In college I took one studio art class and one art history survey class. That was (mumble, mumble, mumble) years ago. In my "what are you going to be when you grow up" years, in my most secret heart, I was going to be an artist or a mystic, and had little clue as to how one got to be either, or how intertwined both identities were with each other. I wanted to have "visions." I thought "visions" would be something along the line of hallucinations in which God would reveal the secrets of existence to me. A latter day Joan of Arc. It just felt like me.
So fast forward to my post-child-bearing, post-divorces, post-RN, re-collection of those identities, the goals still intertwined, and still fitting who I wanted to be when I grew up. I had a better idea of what those identities meant and I still very much wanted to be the artistic, mystic self so dear to my heart. It no longer mattered if I was a great artist, an all-knowing mystic. The recognition wasn't the point. I only wanted to be true to who I knew in my heart of hearts, was Me. So I began teaching myself how to grow up to be Myself, and I began seeking out the best teachers I could find to lead me toward that goal.
One of those teachers is my exhuberant granddaughter for whom creating art is like breathing; she has no rules or restraints. No paper? Draw on the wall. She was about 3 years old when I signed on to learn "Art" from her. She was, and is, simply compelled to color, paint, draw, 24/7 if she could. I realized how often she drew the same picture over and over, and I remembered doing the same thing as a child. Perfecting a particular curve of sidewalk from in front of the house, the look of the house itself painstakingly drawn day after day after day, never quite exactly the way I wanted it to look, but until the next picture took over the spotlight, I made the same picture over and over. I tirelessly drew, painted, colored just as she does, just as I had, for years, until the whatever happened that ended the career of the Artist.
The Mystic was less easily lost and re-found. There was no trail of paper and paint to follow that gave her away. Nor were there rosaries, or milagros, or even breadcrumbs. My heart stayed true, and when I got off track I knew how to get myself back on it. Until I forgot. Losing the most important piece of myself was a singularly "bad trip." Will. Not. Do. It. Again. So recovery brings a person back to the "on" track and I'm not really where I left off but I have something under my belt that I will hang on to for dear life because it is my lifeline. The past year has been full and fulfilling and I am rediscovering the woman I was, left behind, and have thankfully returned to find actually is still there. Getting to know myself over again, shedding the skin of who I was not, is truly a blessing, a journey I will not take for granted again.
I regard it all as part of the life school, forgive myself for what I see as a loss of direction and all that came from it, good and bad, and the good is that it has deepened my thinking and my heart. So this artist/mystic is stepping out in new ways, trusting my inner guidance above all else, knowing that I have to follow my deepest heart's urgings above all else. It is the joyous path after all. Less Joan of Arc, but much more Me.
So fast forward to my post-child-bearing, post-divorces, post-RN, re-collection of those identities, the goals still intertwined, and still fitting who I wanted to be when I grew up. I had a better idea of what those identities meant and I still very much wanted to be the artistic, mystic self so dear to my heart. It no longer mattered if I was a great artist, an all-knowing mystic. The recognition wasn't the point. I only wanted to be true to who I knew in my heart of hearts, was Me. So I began teaching myself how to grow up to be Myself, and I began seeking out the best teachers I could find to lead me toward that goal.
One of those teachers is my exhuberant granddaughter for whom creating art is like breathing; she has no rules or restraints. No paper? Draw on the wall. She was about 3 years old when I signed on to learn "Art" from her. She was, and is, simply compelled to color, paint, draw, 24/7 if she could. I realized how often she drew the same picture over and over, and I remembered doing the same thing as a child. Perfecting a particular curve of sidewalk from in front of the house, the look of the house itself painstakingly drawn day after day after day, never quite exactly the way I wanted it to look, but until the next picture took over the spotlight, I made the same picture over and over. I tirelessly drew, painted, colored just as she does, just as I had, for years, until the whatever happened that ended the career of the Artist.
The Mystic was less easily lost and re-found. There was no trail of paper and paint to follow that gave her away. Nor were there rosaries, or milagros, or even breadcrumbs. My heart stayed true, and when I got off track I knew how to get myself back on it. Until I forgot. Losing the most important piece of myself was a singularly "bad trip." Will. Not. Do. It. Again. So recovery brings a person back to the "on" track and I'm not really where I left off but I have something under my belt that I will hang on to for dear life because it is my lifeline. The past year has been full and fulfilling and I am rediscovering the woman I was, left behind, and have thankfully returned to find actually is still there. Getting to know myself over again, shedding the skin of who I was not, is truly a blessing, a journey I will not take for granted again.
I regard it all as part of the life school, forgive myself for what I see as a loss of direction and all that came from it, good and bad, and the good is that it has deepened my thinking and my heart. So this artist/mystic is stepping out in new ways, trusting my inner guidance above all else, knowing that I have to follow my deepest heart's urgings above all else. It is the joyous path after all. Less Joan of Arc, but much more Me.
