If I were a Colour, what would I be?

One of the chapters in The Artist’s Way is on recovering a sense of strength.  One of the tasks is to pick a colour and describe myself in first person. 

One of my most vivid childhood memories was getting school supplies – more specifically a brand-new box crayons for the upcoming year.  A bright, new, untouched, chisel-tipped rainbow hidden beneath the flap – to this day I can still remember the smell when opening the box.  To get a box of 64 colours with a built in sharpener was better than winning any lottery.  I would read the names with excitement, organizing them from the best colours to the worst, then  sort like with like.  I spent hours sorting, drawing and colouring.  So, with this week’s task of choosing a colour, I immediately thought of a colour, then hemmed and hawed like the 7 year old girl with the big box of crayons.  Atomic Tangerine, Hot Magenta, Ultra Red - so many choices – but returned to my first choice.

I am Black.  Black as the closet. Filled with secrets, fear and monsters.  The unknown hiding in among shadows. 

I am Black.  Black like a ‘go-to’ outfit when feeling insecure.  Basic.  Forgiving.  Dependable. Trying to conceal imperfections.

I am Black.  Black like onyx.  Strong. Sturdy.  Shiny and opaque.  Shielding any vulnerabilities from sight. 

I am Black.  Black as obsidian.  Protective.  Useful.  Aggressive. Powerful. Burgeoning from a churning, challenging past.

I am Black.  Black as ink.  Immeasurable.  Fluid.  Changing.  Determined yet undefined.  A future yet unwritten.

I am Black.  Black as night.  Memories, moments twinkle in the dark.  Waiting to greet the sun and welcome a tomorrow of opportunity.

Just one more time

Eight years wasn't long enough - eighty years wouldn't have been either

I wish I could relive every moment together. 
From the moment we first met to the last goodbye.
If only I could feel your arms around me.
Your body pressed up against mine.
To hear you whisper I love you in my ear.
Just one more time.

I wish I could run my fingers through your hair.

Trace your jawline, your moustache, or your dimple.

If only I could walk with you hand in hand.

with our fingers interlocked tightly.

To randomly dance to the beat of our hearts.

Just one more time.

I wish we could lay in bed and let the world disappear.

In each other’s arms, our bodies entwined.

If only we could return to our happy place.

Where we shared our hopes and dreams.

To feel your lips tenderly against mine.

Just one more time.

I know I could wish upon every star in the sky.

But we will never relive those moments we had.

I must settle with all the memories I keep.

So vivid and filled with such details.

Like a never-ending reel of film.

Until the end of time.

I Grieve

How are you doing?  A question asked by loving, caring people with a genuine concern for my well-being.  How do I answer?  I’m doing okay.  I have ups and downs but move forward day by day.  It’s the easiest response to give.  I do share a bit more with certain people who know how to read me, but it too is a watered version of my reality.  Honestly, I don’t want to burden them with my pain, nor have them worry about me.  There isn’t anything they could do to help me through this.  It is a journey which I must take alone.

I’ve decided to capture these thoughts, my pain, in words – an attempt to release some of weight of these emotions and allowing me to move forward.

How am I doing?  I just exist.  No desire.  No drive.  No dreams.  No direction.  Numb.

Each morning I dread waking to a new mediocre day, wishing to stay safe within my dreams.  Daily tasks are draining. The hours drag even though days go by so quickly.  Each day is repetitious, meaningless.  I don’t want to feel, think or speak.  I just want to withdraw, to hibernate.  This is not living.  What I experience now is colourless, empty, repetitive, meaningless.  This is grief.

It comes in waves – some just ripples, others so strong they practically take my breath away.  When a wave hits, I feel pain, despair, anguish, and a tightness grows in my chest, almost suffocating me.  Other times, it’s a memory which triggers a longing, a yearning for what was; or a moment where emotions like sadness, heartache, loneliness swirl deep inside me.  He was my anchor.  My anchor is gone.

I’ve experienced loss before – family members, friends, and my mother whom I loved so very much.  What I’ve found is that with each loss, we grieve differently.  With losing my love, my Walter, it’s all-encompassing – felt in every aspect of my life.  He was a part of me, and I a part of him.  In his arms was where I belonged.

Shock doesn’t even remotely describe what we felt when we found out Walter had terminal Cancer.  The months he had left went by so quickly.  I wanted to protect him, care for him, cherish him for as long as I could.  No matter what I did, I couldn’t stop the inevitable.  We watched our hopes and dreams fade away.  The life we planned – gone.  He was robbed of his passions, of his family, of his future. 

