I don’t often lose things. Keys, gloves, hats, mittens, I usually own them for life. I don’t know why that is. I tend to be pretty grounded and track on a minute by minute basis. It’s changed as I’ve gotten older. I have more spaciness. I attribute it to hormonal shifts in the brain and the body.
Last December, after I moved from an apartment I’d lived in for 14 years, I lost track of everything. I purged and got rid of things quickly, off to Goodwill and ARC and Salvation Army. Art studio items were boxed up and moved to storage. I didn’t know what I was living with and what I’d given away or stacked into the garage.
I still don’t know. I recently drove over near the lake to grab a few boxes out of storage. I ended up with about 10 piled inside the Camry, and now stacked by the piano in our living room. In two of them, I found the documents I needed. One bent box, with my scribbled handwriting of 10 years ago, contained a stack of old journals. I’m thinking I may toss them or burn them. I need to see what’s on the page.
Before I did writing practice, my journals were filled with intellectual analyzing and the day-to-day trivia of love and life. So what’s changed? A lot. I can’t stand to read the old stuff. But it does have details that I might use in my memoir. It’s just so boring. I guess this could be considered boring, too. But usually by the end of a practice, I’ve gotten down to some little tidbit that I didn’t know about myself before.
Losing face. The mask. I’ve felt a lot of shame over the course of living. It’s been a long haul to turn it around into confidence. To let go. To know that the choices I make and the things I do are not me. They are choices I make and things I do. Many women feel some form of shame. I know because I hear them talk about it or act from that place in their heart. I recognize it. If you know what to look for, no one can hide.
I often wished to be lost. To never have to grow up. The better I feel about day-to-day living, the more fond I am of the notion of adult. It’s not necessarily easy to think the way artists and writers think. To pull the grub into the heart and spit it back out in words or images that ping the feeling in others. You’ve got to be willing to take in all the crap life has to dish out.
I’ve lost my way a few times. Felt completely ungrounded. Like when I was 21 and moved to Montana. One day I was in Pennsylvania. The next I was flying into Missoula. The only ground I could find were the mountains that captured me the minute I stepped off the plane, held me, and never let go. I still dream about them sometimes, especially the Bitterroots where I spent time stripping logs and digging foundations for the cabins my friends were building.
When I see photographs of myself at that time, I have this lost look in my eyes. I don’t recognize the 20-year-old body. What happened to that? I’m staring at the camera, eyes clear and hazel blue. But where are they going?
Here. They were going here. To the place I’ve landed. The last 10 years have been more about letting go and letting in a bigger life. I didn’t think I deserved a bigger life. What do I think now? There are givers and takers. And they live side by side. I’ve given away too much. But no regrets.
The wind’s whipping through the naked oaks outside the window. I’m waiting for the contractor to come power wash the deck in preparation for sanding, shoring up, and painting. There is a wobble in the pine rails and floorboards. But the foundation is solid. The peeling paint is tinted from the green of arsenic. The contractor said that’s what they used to use to preserve building wood. He said arsenic is not used anymore. But the chemical they’ve come up with to replace it is no better.
That’s the way I feel this morning. Wobbly and solid. Not lost. Not found. I’m here on the couch beside Pants who is curled up in a pile of lime green and hot pink tissue paper. It was wrapped around the Halloween bouquet a few days ago. He quietly cleans himself. The paper crinkles under his ear. It seems to comfort him. Cats never seem lost. They know to follow their instincts. I’m learning to listen.
-from Topic post, WRITING TOPIC – WHAT HAVE YOU LOST
[…] – Lost – 15min November 5th. 2007, 9:10am Team Register wrote an interesting post today […]
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QM, another scrawler picking us up. You’re “Team Register” in this one, and I’m “Unknown.” Kind of strange…
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ybonesy, yeah, the creepy (s)crawlers. I wonder if they run a program that assigns a name at random. Probably. It’s all about the money for those sites. It is strange to know there are people out there that gobble your work up and spit it back out on their own sites under another name. Like I said – the Givers. And the Takers. You can’t stop the river. Oh, the power washer is here. Gotta run.
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This may seem like a strange thing to have picked up, but in the comment from you QM, I read, …”can’t stop the river. Oh, the power washer is here.”
That is what I had gotten from the post before I read the comments.
Don’t be the river, be the Power Washer!
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leslie, I love that! I think I’ll make it my new mantra – Don’t be the river, be the Power Washer!
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QM – this piece really resonated with me. It is NOT easy to think like a writer or artist, but I can’t seem to stop and act ‘normal’ for long periods, either. Do people have any idea what goes on in our heads? (Actually, I think Leslie does) 😉
As for being ungrounded, I’m beginning to find myself more creative in that volatile state. Is that strange or do other creative people feed on chaos?
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LOL. I know what you mean about feeding on chaos, sharon. And I’ve felt anything BUT normal for most of my life. When I was in art school, they told us that only about 1% of the population thinks the way artists do. We are in the minority. I’m guessing it’s nearly the same with writers. There is a certain way of thinking, seeing, and being in the world. The levels of observation and willingness to go to places other people have no desire to travel.
The chaos part – my chaos theory is this: when I do my art, I go crazy wild. Paint on my clothes, fingers, hands, face, smeared across the knobs on kitchen sink. If I’m papermaking, I’m completely wet and entrenched in the smell of cattail or day lily. The creative process is going wild in my mind because I’m letting my body go free.
But underneath all that “creative chaos” is a structure – there are steps to go through when developing photographs, creating paper, mixing paint, printmaking, sculpture. Like Gail said in one of her comments on Inner Rhythms, she has to remember to put down the acrylic paint before the oils if she uses them on the same canvas. Because if she doesn’t, the oil can’t breathe (do I have that order right? I think so!).
And in writing, I try to do my crazy, wild practices. But if I want to turn them into finished pieces, I have to add a structure to them, check spelling, verb tenses, narrative drive…well, all that is putting structure to the chaos of the original idea. And adding a grounded base. Without the ground, where are they going?
And that’s my chaos theory. You know what’s weird? I have a hard time starting an art or writing project. But once I start, there’s a fire that rips through me, and I don’t ever want to stop. I live for that fire! That’s why I write or do art!
Thanks for the great comment. You really got me thinking.
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