Mother of Art

Disclaimer- This post contains experiences with intuition, wisdom, death, and miscarriage.  

cre·a·tion – noun – The action or process of bringing something into existence.

Everything is perfect, because it’s exactly how things are.

Those are the words that came to my head when I had my third miscarriage. It wasn’t how I thought I’d react. I expected to be inconsolable if the unlikely chance happened again. I imagined myself receiving that news and falling to the floor, screaming and kicking giving no other choice but to lock me in a padded room. I expected to feel utterly defeated and hopeless and eventually go numb, hollowing out my heart like an empty shell. But instead, after an awkward but comforting cremation on our back deck, I ran to my vision board to write down those words like a holy rhetoric. They felt like a gift. A priceless exchange of blood for wisdom. The verbalization of complete and total acceptance of the present moment. Surely a blatantly contradicting reaction to the current circumstances, but great grace and power still held a presence in its truth.  

Everything is perfect because it’s exactly how things are. Those words wrapped around me like a warm embrace. The kind you get from a parent who is fully clued in to their ability to console a child; as if it’s all arms were ever made for. They invited me to curl up beside them on a pillow and let the dreary world outside fade away. They expanded my heart like a balloon that’s never known a needle and filled my belly like I had no recollection of hunger. In the midst of terrible pain, I somehow felt hope and bliss and any amount of guilt that remained floated to the top to be quickly sanitized and dried up by the luminous light shining from the inner source of those words.

This story has been difficult to start to say the least. I’ve been mulling over the experiences and the words I want to say again and again but they stack over each other, erasing my previous chain of thought. Like the scruffy, broom-dog character from Alice in Wonderland is following behind me, sweeping away every line I write and then suddenly I look back and I don’t know how I got to where I am and the only way to get on track is to let it go and start from the beginning. But I’m not sure the thoughts I want to transcribe are linear. Maybe that’s why this has been so hard to begin. This story I’m compelled to tell is composed of the present, the past and the future woven together in a spiraling double helix. No piece can be forgotten and still make up the picture of the person I am and the life I’m living. One point omitted could be terminal…. or at least change the shape of my hips or something, if we’re still talking genes.

Several weeks ago as I was still battling the fog of starting and stopping, and erasing, and pondering this post, I returned home to find my cat, Galileo had passed away. E was travelling so I stepped up to the responsibility of his burial, something I’ve rarely faced before, especially on my own. Digging his grave felt sobering and enlightening. Each shovel of earth was as enriching to my soul as the soil It contained. I took my time, thinking through his timely passing. He had been sick since March, the vets couldn’t find a reasonable diagnosis other than cancer. Losing one of our beloved Labs the year before made receiving the news somewhat familiar, knowing now that that could be the fate of many our furry companions that made up our small family since E and I united over a decade ago. Finally our journeys with each of them are coming full circle. We watched them navigate from birth to death, with most of their circumstances crafted by us but with their best interests at heart.

I knew Galileo was getting close. I was prepared to take him in on Thursday since he was showing his first signs of not eating and not acknowledging me when I went to check on his frail, weakened body basking in the sun. That’s when I began coming to terms with his passing. Up to that point I had let the focus of caring for him over power my thoughts of letting him go. But in the moment he finally looked over at me, I saw it, the same look as Zissou gave me on the kitchen floor the year before. A despondent stare as if finally giving in to the tide of death coming in as fast as the changing light. Then, the wisdom enveloped me and I suddenly understood that his body was no longer serving him and was only holding his soul back. I rejoiced slightly in the fact that my humble human mind could see past my selfishness and see the freedom that he’d be granted in his passing. He would be a part of everything once again and would not be limited by failing flesh and bone. His spirit would be free to move on to its next brazen experience.

That Wednesday morning, I found his body not far from where I kissed him goodnight a few hours before. It was traumatizing and heart wrenching, I’ll admit, but I recognized the divine perfection of the natural order of events. The peaceful presence of death hung over the house like a heavy blanket and I humbly breathed it in. I had very little experience with death from the time I was young. I didn’t have close relationships tied to any of the vigils I attended. That day I finally came face to face with death in the natural order of life and, therefore, found a piece of me that was missing. Another sliver of light to round out the gibbous reflection of my young, conscious experience here.