I dreaded seeing his long locks fall to the floor because of Chemotherapy.  I watched this big strong man weaken; and saw the sadness in his eyes when he’d come to me to open jars.  As the Cancer spread, he became frail. He couldn’t keep weight on, was so terribly cold; and needed help showering.  I saw how tired he was. I felt so helpless – I couldn’t fix this for him.  I saw his spirit begin to wither. I watched him slowly fade away.  All I could do is give him kisses, hold his hand and tell him how much I love him. When his heart stopped, mine shattered.  A piece of me went with him that day.

I strain to remember as many things about him - as many details that I can.  I want to burn those images in my mind, in my heart, forever.  There are times where I question what I should have done better to help him, to lessen any burdens, to ease his pain.  Other times moments just play in my mind over and over.  The person who would comfort and assure me everything will be okay is gone.  It was him.  He was my calm.

Everywhere I look, there are things which remind me of him.  I touch them, looking for echoes of his touch.  On his nightstand sits his phone and the water bottle I filled for him the last night he was home.  I can’t bring myself to remove it.  His lips once touched the bottle – it’s the closest thing I have to ever touching his lips again. 

Our bed feels so cold and empty.  We called it our island.  A retreat impenetrable from stresses or worries.  Where we would talk about our day and our dreams.  Where we could be vulnerable but know we were safe.  Where we lay in each other’s arms and would drift off to sleep.  Five months later and I still have difficulties getting comfortable and falling asleep.  I strain to remember how it felt to have him lie next to me.  To hear his breathing which would lull me to sleep.  

So often I close my eyes, trying to feel his arms around me, wanting to hear his voice.  At the kitchen sink, at doorway, in the hallway, where he would envelope me, kiss me, then we would sway together, dance to the beat of our hearts.  I miss holding his hand, random kisses, and all his cuddles.  He filled me with such tremendous love.  Now I feel hollow, empty, without him.

I find over the past five months, his loss has become more real, as the numbness begins to fade.  It’s still there, but a little bit less.  They say it all takes time.  I find that moving forward is a slow process – an intricate dance – not just two steps forward, one step back, repeat.  Emotions of heartache are still just under the skin, easily released; yet emotions of happiness; of normalcy are weak, not ready to move forward. 

Every step forward is bittersweet.  It’s a step toward healing, yet a step away from him.  I find it difficult to make plans, to dream – because he won’t be there by my side.  Every milestone has changed to a first year without; and brings a memory of last year with.  I enjoy a moment, an event, yet I feel his absence and that saddens me. 

I find that it gets easier to fake a smile, to act normally as if everything is okay; even on the days where I’m drowning.  At times I feel people forget how recent his loss was.  Or they forget the magnitude of the love, of the grief I experience.  Some may think that five months has been a while so I should be further along ‘the grief process’.  I’ve surprisingly heard there is some magic equation for grief – something like it should take x months after loss for x years together.  Trust me, there isn’t.  Time does not equate to intensity of emotion. And there aren’t step-by-step directions to go through the grief process. 

Externally, I appear a bit stronger each day.  Internally, I continue to live with waves and ripples of grief.  I know time will soften the intensity enough that those moments will be filled with sadness, not pain.  I’ll once again be able to feel, to laugh, to dream.  I’ll strive to live my life with vibrancy, with purpose.  As he took a piece of me, he gave me a piece of him which I’ll carry with me until we meet again.  It just takes time.

Crave Sleep

The silence is deafening. 

No life. No movement. 

Unsettling.

Hear myself breathe.  In. Out.

Rhythmic. 

Darkness throughout.

No light. Shadows dance.

Unsettling.

The clock's hands move. Tick. Tick. 

Rhythmic.

Too tired to move.

Too tired. Crave sleep.

Weary.

Heart beats loudly. Lub dub

Rhythmic.

Eyes slowly shut.

Thoughts drift. Dreams begin.
Weary.

Breaths much deeper. Slow. Soft.

Rhythmic.

Asleep.

To my 80 year old me

As I write this letter, I’m in a state of uncertainty.  I’m grieving the loss of my Walter and am just a shell right now.  Knowing that I need to move forward, but don’t yet have the energy or will to dream, feel and redefine who I am.  It will come in time.

I’m writing you this letter in hopes that my wisdom, experiences and regrets have shaped my future in a positive light.  I assure you I am trying to realize my capabilities and celebrate my successes so that the next thirty years are lived to their fullest – filled with confidence, happiness and stability.

There are a number of things I hope you’ve accomplished over the years.  I hope that you’ve remembered to see beauty around you, that you’ve celebrated and shared it – be it by word, pen or paint.  I hope that you’ve forgiven those who’ve held you back, caused you pain or sadness – most importantly yourself. I hope that you’ve learned to see yourself through the eyes of those who love you – and truly see your beauty and accept your imperfections, both which define you. 

