The Sequel

The first painting, to the left, I created during my Junior Year of High School. 
It's called "Shame."

The painting to the left was just finished last night, 
and it is entitled "Validation." 

Perhaps the most devastating aspect of PTSD is that the sufferer 
seems forever barraged by bits and pieces of the past
 from which their mind seems incapable of escaping. 

PTSD therapy, the coping skills related to that in particular, 
has a lot to do with using imagery to lessen or even eradicate
 the flashbacks and their triggers, so I decided
 to use imagery in my own fashion to combat a past state, 
a mindset that kept me frozen in time. 

Society is not judging her for being unique
 -- that's a sort of teen angst issue. 
And so Society wears a warmer, more encouraging visage. 
The woman on the beach who is hiding her face 
is no longer crushed by the weight of her own dark thoughts. 
She breaks free of the position that she's held for so long,
 reaches out her hand, and reconciles with her past. 

I paint my perspective.

I dip my paintbrush in empowerment.

I spread all my hopes and aspirations across the canvass, 
colorful and unique.

Each brushstroke covers my past 
and all my fears and worries
 transform into something beautiful, 
something that's part of who I am as a person 
-- a gift, a little miracle, that I can never lose.

Painting in the Moment

I'm starting a portrait series to advocate for mental health awareness. It's one of those bursts of inspiration that comes from inside and out, a strong conviction that this is what I need to work on right now. I've always been most strongly inclined to address issues of social justice and human rights, and yet the paintings always end up kind of more beautiful than they are tragic. There is something so beautiful and powerful in how our weaknesses develop into our greatest strengths, how over and over again the message is that all things can become new that grow toward the light, beauty from ashes.

I've been a little sad and fearful tonight of all the things I think I'll never possibly get done, or may never again do, but as I've been trying to focus on the things that I can, and am, doing right now, I feel lighter and more at peace. This is what's made a writer of me: It's the only and the best way that I have ever been able to think. My thoughts and feelings get out into the light of day, and from there I see the fear is clearly just a shadow falling back behind them underneath the rays. Have you ever noticed how fears are like that? They seem HUGE and Insurmountable as we dwell on the past and worry about our future, but in my experience less than 90% of them turn out to ever be true.

I am re-learning daily to live in the moment.

Telling the Stories is Enough

At the Methodist Church here they have been doing a series on living more simply, and I've had a lot to say on the subject. I have no money or home of my own right now, and I'm grateful my sister moved back to Michigan at just the right time that I wouldn't have to be alone in all this. I've been thinking about how the accident has forced me to cut back on all my busywork and focus on the bare essentials -- diet,exercise, family, and emotional health. Normally in the summertime I'm with my kids, and it's a race to do as many fun activities as we can possibly squeeze in before summer ends abruptly on us (It always seems abrupt no matter how prepared we think we may be at the beginning of the summer). We run back and forth to the beach, have picnics, visit friends and family, go to the parks and the fun parks and hit every single museum within at least a hundred mile radius.
This summer, I have been limited to walks, painting, drawing, board games were pushing it a little, and no restaurants, stores, or any new activity that would overtax my poor tired brain. No reading, movies or TV. At first my kids were climbing up the walls, and I had to sleep a lot but spent many of my waking hours hard-put to keep them busy.

Worst of all, I wasn't able to read to them. As an educator, an English Major, and soon-to-be Reading Specialist, as a writer and lover of books, it has always been my goal to raise my kids to love words as passionately as I do. I read to them in my womb, and I read to them when they were babies. As soon as they were old enough to grab a book and crawl my way, dragging the book along and holding it up to me, I had a policy of always dropping everything I was doing and sitting down and reading that story to them, so that in their lives, no matter where they go, no matter what they do or how far they travel from me, whenever they open the cover of a book it will be as if my love wafts up from the pages, a feeling of peace and pure joy, and an internal voice whispering, "My mother loves me."