I wasn’t all wise though. I spent most of the time digging his grave scrutinizing my actions, second guessing its placement when I knew it was right from the start, and then criticizing myself for questioning it. After I covered him with earth I thought back to any of his possessions I could have added, as if something was judging my execution of this task and his soul would pay the price for any cut corners. I even spent half an hour painting a rock as his gravestone only to cast it aside when a more suitable replacement that reminded me of him crossed my path, sparkling like a galaxy in the sunlight.

I find that’s what happens when I don’t initially trust my intuition or slow down enough to listen. I only travel in circles to come back to the original gut instinct (if I’m lucky). I made a vow to myself two years ago to listen to that voice and let it guide me opposed to arrogantly stumbling through the dark. That commitment has drastically changed the confidence of my strut through life, however sometimes the juvenile voice of doubt is louder.  

When I think back through the years, that voice has always been there. And just as consistently it has been cast aside and overlooked for outside validation. I remember consciously realizing that I needed to begin asking my own personal opinion first when it came to decision making. To start showing myself the same respect as I showed those I admired and establish a baseline for personal dignity. So elementary but so powerful of a decision. While the starting point of these realizations is crucial, its still a work in progress for me. My wings are growing and unfolding a little more each day, but until I’m a master at flying I acknowledge there will always be a little doubt.

Intuition has always shone through in pivotal moments when I’ve needed it most. When I retreat inward because the outside world can offer no adequate comforts. When I experienced my second miscarriage in Tulia, Tx, I felt entirely broken. It wasn’t news I could prepare for and the experience flipped me over and shook me out like it wanted every cent I contained. That’s when I felt it. The urge overtook me and I had no other way to turn but to my art space. I felt stricken straight through the heart with the sharpest arrow and left to bleed out slowly. My heart and my eyes were gushing emotions which I felt flowing through the brush with the medium I’d chosen. I never used watercolors, but the decision felt right. I mirrored the colors of emotions I felt and let them flow like tears down the page.

My creations in that home didn’t stop there. I had a craving inside that called me. I knew I was an artist at my core but didn’t have much to show for it. I let small bursts of inspiration come through once every few years up to that point, but never effectively practiced or expanded my pallet from my childhood art kits. E knew that’s what I needed and that Christmas he blessed me with the greatest gift, a professional easel and an introduction to oil painting. I showed my appreciation by painting some of my most glorious works, including a special masterpiece for him. It told our story of love, adventure and our venturesome but rewarding path walking hand in hand towards the unknown.

Piece by piece I was uncovering my talent and my voice that I knew always dwelled below the surface. The intense emotions I felt during our span of time in that small town fueled the inspiration for each concept. Whether it was dreaming of cool, rushing rivers, healthily gleaming with green mosses or the internal anguish of feeling like a barren desert, constantly longing for the relief of rain in the distance.  

Alas, those monumental days were only one chapter in our journey. Potentially as short as one page in the grand scope of this novel, as life keeps going, revealing the unthinkable and the un-dreamable. So many beautiful moments have came and went, and in hindsight I see the beauty even in the trauma and turmoil. The darkness that caused so many bruises always led to a light switch. The second miscarriage is what led E and I to our decision to follow our dreams and move to Colorado. And it was right after we moved that it happened again.

Surprisingly to me, I still found loving myself easy. My future felt bright and dreams were still possible. Looking back today shows me our initial years in Colorado would have been very difficult. We wouldn’t have experienced the nightlife, the festivals, the travelling. The professional ventures that led to our financial stability and now our home. The risk taking and the personal growth. We were able to take our time reuniting after fights and express our love uninterrupted. The fires that burned through our emotional debris could have easily burned us up and anyone else with us if they weren’t carefully controlled. Instead we were fortunate to live our mid-twenties recklessly, intimately, passionately, and spontaneously like we always wanted to. It’s the perspective that five years provides and the gratitude for all the exploration and adventure that helped me through our most recent loss this year, number four.

