pinches, the hollow parts filled with vinegar and steel wool.

Gravity increases.

Distraction telescopes out of reach, leaving only the rote movements.

My hands do them anyway, a prayer, a coax, a thing to do

when there is nothing to be done.

Bits of Art for Each Month

I’m enjoying making collage cards for each month of the year.  As is my modus operandi, lots of research, organizing and gleaning was involved, discovering plants, animals, colors and specifics for each month, then throwing them in a bulging three-ring binder.  I’ve discovered that when I’m organized, the actual Arting becomes seamless and automatic.  I love that.

Even with all the prep work, making the actual collage takes most of a day since I use double-sided tape instead of glues or mediums to adhere the images and bits.  It’s kinder to thin magazine paper and creates a cleaner image, so cramped hands from all the snipping is worth it to me.

I loved July’s colors—Coral, Red and Green. And though the background paper gets almost completely covered, I know there are layers of vintage almanac pages, pretty party napkins, chiffon, tulle and stenciled paint.

I’m finishing up August now, and moving on to September and October.  The background papers for November and December lay on my kitchen counter, ready for their next layer.

I’m grateful my mind comes up with these projects as a way to keep itself distracted when the Black Days come.  I’m always stunned by the results and thrilled when someone else loves them, too.

They are a product of my brain saving itself.  How miraculous is that?

The Adventure Continues.

The Moment is Enough

Emmett has his own way of getting the day started.  He scuttles up to my pillow and whacks me in the face with his tail.  He’s not subtle, this second-fiddle cat who got promoted to Concert Master last December.  I consider myself trained.

From bedroom to kitchen in the gray, half-light, stiff joints find their rhythm.  The ritual of cat food alchemy and kitchen clean-up come from muscle memory, not any sort of gray matter function.  That, in itself, is a miracle.

It’s been a week since my new Medicare drug insurance ended the two month gap where I had no coverage.  I rationed three weeks of meds over those two months and learned, decisively, that Vyvanse helps the depressive part of my bipolar existence.  Without it, I made piles of my possessions in my mind with Sticky Notes of who should get them.  I slept a good part of the day and stayed in bed the rest.  All the hobgoblins nattered ugliness in my ear. I lived in a different sort of gray world.

With Vyvanse, windows of color open.  Joy slides in with the brush of Emmett’s tail and putting paint to paper.  A different ritual starts to reform—swimming, cafés, doing the next thing.  Gratitude resurfaces—for my weekly yoga class, for my steadfast sister, for the Salty Dog Ruccicino at the Erly Rush coffee drive-through.

A cardinal just flew across the parking lot—a blaze of color in the sunlight.  Limpy, the feral calico, prowls around the cars, waiting for opportunity.  Birds chirp.  Trains rumble.  The thought of getting a massage later in the morning creates a warm spot of anticipation.

In this moment, all is peaceful.  The moment is enough.

Choosing to be Vulnerable…or Not


“We waste so much energy trying to cover up who we are
when beneath every attitude is the want to be loved
and beneath every anger is a wound to be healed
and beneath every sadness is the fear that there will not be enough time…
Our challenge each day is not to get dressed to face the world
but to unglove ourselves so that the door knob feels cold
and the car handle feels wet
and the kiss goodbye feels like the lips of another being
soft and unrepeatable.”

 

~ Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening

Over the past several weeks, the concept of vulnerability and its importance to intimacy has followed me like a stalker.  At the same time, I heard from a friend about how sad and hurt she is over my silence and disconnect; I swore at my sister (via text) for the first time in my life; and I annoyed another close friend with my narcissism (my words, not hers).

I believe without a doubt that I’ve lost the ability to listen deeply to others.  Compassion and caring used to be important to me.  They were qualities I purposefully cultivated and practiced.  I believed in the power of kindness to change the world around me.  I have also felt that belief dribbling out of me over the past decade.  I’m easily annoyed and impatient with other people’s problems. I avoid social settings and leave when I feel my tolerance unraveling. Mental illness has made me guarded, judgmental and mean.

