The New Normal

I don't feel a sense of betrayal or unfairness when things aren't going well these days. You know, the "why me?", I am not feeling the "why me". And it's because of y'all. Because of this sharing that we do.

No matter what my logic told me, I always had a persistent, underlying assumption that pretty well everyone else was doing OK, or at least better than me. They were normal...somehow happier, richer, more stable, less changeable, less prone to illness, disappointment, bad judgment, and bad luck. That their pasts held fewer skeletons, and that there were fewer mistakes and unpleasant surprises in their day to day. Exempting those who had truly difficult and tragic lives, my impression was that the average joe, the "normal" majority, from which I was obviously excluded, sailed through life pretty smoothly. I was a minor league Job just struggling to get by, surrounded by Davids, who seemed to have favour no matter what they did.

Where did I get this bullshit POV? Maybe a little from television. None of us are immune to the Sanitized American Family, as seen on every commercial and sit com for the last 60 years, where the most pressing problem is how to get your whites whiter and avoiding that chatty neighbour. But just a little from TV, I did have Dickens and Steinbeck to counteract Wally and the Beav. I think that the bulk and depth of this impression came from having too few people around me who were willing to authentically speak their truths. I grew up with the myths and legends of the Sanitized American Family, and everyone putting on their company face...and I felt alone. Alone in fear. Alone in dysfunction and misfortune. Alone in feeling more than I saw other people feel.

I, of course, came to realize that this was not so. Everyone suffers and struggles, and it is all relative to their own experience. A broken leg might feel like the end of the world to someone who has never had worse, and there are people who rise with grace to meet tragedies that I can't even imagine. We are all in this human thing together, every last one of us. But it is amazing how the vestiges of that "why me?" mentality can hang on, despite all wisdom to the contrary.

Can the other mom's at school see how frazzled I am today? She looks so beautiful, nails manicured, dressed to the nines, and me, I'm a mess. I feel a mess. My kids both had meltdowns this morning. My husband is sick. My house is a disaster. My taxes still aren't done. I am worried, and oh so distracted. Life scares the shit out of me. I feel like I'm twelve, with pimples and skinned knees and an impossibly mortifying crush on the cutest boy, who has never even noticed me. And these other women are Grace Kelly's and June Cleaver's, but with Sex in the City jobs...and shoes.

But just when I start to go into an "I suck" meltdown...

I remember, that even Dooce has shingles...and a dog that poops on the bed.

I remember my friends here, who are really real women, that I admire. Who struggle and have stories, and have the cohones to share those stories...to speak their truths. I am not alone. And these other manicured women, they probably have shingles, or poop on their beds, or sick husbands, or are trying to figure out how to pay for those sexy shoes they bought on credit.

There was a time when I was turned off and skeptical about the whole idea of a personal blog. Ewwww, what narcissistic impulse could drive you to want to share all your bidness with the world?

Now I know better. Now I know that the sharing, the declarations of authentic self, the histories, and the hopes are like gifts. Gifts that draw us together in humility and understanding...in joyful recognition and solidarity.

Thank you for sharing. Thank you for being brave enough to tell your truths. You help me every single day.

Chet Baker, Everything Happens to me from Luchinop on Vimeo.

Fait Accompli

Pretty well everything I do as a mom is temporary in nature. The batch of cookies disappears faster than the time it took to bake them. Yesterday's glistening kitchen floor is now splattered with grape juice, and scattered with crumbs (and by crumbs I mean entire chunks of bread crust, gnawed on ends of sausage, spinach leaves and Cheerios!). Clothes are dirtied and back in the hamper, often before I even get them folded and in the drawer. I am a hampster on a wheel. There is no end point that my expended effort propels me towards. Round and round, done and undone, and needs to be done again.

So when I do actually have tangible proof of a job finished clutched in my hot, little hands, it is a heady moment. Look, look! An accomplishment!



My quotation journal, that I have been puttering away at since March, is complete. Look at all those pages, all mine, my preciousssss. Pages that no one is going to use up, mess up or otherwise undo.