I have to heed my instincts and try to understand them. I’ve lost sleep many nights trying to ignore the guilt in my mind and the evidence against me. I wasn’t ready to be a mother in Tulia TX. I didn’t want to be a mother in a place even I didn’t want to live, that was riddled with cancer and foul air, a disconnect from all culture, with no water or hills or trees. I knew that I couldn’t find happiness in that life, but yet I thought I was willing to accept it and make the most of it, like I do. When we moved to Colorado I knew I was pregnant, and the fear of being displaced in unfamiliar territory, with no community, and the instability of renting which we could barely afford, worried me to say the least. So afterwards we processed our grief, we assessed our terrain and placed a raincheck on that event in our timeline. Five years later with countless adventures to reflect on and feeling sure footed on our way to purchase a home, we decided to try again.

Last year was extravagantly adventurous for us. We travelled across the US for concerts and curiosities. Our final trip of the year was arguably the most spontaneous and thrilling, we were travelling to Florida in the midst of a hurricane and my intuition guided us there despite the risks. We were greeted by balmy weather, deserted beaches and so much more. Some memories are best kept secret, but I’ll say this, my intuition also led me to an enlightening exchange that validated the control I had in the light of our wavering circumstances. I was told the outcome I was seeking would be found on the same path I was yearning to travel down, towards my art. That voice has been guiding my steps ever since.

Fast forward to this June, we were tentatively hopeful, but doubt was still present. After our first sonogram we felt a breeze of relief from hearing the rapid pattern of a heartbeat, a first for us, and yet in the days after we felt an unexplainable skepticism and unease. I began having prophetic dreams and the tarot cards I read told a fate even skeptics would find hard to disbelieve, especially with the curiously close unfolding of events in the weeks thereafter.

It’s impossible to know why we live the lives we do. Why we all have different circumstances. But I like to believe there’s a reason. That our souls are here to pick up something specific. That we’re working on developing a well rounded spirit over infinite lifetimes, and some are meant for gathering different lessons and experiences than others. I’d like to believe that I will have a life full of many things that bring happiness including children. But if I don’t, I think there’s a reason. I’m a big fan of reasons. They make me feel fulfilled and informed and provide a depth of understanding that facts alone cannot. It’s something I can sniff out with my emotional senses, when I’m surrounded by cold, sterile facts. Even if in reality it’s only seeking justification… I guess I like justice too. I cannot deny the harsh reality that is recurrent in our attempts to have a baby. It’s left me awestricken and jetlagged and has held me in a vice of shame. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like my inherent patience and nurturing tendencies were wasted on me. Not to mention E, who was born to be a father. The impacts on him were often overlooked while concern was placed on me and he persevered through it all with stoicism and grace. I wouldn’t want children with anyone else.  

I’ve been struggling with writing this post for several months. I’ve been hesitant on sharing the story of my losses, unsure how others may react. If this was worthy of reading or if it would cause others pain. If it would change the way others thought of me and my desire to shed light on this dark corner of our lives. I can say confidently that my persistence in picking up my pen and attempting to articulate each relevant experience was done as a significant part of this process. My process to expressing my creative journey in words and showing up in Rhealand as a full person. This story is one I’ve always wanted to tell, as I’ve suffered each loss in silence and solitude, hushed by the unspoken disapproval of talking about the subject openly. I feel an inert desire to share. Share my light, share my shadows, so others can be inspired or simply know they’re not alone out there. There’s too many of us on this planet to feel isolation, but first we must tell the world we exist.

Mother’s are the ultimate creators. Sacrificing their bodies to build a new life form, with their own instincts, personality, intuition, and then nurturing it thereafter. They directly connected to the cycle of nature through manifesting life. Much like I recently observed and connected for the first time with the cycle of death, I feel very much connected with life through the turbulence of creation and I find similarities to my process as I create art. Each piece is carried differently, some with more struggles, and some termed entirely. Some labors last hours, days, even years. I cry, rejoice, dance and curse at the transformations that occur. I’m the mother to all my creations and I feel tremendous pride when I look upon them and feel the memories, the emotions, the wisdom they contain. The places they transport me back to even in poetic reverence for a time of longing or grief. Through this connection I am made whole. Through this connection I will continue to find my reasons, my purpose, my understanding and ability to process deep emotions. My connection to nature, my reason for carrying on, for seeking truth, for letting love in, for listening to that voice and opening the doors to Rhealand. I am not meant to live an ordinary life, that much has been known to me for some time and is continually making itself clear. What the future holds however, is a mystery to which I’m enthusiastically awaiting with open eyes, open ears, open hands, and an open heart.