Faith

Hellebore flowers and a copy of a graveyard angel in my new sketchbook- just half of the full spread, one of the first pages.  The new book is going well- I have been working constantly in it, painting mostly and drawing ears which are difficult things to draw.  Disembodied ears are odd looking, recognizable but not, strange bits of folded anatomy.  I am working on learning how to draw people this summer- it is not my strong point though I can manage characters/cartoons or gestures- but not detailed realistic drawings, and I want to learn how to do that technically.  So I am beginning with the ear- which I am obsessed with anyway at the moment- and will move on to other parts, then wholes.  A worthy endeavor.

Hellebore flowers are a kill or a cure, they act beneficially on paralysis, gout and insanity- but can cause vertigo, stupor, death- supposedly one of the causes of the death of Alexander the Great.  They do not grow around here, I suppose it is too hot or they are unfashionable, but they were all over the parks in NYC- blooming in the early spring, even in the snow.  Christmas Roses, though not rose-like at all but rather remind me of dogwood with an extra petal and strange odd colors of black, green, parchment rose.  Unusual plants- a curiosity to paint, to couple with the graveyard angel with wings of lace.

This is a strange season- storms are early, forming off the coast, yet the rain is not as expected.  It falls hard and heavy and strong but then vanishes just as quickly, leaving tumultuous skies, dire warnings on the news and long lines at Walmart.  Other people have the pricklies, not just me- everyone seems on edge, resulting in texts of news of late-night breakups, dramatic mugshots, broken engagements.  On Saturday afternoon a young boy (he was 9) is killed by a stray bullet during a drive-by, not in a far off city, but here in our little town, in a residential neighborhood not that far away.  My moodiness has lifted some, I slept forever again yesterday- but up early this morning after dreaming of huge construction paper towers and balls of clay, and I still feel like I'm dreaming as I write.  It is the re balancing of chaos and order at the end of the year, the transition from school to summer, the fear and excitement of all of us at a change in routine.  As Dr. Mike explained (and Mr. Owens confirmed) I like to be in control, but not be controlled.  And when the two go head to head, I get angry.  Right now that means that I want to control at school- the ordering and cleaning of the environment, the wrapping up of paperwork and projects- but the kids are chaotic, bored, testing the boundaries.  At the same time it is evaluation time for everyone, and administration is 'cracking down' on everything (not just students, but our wearing of 'inappropriate footwear') asserting control themselves- and stuck between the two I get angry and rebel, withdraw- neither of which are productive in the least.  And I *know* this- it happens every year and should be expected- but I always internalize it as my responsibility, an effect that I cause and thus must master.  And the purpose of therapy is, in many ways, to remind us of what we already know- to bring it to the forefront so that we can understand the behavior instead of be consumed by it.  I know that I feel better, calmer after a session- and it is the perspective of the outsider that is valuable, even if they do tell me the same things as my husband, my friends.  The confirmation that reactions and observations are real, valid, and not just something to do.

And so today I write, I've been telling stories already this morning, news and comfort, ideas for art. (I love facebook, I admit- though I just read and 'like' more than I write, today I've been writing as well).  Strange how I have more of a voice in text than in words- it may be my social habits (silly, bossy, shy, aloof at turns) or that listening is work (either repeat it, or I just space out- pretend to understand and make non-committal  noises according to your facial expressions, or whatever oddness I have at the moment that distracts me), or just that this is what I do best, when I am my most real, honest.  Truthfully, I rarely think about who is reading this as I write- I keep in mind that unlike a physical diary it is not private, but I'm ok with that.  I have nothing to hide and like speaking the truth as it is at the moment....and truthfully, I write for myself.  A sounding board, a way to turn thoughts into the physical where they can be dealt with, addressed, remembered.  Long ago I kept 'morning pages' ala Julia Cameron, a physical daily journal, and I have those books still...but I like this better.  Same opening of the gates, but in a format that is more fluid than hand writing for me, and in which I can include images, others- and sharing it keeps me honest.

I don't know why honesty seems to be so important to me right now, but it is.  Not honesty as in 'don't swipe the last doughnut in the box then pretend you don't know what happened to it' but honesty as in addressing what I really think and feel without worrying that it will seem overly sugary sweet, or vainglorious, or obsessive or whatever.  Just saying it, for whomever chooses to listen, faith in my words to keep me real.