Today is a day of writing obscure sentences meant to veil the details because I am not ready to reveal those yet. I considered moving on and writing about something else until I could write the whole story but I can't because this is my now. This is what is pressing in on me. I need to write. Maybe I should write it privately and I could but that's not my style. That's not who I am and how I am in the world.
Here, I throw the workings of my life and sort them, shake them, try to make them stay in order. I stand back and look for patterns and paths to lead me onward. Here, I write the ache of my heart for things beautiful and profound, for things that I cannot change, for things painfully lost.
All the pieces of me were tossed into the air when we moved from our home of twenty-two years. It's been almost two months now and we live here, we eat here, we sleep here but it hasn't become home yet. Not yet. Maybe when I quit reaching for the light switch on a wall where it doesn't exist, maybe then it will be familiar. Or maybe when we have our first outdoor fire and sit and gaze at the night sky through the trees. Or maybe as we check off each birthday and holiday this year in this house, maybe then it will be home.
I haven't established my routines and rituals. I haven't painted in front of my easel or been in the pages of my art journal. I have wanted to but I haven't. Last week, I decided it was time for a catalyst. I have to create these for myself sometimes in order to push myself into action. I invited some women over for an evening of art journaling. As I sat in my place at the table, I couldn't seem to get started. I was stuck.
With the new home, there are new hopes and visions. I sense that the newness will spill over into my art making and my offerings. I don't know quite what that means yet so I think i have been reluctant to make a mark, to paint, to create in a familiar way. I have forgotten that exploration is a primary force in my life. I need to explore in order to discover.
Last week, at the table, I finally moved past the block and began to scrape and smear layers of paint onto my page. I picked up my pen and started to make the marks that I always make, the ones that lead me through my thoughts. It feels familiar. It looks familiar. In the midst of all the newness, here was something that I could recognize as my own. Right now, if I did nothing but replicate this page over and over in my journal, I would be creating what I need. Familiar.
This still has meaning to me. It is still needed. There are other things that lost their meaning long ago and yet, I am finding that particular familiar more difficult to release. I am realizing that I discounted the significance for myself and for others. I've been SO ready for next and new that I have pushed forward, eyes ahead, never looking back. That's a way to do it. I am not judging myself or another for a different way. I think, today, I am simply noticing and naming.
When there is no familiar, I make my own.
What about you?
What do you do when there is no familiar?