My ugliness, my solitude, my experiences have built a protective wall

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.

Gas mask

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

Submit a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s