What a great feeling it is to polish off an art journal! Put a gold star on it, it is done! This one was about exploring my favourite quotations (a lot of Walt Whitman, no surprise there!). My vision for it was of a cohesive book in which one page flowed beautifully into the next...but what was actually born is a raggedy book,




Of many colours,



Scribbles,


And advice to myself.


Most pages are very simple.



Sometimes I practised new techniques,

(Julification!)

(glazes and transparency)

Or just used up the paint on my palette, with surprising results.

Nothing was planned, everything spontaneous.


Occasionally something emerged that I was really proud of,

Or that sparked my imagination for other artworks,


But mostly it was just play, and appreciation of words that feed my soul.


Despite the fact that it is not the book I planned, and very, very imperfect...or maybe because of the fact that it is not the book I planned, and very, very imperfect, when I hold it in my hands, it fills me with:



Next blank journal is on my art table and ready to roll...
(and still working away happily on my BIG art journal too)

Jumpin' Journal Jacks

I haven't been making much time for art in recent weeks, but I have been messing around in my good ol' art journals a bit. The results have been pretty uniformly underwhelming -but I haven't cared. It feels so good to do.
The last week or so's:



Nothing can beat the freedom of an art journal for me, as a place to play and experiment and work it all out. There is no pressure, no expectations, and when you are done, you close it up and put it away.

So it is fortuitous that Julie's new class is just starting now, when I am really particularly feeling the art journaling. Art Journaling Super Nova , which promises to teach a plethora of techniques, and I'm sure will be every bit as fun and inspiring as Layer Love was (Layer Love was awesome!). So despite the fact that I have been so frakking busy and stressed out lately, I just signed up. I am going to journal my little heart out.

Expect lots of angst ridden and/or maudlin pages...cause that's how I roll...in September, when I'm the one who holds the last string that keeps it all from unravelling...

In other news, I got called a "highly functional mother" yesterday. Hee hee.

Add to list of skillz: good at faking out mental health professionals, and has healthy appreciation for irony

*laughs maniacally and runs around in crazy circles*

PS Sorry about the title. I was in the mood for alliteration. ;)

Inspiration and Influences: Martin Hill

While rummaging in through the art and photography books in the sale bin, I found a treasure. A book called "Earth to Earth" featuring the photography of Martin Hill. I ended up buying it, because I just couldn't put it down!



The textures and colours in his photos are just killing me. Can't get enough. And the simple motif of the circle, feels restful and complete.



I am itching to attempt to capture some of these colours and textures with acrylics...

What Number are You Today?

Day 2 at school for the boys. Everyone is holding at around 3 on the scale. So not so bad, really.

Peering Over the Brink

This is the last full day, before my sons start school. We've designated it as a Do Whatever You Want Day, which means lots of video game time for them, and resultant free time for me. Free time to, I dunno, maybe catch up on my poor, neglected blog or something?

I don't really have any new art to show. I've been a little blocked, and not just in art, but in general. I am finding it hard to reach out to friends, to write, to dream, to think, to share.

What has been coming easy? Entertainment and distraction. True Blood, Mad Men, movies, books (currently Catch 22), my Sims legacy (generation 9!), cooking, food blogs, wasting way too much time researching things like which stick blender to buy, obsessing over details, and following shiny objects. My boys, always my boys. Getting ready for the school year is a legitimate purpose, but the busy allows me to remain distracted...not to talk or even think too much about what is really on my mind this summer.

Even writing this now is hard. But I can't stay so far away from the now much longer. I have to be present to be creative...to feel like myself.

Anxiety is hunting me again. It is hard on my heels, and I am failing in the chase.

There's a lot of worries I feel like I can handle...the boys' health (anaphylaxis and severe environmental allergies) and well being (AS, ADHD, GAD, OCD...these are the letters of our lives), a thousand doctors, therapists, social workers to juggle, concerns about money, a leaking window, a seemingly contagious rash of appliance breakdowns, an error in taxes, my own health concerns...etc. These I manage, sometimes well, and sometimes like Lucy in the candy factory, I struggle to keep up, have to stuff a few down my dress and in my hat, and life gets pretty frantic, but it's OK. I do OK.