When you look in the mirror, I hope you like the image looking back at you – that you accept her and love her.  That you love every wrinkle, every scar.  That you’re not so critical of the shape of your figure, of rolls, of excess weight or saggy breasts and you’re happy with your grandma’s arms.  I hope that you’ve embraced the woman you are wholly, completely, being thankful for that very vessel that carried you through eighty years of heartaches and happiness; childbirth and challenges; adventures and experiences. 

I hope that you’ve traveled, challenged yourself to try new things.  That you’ve kept healthy, mentally, spiritually and physically. I hope you’ve found drive and desire to be a force, to lead a fulfilling life.  I assure you that you deserve to enjoy every moment.  Always continue to be grateful, humble and happy.

Love your 50 year old you

Finding my creative self - The Artist's Way

One of my dearest friends introduced me to a course created by Julia Cameron called The Artist’s Way.  At first, I questioned if I should even consider participating as I would never consider myself an artist.  I do admit I’ve always loved to dream, to write, to create.  I wasn’t very confident and rather critical of my skills.  I thought maybe one day I’d be ambitious enough to hone these skills, maybe even be good at something.  Then life got in the way. 

When I thought of doing something ‘artsy-fartsy’, I often thought it’s an impractical use of my time.  I would then use that as a reward – if I just got this long list of chores done, then I could have fun being creative.  After trudging through, task after task, I was drained and lost any inspiration.  Fortunately, though, every so often I had opportunity to be a bit creative – help the kids with projects; invitations, theme parties; costumes; decorations; Christmas letters; crafts.  I felt refreshed, recharged, exhilarated.  Then life got in the way.

I decided that I really needed to read The Artist’s Way and join a group so I could find my creative self even though I’m not an artist.  I met an amazing facilitator, Renee, who is such an inspiration, and other uplifting ladies who were embarking on this journey.  And so, my journey of self-exploration and self-expression has begun.

I’ve realized that we forget that doing things we enjoy.  They shouldn’t always be a reward.  We must remember to make time to do things that nurture the soul.  To quote Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, “Success or failure, the truth of a life really has little to do with its quality.  The quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight.  The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention.”  How can one move forward without vision, without inspiration, without optimism?  To do this, we all need to find something which awakens us, refreshes us, recharges us. 

What is an artist?  An artist isn’t always a writer, painter, sculptor, musician, or an actor.  An artist isn’t good or bad, exceptional or awful.  I’m in the process of learning the definition.  And as I work through The Artist’s Way, I’ll truly understand what an artist is and find my creative self along the way.

          

Grief is the price of love

Walter Kennedy,  My muffin.  My love.  My life.  

As we approach five months since I last touched his hand, kissed his lips; I still feel empty, numb, lost, mundane. Each day takes me farther and farther away from him.  My calendar is filled with 'first without'  and memories 'last time with'.  Life feels surreal. When this reality hits me, it  practically takes my breath away.  Moments where emotions are overwhelming, physical pain, crushing my chest, my broken heart.  As time moves on, I become more familiar with this new existence.  Gradually there are more moments where my smile is genuine and I do  have a sense of 'normalcy'.  His presence gave colour and vibrancy to my life. And his loss dulled it to a monochromatic grey. In time I'll add color to my palette, but will never match the verve we had.  

h

Waves of emotion appear without notice.  Some arrive with a crash shaking my foundation.  Others like a ripple...slowly enveloping my thoughts.  My anchor is the man I mourn.  I search in the pool of emotions which surround me to find comfort.  My heart, although broken, still feels his love. My mind is filled with memories of him. He always has been the calm to my storm and continues to be.  Time will soften the intensity of the waves of pain. I don't know if the waves will ever go away, but assume the pain will eventually soften to sadness.

There are times where our house feels so cold and empty. And times when it's filled with silence and sadness. But I also see reminders of him, of us. A home filled with memories. Tangible items which I can hold, close my eyes and almost feel him here with me.  I'm terrified that I'll forget moments we had. Terrified that the intensity of my memories will fade.

There is a painful void, a piece of my heart missing. The edges of this void are so sharp that as I move forward sometimes they pierce me and hurt deep inside. This will ease in time, the sharpness will wear down to an ache echoing into the void.  He took a part of me with him. That void attests to how symbiotic we truly were, and is a reminder of how blessed we were to have such love. II will strive to keep his spirit alive, will practice what he preached, use the skills he taught me, share his stories, and forever be grateful for each moment we had together. ❤️

A letter to my biggest critic

For most of my life, you’ve been by my side.  A quiet whisper in my ear.  Like a part of my shadow, you were there as I navigated through the decades.  Where did you come from?  When did you appear?  And why? 