Even though they are the ripe old ages of nine and ten, before the accident I was still reading to them every night they were with me. It's our special time, a time when we snuggle up close and I share the words I read when I was their age, and I fall in love with the stories again as I see them through my children's wondering eyes for the first time. They can stop me at any point and ask me questions. If the chapter ends in a cliffhanger they might even coerce me with their enthusiasm to relent and read another chapter. I'm a sucker when it comes to cliffhangers, because I remember long nights in my own childhood where I couldn't wait to find out what happens next.
So this not being able to read to them business was a huge emotional issue for me.

We tried audiobooks, but then they couldn't stop and ask as many clarifying questions as they needed, and sometimes the voice of the reader wouldn't say something quite right, or at least not the way they were certain I would have read it.
I went to my sister and asked if she would be so kind as to read to us.
She smiled and said, "Who, me? You're the master storyteller in the family. Just tell them about King Arthur like you used to tell me and Bonnie."
I've never forgotten telling them those stories, and neither have they, but for some reason I had a reluctance to attempt this with my children, who have certainly been born into a more cynical age. And the subject matter... as a teenager I never thought twice about describing all the violence, immorality and downright terrifying aspects of the stories, but with my own children I had certain misgivings.

But my sister reminded me that those weren't the things that she remembers best.

What she remembers is that I modeled all the characters out of people in our family, with all our strengths and weaknesses, hopes and fears. What she remembers is a story about how someone tried with all their might to create a society of faith, peace, and justice -- and the tragedy in how our own crushing imperfections can tear all of that down. She remembers the funny parts, the parts that made her cry, and most of all the hope with which all the stories ended, a hope that if we remember that once someone came very close to having a world like that, then we as individuals should, and could, search our own hearts out and find the strength to fight for having a world like that. A world that never was but always should be. For although Camelot fell because of human weakness, still it did grow from dreams in our hearts to be more than what our flesh demands of us, to strive toward our greater purpose and to never give up on our visions of justice and peace, because it's not about whether or not it's impossible to create a perfect society: It's about what kind of people pursuing that kind of an impossible dream makes us into.

Anyway, that night I started to tell them the story, and I was pleased to find that I could remember a lot of it and that my brain isn't so addled that I can't keep it going fairly well. I struggle when they interrupt me with questions because my alternating attention is damaged, and that makes it very difficult for me to switch back and forth from one topic to another. Other than that, though, they responded very well.

The next day we walked to church. 
Now, a word on this pursuit: I was raised Baptist and lived under the harsh and impossible Rules of a Judgemental and Punishing Greater Power for many years and, after my church "family" predominantly abandoned me as a horrible sinner beyond all redemption, I went seeking a more realistic spiritual focus. I like the Methodist Church because they stress actually doing things for other people with less of the judgement and superiority. This church in particular, is surprisingly liberal for a religious organization, and I happen to love that the best piano player I have ever heard attends the church and just happens to have a life partner of the same sex. It gives me a tiny bit of hope for the world, because I'm a hopeless idealist for lack of any other options to help me to keep getting up mornings when there's nothing on the news but the latest conservative lies that spread hatred around like fertilizer. I'm looking for a lifestyle, not a pulpit. But I digress...
After church, when we were walking home again, my son Stuart started whining "Mom, I'm bored!"
And sweet little Lucy said "Momma, can you tell us what happens next in The Story?"
So, with a little reminding from them, I picked up the narrative from where we left off, and I told it to them all the way home.

I made them their lunch, and we did the dishes, and then I said, "Okay, guys -- Now we can do whatever we want: We can go play Bocce Ball in the front yard, we could paint together some more, we could play a boardgame if you can read me the directions---"
Stuart interrupted with "I want to hear more of the story, Mom! Can you please please tell us what happened to Gawain? Did he find the Green Knight again? How does he beat a guy who's a giant and can cut off his head and carry it around like it's a beachball?"
I was delighted.

We settled down on the couch and snuggled under some fuzzy blankets with drinks and snacks, and -- I could hardly believe it- two hours later I was still telling the story, and they were still laughing, asking questions, telling me what they thought should happen next, what they hoped would never happen, which characters they liked and why, and begging me to skip ahead because they were so worried about the ominous foreshadowing drawing into the story like a stormfront.
Looking at my children's faces that afternoon, I found myself thinking warmly that in many ways I have more than enough.