I’m going through so much right now. As Brene says, I’m smack in the middle of my mid-life unraveling. And it’s hard. Nasty. Sometimes violent work. It’s filled with anxiety, panic, hopelessness.
Someone asked me the other day if I was still writing. I’m writing TONS, but just not things I’m ready to put out there. I’m working on a book which I intend to publish, but wading through everything is difficult, and it takes time.
This is not a cry for help. This is a sharing of my story in the hopes it finds a heart to resonate with.
That’s the entire reason for putting anything “out there.” Someone else asked me how I do that. “How do you put yourself out there for people who don’t really deserve to hear it?” That was a difficult question. I do it because it matters to someone. I do it because someone, somewhere, who’s being honest with themselves knows exactly where those words fit into their heart. I’m doing it for “Me too.”
Because we all go through difficult times. Because life is hard and messy. Because we all get knocked on our asses.
I’ve been working so hard over the last 6 months or so. Harder than I’ve ever worked on anything for my entire life.
I’ve been through some trauma, y’all. It has changed me forever. And, I haven’t worked all the way through it. I’m still not okay yet.
I spent a year and a half in utter shock, running on whatever function is below autopilot. Idling?
Cancer came and delayed it all. I thought, at first, it had brought me healing because I had such clarity throughout my treatment. But that was not true. It merely pushed everything aside.
There is no easy, fast healing. Even cancer can’t magically bring that, especially if you have years to unpack.
I’ve been putting in the work. I’ve been reaching all the way back. I’ve been cleaning out my emotional and spiritual closet. Looking at each piece, seeing if it still fits or suits me, seeing how it affected me, letting things go, burning things, keeping others, trying to figure out why.
But it’s rough. It’s difficult. It’s painful.
The other day, I bought three different sizes of canvasses at Hobby Lobby. I have this idea in my head to create a wall collage and paint an aspen forest on it. In my head it looks so beautiful and vibrant. I can see it so clearly.
I started the background. I know I’m going to have to layer this as I go.
My expected layers are:
Blue – for the sky.
Light blue/white/yellow, to show the direction of the sun.
Then, start by layering the leaves in the background. Darker to lighter.
Then the white trunks of the aspen trees – from a distance.
Once my background is settled in, I can bring those close aspens in. Really focus on the bark and the leaves.
Seal it, and I’m done.
This is what I have so far:
Two layers.
This morning, I have a paintbrush in my hand. I’ve stood and studied the canvases. I haven’t even poured the shades of green. I can’t quite commit. Because I’m scared.
I'm scared.
I have the paintbrush in my hand, and I realize this is exactly where I am in my life.
I have painted the background, but I’m scared to paint the next layer. What if I mess it up? What if it’s not what I expect in my head? What if it’s not good? What if I have to redo it?
I know what you might be thinking – just get another canvas. Some of you might even think – Dude, just buy a picture of this on Etsy! I’ve had all these thoughts as well.
I have so many layers to left to paint.
My painting won’t be finished until the day I die. But I can’t stop painting. I can’t put my brush down. Even if I have to get a brand-new canvas, over and over again, I will keep painting. Layering. Studying.
This is hard, taxing work. Some days, I’d just like to ignore the healing. But it won’t go away. It’s always there, nagging me to paint. It’s such a risk. It’s so scary.
But deep down, somewhere in the folds of my heart, I know I can paint something breathtakingly beautiful.
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