There’s a reason therapists caution against isolation—not just because human connection is vital to all forms of health, but because the mentally ill are already vulnerable, and making real connections with others requires us to risk being more vulnerable.  It’s too hard, too painful.  So much easier to barricade behind thicker and thicker walls, then complain about being lonely.

I can see the path I’m on leading to life as a hermitic sociopath.  Maybe I’ve binge-watched too much Dexter, but I can identify with his lack of empathy and complete self-absorption.

Then, Tara Brach, or my therapist, or an article in a magazine suggests an alternative path—to “unglove” as Mark Nepo puts it.  It’s painful and terrifying.  It seems like too much work that requires more courage, more bad-assery, more, more, more.  To be fair, Tara suggests gentleness and tiny acts of willingness.  I’m not being asked to tear down the walls, just look at them.  Or sit with my back against them and feel their warmth and strength.  Still, I don’t know that it’s worth it.

And I don’t know if I have a choice.

 

 

 

 

 

Being Fashionable

There are moments, days even, when the inside and the outside come together like haute couture.  The cool, dry sunshiny weather matches my mental shoes.  The new drug insurance company that gives me everything I need comes in chartreuse and lilac, Clear Mind’s signature colors.  Birdsong is slimming.  My kitten-soft cashmere mood finds sparkly bangles at coffee shops and radiant jewels in the little rolling mountains on my drives.

It is a gift, this feeling of being harmonious and put together well.  I can feel my brain swishing her kicky little skirt as I take my chai out to the patio where morning sun shines on emerald grass.  I am part of an expensive twin-set, and for now, I will enjoy being fashionable.

Suspense

Waiting to see if flood waters will take out the water treatment plant, all my old plastic file boxes, garbage cans and pots sit filled. Waiting for another tornado warning to blare from my phone, Emmett stays in hiding most of the day. Waiting for my new Medicare D coverage to start in July, my rationed medication can’t take the edge off the agitation or depression.

So, today I’ll choose suspense I can enjoy.

The Weekly Penny Positive

I pick this one for me—touched by small kindnesses and sudden pops of beauty while swinging from high to low, from lethargic to frantic.  Watching for joy even as I mislay and forget details (like this post), dig out from the mess, and create new ones.  The robin swollen with eggs to come, listens closely outside my window for the worms beneath her feet.  The neighbor’s car gleams lapis lazuli in the parking lot sunshine.  Art in progress sings a whispery siren song.

It’s good to be reminded to watch and listen, because Joy is all around, waiting to be welcomed in.

I Deserve to be Loved

My secrets come out in my art—songs I long to have sung to me.

I’m dying for the lack of it.

Lonely

After seeing Avengers: Endgame on Friday, I’ve been profoundly moved.  I know it’s fan-girly, maybe bipolar, definitely grief.  I don’t think I’m giving anything away by saying that.  We all knew there was a Phase One in the Marvel-verse that was coming to an end with this movie.  It is superbly executed.

Something’s come to an end with me, too—some fracture in the way fantasy has soothed me in the past.  Pretend Boyfriends don’t call to me the way they used to.  Barely a whisper anymore.  And so rare.

It’s left me feeling lonely and hollow.

This song came up on my iPod yesterday as I worked in my art journal, trying to feel some connection to the other people at the coffee shop.  I played it on a loop until I could cry, until I could let myself feel all I was feeling.  I think Cap would understand.

Ω

It’s not your eyes
It’s not what you say
It’s not your laughter that gives you away
You’re just lonely
You’ve been lonely, too long
All your actin’
Your thin disguise
All your perfectly delivered lies
They don’t fool me
You’ve been lonely, too long
Let me in the wall, you’ve built around
And we can light a match and burn it down
Let me hold your hand and dance ’round and ’round the flame
In front of us
Dust to
You’ve held your head up
You’ve fought the fight
You bear the scars
You’ve done your time
Listen to me
You’ve been lonely, too long
Let me in the wall, you’ve built around
And we can light a match and burn them down
And let me hold your hand and dance ’round and ’round the flames
In front of us
Dust to dust
Ω

 

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