I was about eight when I went to live with my father. I remember visiting my mother one of those first weekends. She had started painting and on her easel was a mother bird with a baby bird struggling to fly behind her. I never knew for sure if the mother had left the baby or if the baby had tried to fly on its own. Last night, I had this memory and I thought I'd create the image of a bird in flight, with wings strong enough to keep going, whatever the weather. <3
The human race has been running and running for so very long and now we seem to be detoured, to think about what we're running for. In our stillness, I think about something new to stand for. Something to be now, instead of one day, someday. To stand for something larger than my complaints or my weaknesses or aspirations. To push myself to stand as my best self and be committed to connecting with others through curiosity instead of self-righteousness, through listening instead of secretly calculating whose ideas are worth more. To ditch age old instincts of competition for the sake of what's necessary for our species to thrive together - cooperation, flexibility, letting go of prejudice and conspiratorial thinking. To separate people’s pasts from their possibilities, to separate people’s behavior from their potential, and with honesty and vulnerability, to work together as a global community to see what new paths we can forge together with compassion, creativity, and a commitment towards progress where no one is left behind.
I wrote this poem about a woman who hoarded toilet paper and then wound up surviving all alone, but I felt so bad for her after the illustration was done, I just got rid of the poem.
Trying out a new way to write the memoir I've been working on forever about the relationship with my mother. Trying it out as an illustrated scrapbook of sorts.
My mother wasn’t a physically affectionate mother. She didn’t hug or kiss much and sure as hell didn’t breastfeed. But she adored me through praise. She made it her mission to make up for being ignored the entirety of her own miserable childhood by reminding me hourly in the sweetest most believable voice that I was the most special most beautiful little person in the entire universe. Every time I did anything—smile, sit up, eat, or build a castle—my mother was right there to make sure I knew I had done whatever I did better than anyone else ever had. Even my potty chair gave me a round of applause every time something hit the bottom. It was all an act of love. My mother had no foresight that years later I would suffer utter disappointment by the lack of standing ovations that followed the release of anything substantial from my depths. But back then, there were no disappointments. Life was wonderful. There were arms that scooped me up and eyes that doted on me and blueberry cobbler and warm baths and little Fisher Price plastic people that did as I wanted them to do. And after my mother lost the pregnancy weight and was able to fit into her designer clothing once again, there were daily excursions downtown on the Rapid Transit to the department store restaurant where I ate little chicken pot pies from little pretend cardboard ovens while passersby gawked gawked gawked. I was sung to, I was read to, I was blessed. But of course, things changed.
This Christmas, many gifts will come in beautiful packages, but no matter the season, what people give all the time is their own self, whoever they happen to be at any particular moment. And sometimes what they give is far from beautiful. So just as when someone gives you something in a box that you don’t care for or need and you return it, you certainly don’t need to accept these other kinds of gifts if they’re offensive to you. That doesn’t mean you need to say, “Hey buddy, I’ve got an idea. How ‘bout you send this ‘gift’ straight up the ass it came from?” Instead you can choose to give something in return that comes from your best self. Something that’s aligned with what you stand for in the world, something that’s true for you, given in a way that inspires understanding and peace. This is the spirit of giving that stops pain from spreading like a virus throughout the world.
“My dear, it might feel like the world is trying to kill your spirit, but the world is just going on with its business. In this culture of comfort and distracted indifference, you are the only one truly capable of screwing yourself completely. Of killing off your own magic. Of refusing to have faith in your unique language of the divine, and keeping it secret because you fear no one will understand or cherish it as much as you do. That stuff inside that inspires you – it’s a gift life has given you. Not to repackage in a way that you think would be better received to get the attention or approval of others. But your gift to give just as it inspires you, whether in a conversation, a work of art, a contribution to your family or community.
Look around. Look at how many people are just like you, hiding their gift. Second guessing it’s even a gift. Stifling their own relationship with their own spirit because they doubt its existence is real. Introduce yourself to these people. You will know who they are. You will see the anguish in their eyes as they stand there trying to make light of the ways they’re dying inside. Exchange gifts with these people. Until you become fluent in as many languages of the divine as there are. In this era, this is how you have faith in something larger than yourself, something that will last longer than you. This is how you emerge from the confines of your pain. By letting your spirit out into the world, to share its unusual experience of being alive with others who are also here.” -Delroy
No longer need you wait at the edge of your moments for directions or invitations. You are an emotional free agent now. Able to provide for yourself. No need to be flowery about it. You’re a creature here like all the rest, capable of absorbing moonlight.
