Diary entry April 17, 2017
Once I have reached my energy limit- my body/mind/spirit experiences a type of fatigue migraine– it comes on when I finally relax and have a day to stop- and seemingly ALL threatens to stop. My eyes can’t stay open in the tub, my heart feels tender, my to-do list seems unfriendly. But I know this is my pattern, my rollercoaster of creative process.
Remedy: on with the sweatpants, old tee, old cardigan, thick socks, clogs, rain coat, tote bag full of books and head out to the lagoon.
That is a step
On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap,
For in my way it lies.
I walk around the lagoon in absolute solitude- despite the crowds. I may smile at someone if they smile, but generally I only care about nature and the birds, the raccoons, squirrels. I have no interest in people on days like this; I have no interest in speaking.
My mind does not churn with angst but processes and there is a strange sensation of an impending cry. A cry never comes. I know this is the rubber band pulling back during creative process. The entire body fatigues.
Once around the lagoon, I stumble my way to the grocery store and more shyness takes over. I sweat. My hair is greasy. I really don’t care because I am protected by my age. My ugliness, my solitude, my experiences have built a protective wall and inside I am content. On the outside not so much- but inside.
And in that strange bubble of clumsy solitude and shyness and recoil and disdain for crowds, I feel strangely FREE.
Now I am sitting at a coffee shop, head down, writing- blissful in my ugliness- that same girl who spat at herself in the mirror in Grade 8 but who at the same time had a secret place deep in her heart that was free and loved and powerful.
I had my family. I had my art.
I have my family. I have my art.
There are days I have countless hours of energy for output. Then it dips when I rest and I get that fatigue migraine again. I am safe here at this table. Surrounded by others in their solitude bubble. The muse sits with me. She reaches out to touch my hand and inaudibly whispers- time to write. She guides.
The energy comes back. The body lightens. And the comfort of ugliness in old shitty clothes envelop me. I am safe in here.
What I dream of is an art of balance, of purity and serenity devoid of troubling or depressing subject matter – a soothing, calming influence on the mind, rather like a good armchair which provides relaxation from physical fatigue. – Henri Matisse