Confessions of a Missing Artist

Two months, three weeks and one day.

2-3-1.

3-2-1.

If I believed in numerology or whatever excitement these numbers would incite in some people, I would indeed think it was a sign of being on the right path or today being the day that everything will finally make sense. But, being the skeptic/cynic that I am, it is indeed a silly coincidence and only discovered because I was so embarrassed by the amount of time I had let slip by since the last time I posted here. But who's counting? 

numerology.jpeg

Only me.

These past two months (and three weeks and one day) have felt much like I would imagine a sock feels first being used as a barrier between skin, shoe and hard ground, being a collector of sweat and stink only then to be thrown into a washing machine to be tossed, shaken, drenched, spun in a maniacal circle to then finally be thrown into another heated hell of a dreadful spin. I'm exaggerating (a lot) but now you understand that I have been feeling the opposite of calm and content.

I should preface this confession by stating, and wholeheartedly acknowledging, that my life has truly been dusted with the stuff of fairies and illuminated by stars and rainbows with appearances by knights in shining armour and unicorns with glitter in their hair. My life is as good as they come and everyday my breath is taken away with gratitude for all the beauty that my life is.

The details will be spared here as they are not important. What I have come to discover about myself in the past few months is that I seem to have misplaced the fire in my belly and all the wonder and excitement I once felt for life and art. I don't know exactly how or why but I know it to be true. Something has gone missing or at least has been misplaced and I have been tirelessly working at finding it again and returning it to its rightful owner — me.

What triggered this post and the true and shocking realization that this is sadly the truth of my existence now is two conversations I had with two dear friends in the past week. Both women are forces to be reckoned with — one a violinist and recipient of the Order of Canada and the other a surgeon who has made a bold and brave decision to follow her dream of fashion and design. The amount of love and respect I have for these two is immeasurable so when they each, in separate conversations, shared with me their perception of this less colourful version of myself, I was thrown. I knew they wouldn't be sharing this with me if they didn't feel it to be important and really, if it wasn't out of their own love and respect for me. I may be lying if I said it came as a surprise because it's something that I've know for too long now and have been too scared or to ashamed to admit it, if only to myself.

Another Internet find.

Another Internet find.

These loving and honest words fell on my ears and stung my heart in a way that left me numb for days to follow. I found myself holding back tears while running on the treadmill, laying awake at night trying to reconnect the dots that lead me here to this place that I hoped I'd never end up. Feeling angry, sad, confused and overwhelmed at the understanding that I am now at the beginning of a long and tangled battle against myself — the woman I've become and the woman I am meant to be. 

And as I read through this post to edit grammatical errors I also see that it's full of the shit I have come to loathe about our generation, of women especially, always on a quest to find themselves. But then I recall one of the two conversations I just had where my dear surgeon-turned-designer friend talked about the women in her life that she held in the highest regard whom she called the 'questers' — the one's who are always asking questions, looking forward and behind to make sure they are where they need to be, who love so deeply they break their own hearts and feel insane amounts of joy at life's smallest pleasures. With this, I am reminded that I may be on this eternal journey to discover my true self while fully acknowledging there is no final destination.

And then I feel a sense of relief. Something has loosened, softened and has been given permission to be released. 

This post is simply my confession about my disappearance, in mind and body and art, from this little corner in the internet and from the real stage of my life as I dig deep and rediscover myself again. I will leave you with a small excerpt from something I wrote the other night as I let my friends words settle around my mind and loosen the tight edges I've been building for a little too long now:

How could I love a city that I feel nothing for? A city that was the home of the greatest changes of my life without giving me even a thread to hold onto? Am I blaming everything around me for something that has always stirred inside me? Perhaps it is just me who stirs and dances around the truth which is what I haven't been able to get a grip on. It's the person I’ve allowed myself to become. If I’ve allowed it I should also be the one to give myself permission to undo it. Oh the work I have set out before me! I am the demanding, the bold, fierce, honest, creative, lover of life, curious about all things, dancer, writer, lover! Where is she? Where did I let her get off to? Come back dear girl… come back to me, find your way inside my bones and under my skin, burrow deep and long so that I never feel the cool hollow air of your disappearance again. I welcome you back sweet girl… girl with big dreams and a big personality, the girl with a kind heart and fire in her belly. Come back so we can live together, dance our way to old age, to another life but first to conquer this one together. Let’s discover what it feels like to get messy again, to get our fingernails dirty with dust and paint, our hair ratty and silken with grease and more paint. I want to feel your fire in my belly again, the sense of wonder and excitement of the absolute possibility that life is and that you’ve always known it to be. Let me feel your bright eyes see the world with only light and to feel your heart get heavy with the weight of your sensitivity. I want to feel it all through you like I did when I could only still dream of the woman I would be come. Come back to me sweetest girl. Let’s make love our final plight – love in all its nasty, painful, electric and wild glory because glorious love is what we have always sought and together, once again, we will go on an adventure. 

These words are for K — your bravery inspires me everyday to pick up my paint brush or at least to brush my hair because it's baby steps that will get us there, dear girl.

As always, thanks for the visit.

Until next time, mMxo