So often, people can’t find an outlet for their ideas and their ideas get stuck and start yelling to be free. So many people don’t understand that it’s their ideas yelling to be free. They think instead there must be something wrong with their life. It doesn’t occur to people that it’s their ideas that feel stuck and miserable. Our ideas are always pushing and begging us to share them because they recognize their own beauty and truth and usefulness. And when we don’t let them out, it’s really painful for us and for our ideas. Sometimes I think our real job in life is to find and create outlets for our ideas. I used to wait and wait and wait for the perfect outlet or invitation to share my best ideas. And when I couldn’t find one, things got pretty crowded inside my body because new ideas are always being born. It became difficult to move and breathe and carry them all around. Eventually I had to get them out. I just couldn’t take the discomfort anymore. It wasn’t the outlet I had hoped for, but the thing I learned is that when ideas are allowed to get out, the outlet doesn’t really matter – so long as the ideas can be seen and heard by another. And after one idea is let out, the rest of the ideas usually get excited and follow, if we let them go. And when we can see our ideas on the other side, they always thank us and take on a life of their own. When I remember to treat my ideas the way I’d treat someone I love, I remember to give them the space, any space, to be free.
It’s easy to get furious at someone who tells you that you’re projecting. And often times the people who use this expression are deflecting the attention off the fact that they are indeed behaving like an asshole. But when I think of the word ‘projection' on my own, as a way to understand the truth about myself, so that I can be free to enjoy moments inside my skin, I can see that I do project a lot. And it does have to do with my having internalized a lot of bad behavior from a lot of reactive people throughout my past. But it’s still an enormous burden to carry. For instance, I might hear the words, “What are you talking about?” and make it mean, “Your thoughts are invalid. You are worthless,” because I’m still remembering the way someone made me feel in the past and I sure as hell am not going to let anyone treat me like that again. So much adrenaline begins to flow when I get like this. When I feel like I’m fighting for my dignity. So I figure it’s kind of important for my health and happiness to practice noticing where my projections are coming from. When I try this, it gives me a little space between my reactions to remember that I am a grown-up now. That as scary and unsafe as this used to seem, I really don’t need other people’s agreement to validate my perspective. It’s a hard thing to practice. And especially hard not to react when another person’s projections are on me. And even harder still to find a place in my heart to honor that sacred perspective in us all.
Brautigan is the best thing that ever happened to me, but sometimes it's hard being a mother and an artist. :)
Marriage, to me, is more a mortise of two people’s life-long themes, dead-ending into one another. It's not bliss that follows, in my opinion, but a chance for these two people to discover what the hell happened, find compassion for themselves and each other, and then have something in common to really laugh about.
For those of us touched by Lyme. :)
I remember being little and carrying the weight of all the stories I was secretly compiling about my own experiences. I wanted so badly to share them with someone who might have the time to understand and appreciate what I was going through. I longed for someone to tell me that my stories were special and beautiful, that they were worth telling. Sometimes just telling our stories gets them out into the light and oxygen where they can breathe and share their important messages with us. Every time I grew older, my younger self still wanted so badly to share her stories, so I went to work for her, trying to find someone who might have some time to listen. And I wish it hadn’t taken so long before it occurred to me that I was the person this young girl had been waiting for. Once I figured it out, I asked the little girl to tell me her stories. And her stories were wonderful stories - full of feelings big and small and magical. And I cherished each one instead of judging them or making them wrong. And finally that little girl had a chance to be heard and seen as the star of her own movie. Some of us parent our own children, some of us are parenting our own children within, and many of us do both at the same time. I hope my son will always feel free enough to share his stories, to know they matter.
Motherhood. :)
Privilege is getting to see what you want, when you want, how you want.
This one is an attempt to eliminate screen time guilt. Sort of. :)
An illustration I made today about feeling overwhelmed and guilty at the same time.
This one is about how easy it is to see myself in so many parts and then see another as a whole unit, alive just to make my life difficult. :)
Thought I’d turn an old dream I had into an illustration. I was so grateful for everything everyone said to me after my mother passed, but I suspect some people who have been in mourning will relate to this a little. Maybe. :)
