Making What Sings to Me

I’m ready to send my little journal off to Art Journaling Magazine.  It doesn’t matter if they accept it or not, because I love it. I love having all my little bits of bipolar wisdom in one place.  I love the bones, and feathers, and tattered leaves mixed in with chiffon, and paint, and tissue paper.

I felt like I was using all my best parts—the Hunter/Gatherer keeping an eye out for treasures in the weeds, the Granddaughter channeling Gram’s magical needle and thread, the Aesthetic savoring texture and color, the Mad Scientist mixing media until it bubbled and wondering, “What if…?”

It was a Grand Experiment that shocked me over and over.

When it travels back home to me, I’ll keep it where I can see it every day.

It will remind me to be brave.

It will remind me to make what sings to me.

Floating a Little


 

• Post Title and Inspiration:

Mary Oliver — Still, what I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled–To cast aside the weight of facts–And maybe even to float a little above this difficult world.

Floating a Little

 

• Post Title and Inspiration:

Mary Oliver — Still, what I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled–To cast aside the weight of facts–And maybe even to float a little above this difficult world.

Floating a Little

If you weren’t a Compulsive Overeater pre-pandemic, you probably are now.

So, Welcome to the Club!

 

• Post Title and Inspiration:

Mary Oliver — Still, what I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled–To cast aside the weight of facts–And maybe even to float a little above this difficult world.

Ideas About Thriving

I read a bit of Mary Oliver’s book of essays, Upstream, on a friend’s FaceBook page, and this grabbed me:

And this is what I learned: that the world’s otherness is an antidote to confusion, that standing within this otherness—the beauty and the mystery of the world, out in the fields or deep inside books—can redignify the worst-stung heart.

Reading, difficult for me since electroshock, takes determination and much effort, but Mary’s book is on my Kindle now, and I dip into to it every day. As my cycle shifts out of depression, her words help me open to ideas about thriving.  Here’s what I’m trying so far:

•Commune with the Trees

I have an open invitation from my friend, Martha, to show up in her garden—to wander or make art or write, to breathe in the green and listen, to put my arms around the trees and mend my torn connection to them.

I’m also determined to find green places to walk.  Arthritis and despair have held me back, but today I tried out Cody Creek Trail.  The pain was worth the trees and their bits of discarded, lichen-covered bark that they left for me.

•Finish

For whatever reason—fear, despair, boredom—lots of projects languish, tucked away so their half-heartedness can’t hurt me.  These pieces deserve my respect and my care.  I deserve their beauty and the sense of stewardship their completion brings.

Today I hung the art quilt I started years ago when a friend in Marshalltown gave me her shop’s old upholstery sample books.  I took those pieces and centered them with a scarf my grandma used to wear wrapped around her head (the reddish cross in the middle).  I love the subtle colors and the way some of the fabric falls apart like melting butter.  It hangs in my sitting room, waiting for other pieces to join it.

I’m working again on a small art journal that I started when I moved to Muskogee.  It’s called The Zen of Bipolar Disorder.  Each spread is a “lesson” I’ve learned and try to practice.  I’ve used lots of natural elements—feathers, leaves, bones, sticks, raw wool—sewn to chiffon or cheesecloth or other semi-transparent media.  It’s wild, and startling, and unlike anything else I’ve ever done.  When finished, this little book (made from an antique Swedish almanac) will be my next submission to Art Journaling Magazine.

Today, I’m going to start the finishing of my Wall of Flowing Yellow.  Not long after I moved here, I found a wholesale fabric warehouse and bought yards of various yellow chiffons and silks (and a shimmery orange prom dress at Goodwill).  The idea was to drape this huge (14 feet by 8 feet) blank wall in the center of the duplex with the Feng Shui-accurate color of Health.  Some panels are beaded, some beribboned.  All that’s left is to sew nine panels together and hem the whole piece.  A few days work.

•Choose to Thrive

This last idea is an experiment in alchemy.  How do I combat the Place Hatred that takes over when my symptoms cycle into the Black?  Hating where I live stops any chance of growth.  It poisons the air and turns people into monsters.

One small shift—repurposing a journal—is the only idea I have right now.  I used this journal to analyze my Place Hatred, to be specific, to sort out what I could change and what I couldn’t.  I used about half of the journal to that end.