I look back at my earliest memories and remember a happy, energetic, inquisitive girl.  Eager to try new things, make new friends, almost fearless at times.  She wanted to belong. That little girl would be one of the first to volunteer, was willing to share and even brave enough to volunteer to read a poem by herself at a school assembly.  She tried her best even though sitting still and paying attention was hard.  She wanted to do well.  She tried so hard to read letters and numbers.  She wanted to make her parents proud.  She had an imagination.  She loved to create.  She loved to play. She was a child.  But you were not there.

I feel a sadness wash over me as I continue to reminisce.  The torment she endured, the cruelty, the names echo through my memories.  Those words hurt that little girl more than the bruises left on her body.  Punched and prodded, slapped and spit on.  Held down, hit with hockey sticks.  Kicked, stomped, strangled.  Going to school was like walking through a mine field for her and her brother each day.   

The vitriol, like black tendrils spread beyond school reaching into other corners of her life.  Sunday school, Brownies, sports, even playing at the park she was not safe.  She tried to forgive, forget, just keep smiling through it all.  But that didn’t change a thing.  She went to friends, to parents, to adults, to teachers asking for help but it just continued.  Judgement. Dismissal. Blame.  No sense of support nor protection.

No part of her was immune to the poison spewn her way.  Intelligence, abilities, clothes, hair, weight, looks.  Back in those days, bullying wasn’t acknowledged like it is today.  Responsibility to rectify it was placed on the child – the victim.  The only assistance would be advice to try different approaches, to not let it bother her.  Yet, no matter how much she was rejected, she still she craved for acceptance. 

Such anguish for an impressionable child to endure. Gradually it chipped away at the essence of this little girl.  Venomous words, insulting names - branded, burned into her very core.  She felt unworthy, defeated.  That was when you started to appear.  My inner critic.

As this girl approached teens, her trust and naivety were gradually replaced with skepticism and insecurity.  When she started to blossom, there were boys who thought it funny not only to pull bra straps, but to grab and man-handle her, to humiliate her.  She felt ashamed. Dirty. Ugly. Unlovable.

With self-worth depleted, she started to question everything. What was the point of trying, of wanting, of learning – only to feel like a failure.  Why try to partake in activities – only to be left out, the last one chosen.  She was not good enough, not worthy.  Defeat was reflected in her grades, her activities – lackluster – like her confidence.  You were there whispering in her ear. 

As her naivety dissolved; stronger, more protective qualities evolved.  She wanted to remove this need for acceptance, love, validation.  You were there.  The constant reminder.  Whispering.  Quashing goals. Crushing dreams.  Reminding her of what she was worthy of – and what she wasn’t.  Molding her. Your whisper grew.  Louder and louder until she couldn’t hear anything but you. You were an integral part of creating this outer shell.  Defiance. Rebellion. Self-harm. Anger. Deception.

As she approached adulthood, your influence had affected her greatly. Choices and experiences derived from you.  But a surprising thing started to happen as the years, as the decades went by.  Another voice emerged.  A whisper. Familiar. An inner voice, her essence.  Once thought so badly scarred that it would never heal or never grow.  Quietly fed with remnants of heartbreak and hardships.  Nurtured by maturity, by motherhood.  As this whisper got louder, your voice became a whisper.  The two teetering like a seesaw.  Back and forth – her very essence and her inner critic.

The wrinkles of time show on her face. The years of worry sparkle through her hair.  A half century of experiences, of evolution; of reflection; of realization. I know you – my inner critic.  I know where you came from and when you appeared.  But most importantly, I understand why you appeared.  I understand you grew from a need. A need for protection.  A warning to the little girl who once was.  I understand that you didn’t know how to protect her but tried.  Attempts of cautionary tales, but not knowing how or what to say, so you repeated the vitriol.  I understand. 

But the little girl is no longer.  She grew up.  She doesn’t need protection anymore.  You, my inner critic, have done your job.  You have contributed to making her into a strong woman.  I am that result.  Because of you I have a multitude of experiences, both good and bad.  I have loved and have lost.  I have endured and have excelled.  All which made me who I am today.  I thank you for your contributions, for what you tried to do; but ask for you to be silent.  Trust in who I am.  Let me be free.  It’s time.

It’s time for me to be free.  To explore, to experience with no inhibitions.  It’s time to realize my abilities without apprehensions.  To ride the winds of wonder with excitement.  Let me realize my capabilities, let me be complete. Please let me be free.  Let me be me.