"The Believer" 2019 I walk down North toward my tiny house and I smell it. Rain is in the air. It fills my head and leads me back to the space I have created for myself. After years of having nothing. After the profound sadness of not being absolutely welcome to live, really live in a place, I have made one for myself.
I know why the crazy crept up on me. I can feel it in the back of my neck, right below my skull. My falling apart resides in my spine as a tingling echo of my ardent desire to be wanted.
I think back to that, almost a year ago now, when my moods were unpredictable and the words that came out of my mouth sometimes melted the face off a loving partner. I couldn't help but fall apart. My body kept telling me over and over, but I was deaf to it, so its only option was to send me into frantic rhythms that would leave me soaked with sweat, shaky, on my knees, and sobbing.
I listen now. All the time. I take as long as I need to feel what my body is trying to tell me. This practice has transformed me completely in a very short amount of time. None of it has been easy. It started with sobbing into my pillow for almost two months and was paved with hard choices and littered with denial, doubt, and frustrations. I have felt every inch of this journey radiating up from the soles of my feet, pulsing through my fascia and bone, and into the back of my skull where it hangs like a nervous pendulum, anticipating the first swing.
For more than a year, my art has been about grief and pain. For a year I have ruminated on every loss I have felt, every relationship I have ended, every loved one who has passed. For a year, I have been studying the effects of grief on my bones, and it has been beautiful. It has worn down the sharp edges of me and carefully pulled the resentment out from my cracks and crevices. It has hollowed me wonderfully, delightfully, thoroughly, and I am light again.
My work is becoming and it's hopeful. It's optimistic. It is a reflection of the garbage I have released and transmuted. I have come back to reside in a body that trusts me to listen. My body trusts me to listen.
The other day I finished a piece, and my body whispered, "The Believer." As I looked at it, I ran my fingers along the edges, trying to understand the shift that had come about gradually but seemed to appear out of nowhere. It shined like a new freedom within me, cheering me on and telling me that forward will not be easy, that the adventure is just beginning.
I guess that is why I must be a believer.
I know why the crazy crept up on me. I can feel it in the back of my neck, right below my skull. My falling apart resides in my spine as a tingling echo of my ardent desire to be wanted.
I think back to that, almost a year ago now, when my moods were unpredictable and the words that came out of my mouth sometimes melted the face off a loving partner. I couldn't help but fall apart. My body kept telling me over and over, but I was deaf to it, so its only option was to send me into frantic rhythms that would leave me soaked with sweat, shaky, on my knees, and sobbing.
I listen now. All the time. I take as long as I need to feel what my body is trying to tell me. This practice has transformed me completely in a very short amount of time. None of it has been easy. It started with sobbing into my pillow for almost two months and was paved with hard choices and littered with denial, doubt, and frustrations. I have felt every inch of this journey radiating up from the soles of my feet, pulsing through my fascia and bone, and into the back of my skull where it hangs like a nervous pendulum, anticipating the first swing.
For more than a year, my art has been about grief and pain. For a year I have ruminated on every loss I have felt, every relationship I have ended, every loved one who has passed. For a year, I have been studying the effects of grief on my bones, and it has been beautiful. It has worn down the sharp edges of me and carefully pulled the resentment out from my cracks and crevices. It has hollowed me wonderfully, delightfully, thoroughly, and I am light again.
My work is becoming and it's hopeful. It's optimistic. It is a reflection of the garbage I have released and transmuted. I have come back to reside in a body that trusts me to listen. My body trusts me to listen.
The other day I finished a piece, and my body whispered, "The Believer." As I looked at it, I ran my fingers along the edges, trying to understand the shift that had come about gradually but seemed to appear out of nowhere. It shined like a new freedom within me, cheering me on and telling me that forward will not be easy, that the adventure is just beginning.
I guess that is why I must be a believer.
RSS Feed