Musings of a Meandering Mind

One of the chapters in T he 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

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.

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

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.

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

One of my dearest friends introduced me to a course created by Julia Cameron called T he 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,

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.  Mo ments 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 m oments whe re 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

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 mem