Now I will use it to explore Thriving.  What makes me feel alive and well?  How do I stay open to the possibility?  This will be a place to tuck notes and ideas, to jot down little joys and brainstorms.  As I experiment, I’ll practice proper scientific technique, keeping track of results, near-misses, and magic.

Oh, it’s a relief to know that I’m still on an Adventure.

The Wind

From my journal yesterday.

Sitting in Martha and Jon’s garden with the rush of the wind in the trees.  I’d forgotten that sound, like the ocean roaring, fading, roaring.  It will rain soon, but for now the sun breaks the clouds in the east, and this roaring is full of life, and energy, and danger.

If I am to stay, I must find a way to thrive instead of just existing.  It will have to be something new since the old ways aren’t working.  Everything changes.  My illness buffets me like this wind.

I need a way to flow with it… (Ah. The rain is coming.  Good.  That feels right, too) … I need a way that makes my illness an organic part of the solution, the way the wind blows pollen, strengthens roots, culls the dead branches, mixes things together and apart.

I can feel the wind and the blow behind my words clearing space.  The sky darkens.  Thunder grumbles in the distance.  The rooster next door crows.  Something is coming.

Hints abound if I can stay awake and open, if I keep looking, keep trying, keep experimenting.  There are seasons in me cycling faster than Nature.  I feel the rain on my back, the cold on my skin.  I feel my rain and cold turning again.

I can continue to turn.  I can continue to seek.  I can get wet and cold with winds roaring inside and out.  And it will all keep turning if I learn new ways to turn with it.  I’ve done it before.

The patter of drops on leaves sounds like applause.

Called Out

A few days ago, I wrote that I’d dogpaddled out of the suicidal end of the pool. My friend, Janet, called me on that. She reminded me that I needn’t rush over the weird fluctuations of my illness, claiming Better-hood to ease other’s minds.

Yes, I do that. Yes, I did that.

After a couple of days with enough oomph to get groceries and sweep my floor, I’m back to not sleeping and sitting as close to Emmett as he will allow. Coloring will be my achievement today.

I’m too aware of how hard this quarantine is on everyone. I’m afraid spilling my shit adds to the worldwide sewer. Yes, everything is about me and I’m responsible for it all. That’s Bipolar Brain.

So, I will sit with my pretty mug from a fellow Etsy shop owner, listen to the softest of my iPod tunes, and let my coloring book structure the day.

Floating a Little


And to everyone who responded to yesterday’s blog post with such generosity, kindness and compassion.  It is still pretty bleak in my world, but at least I took a shower.  And I feel something today other than done.  Thank you for that.

 

• Post Title and Inspiration:

Mary Oliver — Still, what I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled–To cast aside the weight of facts–And maybe even to float a little above this difficult world.

Keeping Promises

When I started blogging in 2011, I splattered my illness onto the screen without much of a filter.  It was a relief to tell my story, to have a place to spew.  But, it didn’t take long to realize that approach wasn’t helpful to anyone who might be reading.  So, I made some rules:  I’d tell the truth (in as much as I knew it) and I’d wait until I got the Lesson until I posted about my latest wrestling match with bipolar disorder.

These rules served me well.  They kept me from reacting out of the capricious mood swings and distorted thinking that take my mind hostage.  The rules gave me some integrity.

I’m in such a bad place right now, I don’t know if I’m breaking my rules or not.  History tells me this suicidal-level of depression will shift, so I should wait before I write something that could make someone else feel bad.  But, there’s that other rule about telling the truth.  I started posting my Floating a Little series to be helpful, to be like Pluto, sending out a little Light or a chuckle, even if I can’t feel it.  The one I posted today felt like such a lie, even though I know that thought is the illness being in control.

I know the thing to do is to walk away from the blog until something fundamental in my brain chemistry shifts.  AND I need to reach out, to tell people who have said they care about me that I am not functioning well.  Am I breaking all my rules or taking care of myself?  I think the answer is YES.

One promise, one rule, I will never break is the one I made to Henry and Emmett after my suicide attempt in 2009.  I will never take my own life while one of them lives.  Emmett may be somewhere around 17 years old, but he’s healthy, and strong, and plans to bug me for a good long while.  He keeps me here when I want to check out.  He pulls me back from “the Raggedy Edge,” as Malcolm Reynolds would say.  I may not want to live anymore, but I do for him.

The longer I keep my promise to him, the more likely a shift will come.  I can feel a seed of truth there, and that’s shiny enough for now.

Sinking

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