So my creativity brings me to my keyboard this morning, whirling around with potential words that could take shape into a masterful structure….or could crash down in a heap. Either way, something is brewing. I’m feeling at my writing the same way I look at my drawing, what is it that is wanting to come through? Its tough to see through the fog. Maybe this is just a stream of consciousness that will turn into my shitty first draft (SFD) or it will be deleted away to never be heard from again. But here’s to hoping of the fog to lift. If I was drawing, I’d start making circles on the page. Priming the pump by getting my hand moving. Making shapes that could form into bigger shapes, and lines and perhaps a face would come through. So this stream of click clack of the keyboard is my equivalent rev up. Its so easy to get distracted, maybe some tea, maybe answer that text back, maybe go draw instead….but no, not yet. Keep clacking away at the keys until something takes shape. Is there some sensation going on in my body, maybe we could talk about that? Man if I was talking to a friend they would hang up the phone on me by now. Get to the point Jen, what is it that you need to say? Maybe there is nothing really. The dreaded blank out. Tap out. Numb out. This week was intense for me. So intense that I went under water physically, mentally and spiritually. I was so tired by the weekend I spent all of Saturday in recovery and today could go 50/50. I know one thing, I don’t want to be domestic. Its hard not to judge myself on those days. Especially when my weekend warrior of a husband is ready to get productive around the house first thing on Saturday morning. I had to have the guts enough to say what I needed which was to take an afternoon nap. Which I did and I was so glad when I surrendered to it. These lessons of radical self care has overtaken my drive. So today my creativity wants to rise to the surface, however my brain is a bit numb. circle circles circles…allergies suck. circles circles circles…man what would it be like to write a book? circles circles circles, did that pychic actually channel my aunt Joanne? circles circles circles…maybe I should write her a letter….
Aunt Joanne. My sweetest aunt and cheerleader. The one who picked me up on Friday nights to spend the weekend dancing around your house. The one who drove me to St. Louis to visit family, and let me spend summer days sitting in front of your large box tv on your 70s green carpet and laugh at Carole Burnett. Your house had the cool stuff, the extra bikes and swing set with monkey bars. Leslie had a record player that lit up and a 4 post bed with canopy. She got to drive first and later on would take me out to experience trying to pretend we were grown. You played the piano and had a pool and hot tub. You let me brush your hair when we would watch tv and you always just let us be ourselves. I never remember getting in trouble by you. There was a freedom that I didn’t have at home when I was with you. I remember family events seated around your kitchen table. I remember beach trips with you and your kids. I remember taco bell and you let us order the expensive nachos bell grande which was more than the kids menu stuff I was allowed to normally get. As we got older you always encouraged me to try new things. You said you were proud of me for trying out for everything. Your poem you sent me about living and doing and having nothing to loose, I hung in my locker at school and I kept until recently when it finally ripped apart.
I know things in your family might not have worked out how you had hoped. That fears and disordered thinking crept in and paralyzed you. You helped others in recovery and ultimately died in the grips of that disease. Maybe that is why you were called to that work. And why we are all called to the work that we do in this word, its is so we can heal ourselves.
I see the lineage of pain. From person to person in our tribe the wave has hit us all different. I know the alcoholism as it were wiped out any connections that felt safe. So much so the relationship with my own mother was called to the table. How do I reconcile all of it? Its super hard and something I guess I will hold for the rest of my life. I don’t know how to put it down as of now. I don’t like this rock in my backpack, its too heavy to carry. But I guess I don’t get that choice. Because otherwise I have to fit into a box that doesn’t carry my body. I can’t have the freedom to live how I see myself living in order to have something sacred with my mom.
At times, angry, lonely and disconnected. I guess that is the plight of the wave recovery. Showing up to the life that I am sitting with. Learning to love the ways I can and hoping that this wave doesn’t knock down the next line of kids as hard. Unbridled honesty is the only way I know how to swim to the crest of the wave. Begging my angels to be pushy and show me how to heal. What can you see from your shifts of perspective? Growing as these human fragile shells on this earth.
Family is an illusion it seems. Family isn’t broken or whole. Family isn’t more or less than the expectations we hold on to. Every sphere of our family has its own family. Its own partnerships. Its own life of its own. Family isn’t perfect and wears no shoulds. There’s a lineage of broken lines and the shoulds of those lines are outdated. Your sisters, your mothers, your children are there own. There’s no suffering because there is no loss. It either works or it doesn’t. Autonomy is all there is.