"We are fragile, everyone. We all long for something more. Things are said and things are done and the pieces hit the floor. See how fragile." - Ralston Bowle
I like to think I'm pretty tough. I've been through a lot in my 65 years. Tomorrow will mark the 15th anniversary of the day I became cancer-free. It was a hard year of treatment. Two surgeries, months of chemo and radiation every morning for a month. And through it all, I barely missed a day of work. Cancer is tough. I am tougher.
In the last four years, I have twice been in heart failure. I've had surgery twice, both times under failed anesthetics. Heart failure is tough. I am tougher.
2020 started out as a promising year. My husband and I spent 25 days exploring Australia - the trip of a lifetime. I was apprehensive about the trip before we left. Twelve flights. Thirteen different hotel rooms, twelve of them on twelve consecutive nights. I walked hundreds of miles, sometimes in blistering heat in a nearly sixty-five year old body, with three herniated lumbar discs and a too-large pacemaker/defibrillator implanted in my chest. For weeks, I didn't have the therapy that keeps me upright. As wonderful as the adventure was, there were times when my body screamed at me for a chance to rest, but we didn't waste a moment. I kept telling myself I will have lots of time to sleep when I am dead. I am tough.
We came back from our adventure and went straight into lock down. It wasn't ideal but there was no choice. I dealt with it because I had to, just like everyone else. I found the silver linings and carried on. I started taking classes by Zoom. I baked more, painted more, read more, knitted more and canned more. I meditated through the pain that came with six months of no access to therapy. I figured out how I could help others in my community. I painted pretty rocks to leave for others to find, left jam and pickles on doorsteps and loaves of homemade bread at the homes of friends who were struggling. But I am tough so I did okay.
Life went on and things started to get better. The warmer days gave us new options. Poolside gatherings with neighbours, even a couple of patio lunches with friends and some socially distanced visits on the back deck.
But, in the past two months, things have changed. Both of my sisters had surgery. My oldest sister came to live with us for a time, and I came to learn that she has a greater need for support in daily living than I was aware. It is a hard time and while I don't see it as a burden, it is a weighty responsibility. After several months with little activity, my business took off at a speed it is hard to keep up. My every day for five weeks was filled with care giving and work. I woke up one morning to the devastating news of the sudden death of a dear friend. I flew into helper mode, trying to figure out how to support his family. I barely shed a tear. I stopped sleeping. Somewhere in the darkness of that week, I decided that if I was going to survive this time, I would have to find a way to build some joy back into my life. I started getting up an hour or two earlier in the morning so I could paint before I got my sister out of bed. It is how I connect to my emotions. Painting soothes me. A few days later, Dora, the little dog that I loved and often cared for, died. The dam broke. I couldn't stop crying. The U.S. election finally took place and after four sleepless nights, I met the news of the Biden/Harris win with tears of relief. It was a happy afternoon. I set up a new canvas and started painting.
Last night I happened on a Facebook post, showing the comments of a friend on the public Facebook page of a professional artist. I know my friend did not intend for me to ever see his comments. I don't know what he was thinking when he made them. But the comments, in which I was named, were flattering of the professional artist, and disparaging about my artistic efforts. I felt crushed. I've never pretended to be a great artist, I just paint for the joy of creation. The very thing that brings me such joy was suddenly turned on it's head. For an hour or so, I contemplated taking down the photos of my paintings from my own (not public) Facebook page which is the only place I share them. I started feeling concerned, wondering if I was embarrassing myself by posting pictures of my amateurish efforts. After a time, I remembered a conversation I had with an old friend last week. I hadn't spoken with her in a very long time but as we were signing off on our call, she told me how much she enjoys seeing pictures of my paintings. She said they make her happy because she could see the joy in every piece. I didn't take down the photos but I did get some insights into myself. The comments stung me far more than they should have. Why do I care if someone thinks I'm a lousy artist? I don't put a price tag on my paintings or ask anyone to buy them. They either hang in my foyer or in the homes of my friends and when I hand them over I always tell people that if they really don't like them, they can hang them in their closets. I will never know the difference. Perhaps the real insight is that I'm not so tough
after all. Right now, I'm actually feeling quite fragile.
Today, I went to my favourite art store. They were having a sale on oils and I was running low on paint. I bought a whole array of colours, four of them in different shades of blue.