But then there are those things that suddenly tip me right over the edge...into the abyss, into fear's waiting grip. I don't even have a chance to try to cope and juggle. I am simply overcome. Distraction is my mechanism for such things and such times. I can pretend that I am not a rabbit in a trap, with Anxiety approaching...I am Sookie or Samwise or Anthony Bourdain. Or better yet, I am Scarlett O'Hara, refusing to think about that today or I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow.

When my husband fell and broke his foot at the beginning of summer, it was the cause of the fall that was the most troubling part. He passed out for no reason. And then it happened again...and again. Many doctor's appointments, tests etc. over the past 2 months, but still no answers. They think it's his heart.

It's not surprising that the thought of the loss of him, would be one of those precipice falling things, but I seem to not be able to keep myself from taking it even further. I get disproportionately worried about him. I swear, he sneezes and my heart jumps into my throat. His flight is a little late and I can hardly breathe until I hear his key in the door. So to have a legitimate worry about his health and well being, brings me swiftly past the brink.

The first morning of our honeymoon, I woke up in fear. An ominous feeling I just couldn't shake. It took me a while to put my finger on what it was. For the first time in my life, I had something to lose, something that actually belonged to me but was outside of myself. It was with him, that for the first time I experienced "home", that magical word, that thing I had wanted more than anything in the world...someone there, who was waiting and wanted you, safety and peace and most of all love. Love that was alive itself, ever-changing, supple and vital, always growing from roots twined right into who we were and would become. It was a thing beyond what I had dared to hope for, all mine and his, that no one could take away or fuck up, except for ourselves...and death.

*Suddenly the reckless young girl was full of fear. She grew cautious and oh, so protective.*
We took vitamins and drank green tea and quit smoking. I got angry about drunk driving, and companies who dumped toxic crap in the water. Didn't they know how fragile and short and precious life is? Of course, having children widened that circle of love and responsibility, and exponentially heightened the sense of risk. Every parent knows that blissful and crushing moment when you hold that impossibly frail little life you have helped to create in your own insubstantial arms. But the children will (God willing) grow up and away, with lives and loves of their own. In the end it will be just me (that is simply the way it is). But if I am lucky, very, very lucky, it will be him and I for a long time first.

But how many years would ever be enough?

And how will I find the strength to let go when I finally, inevitably have to either leave or be left?

I have often wondered if one can love too much. *I flinch and quail and look fearfully at the sky, waiting for the harsh stroke from the jealous gods* But I can't do this in proportion. I am crazy about him.

Perhaps it is better just not to think of these things. There are no answers that aren't trite or unsatisfactory or just too hard. But I can at least unblock myself by admitting the fear that has hunted me this summer. I just want him to be well. I want tests that show something conclusively, and Dr.s who can fix it with a flick of their prescription pads, a cessation of suspense and worry, and while we're at it, a holiday, a new fridge, a makeover and a pony. For now, I guess I will just settle for the unblocking, so that I am not too busy distracting myself to appreciate this one particular day...which is...after all...as we all know...all we really have.


*******
I hesitate to post this...not because I mind baring what is true, or admitting fear. I know I am in good company with other strong women, who can talk unhappiness, fear, and neurosis and draw new strength from the sharing. (my gerds come to mind, and the stirringly beautiful honesty of Maggie May at Flux Capacitor) But I hesitate to post, because I don't particularly want sympathy. I don't want to feel like I am fishing for condolence and comfort. Everyone has fears and troubles as profound (if they care to admit it). I am not unique in this. I don't need to feel unique in this, by accepting sympathy for the common human condition...mortality and the fear thereof. And I don't need the well meant platitudes of "he'll be OK", "I am sure it's nothing" etc. I already tell myself all this every day.
I just wanted to say what scares me...what scares me bad, thereby draining it of a little of its power for a bit, because I needed to go deeper than distraction today. I needed to lift up the bedskirt and take a look at the monster hiding there, maybe even invite him out for a cup of tea and make some art with him, before sweeping him back under there to haunt my dreams another day. But please, no sympathy. I'd rather hear what scares you? What are you afraid to lose? Which is the fear that tips you over the brink of handling-ablity?