Finding Hope After Devastation
Fall has arrived. I'm cold, soul tired and attempting to write—while feeling there is no point. I have always been cold sensitive and after all the trauma it has become permanent. Growing up poor, heat was always hard to pay for, but as I became successful I made sure I always had enough heat. It was one of those things I would rather have then things like jewelry. Things like a cord of wood would always made me happy—those days are gone now. The coldness and violence of being made homeless has not left me yet. It lingers in my soul. My prayers to those who are homeless or are facing it as Fall returns and Winter is on the way.
The loss of all my personal belongings took with it my collection of wool. I love wool and had saved, thrift and bought some nice pieces over the years. I have to basically start over with nothing now. The pain unbearable. All my things gone, auctioned off from a storage unit I had for 3yrs—unable to get any decent housing after being the target of continual harassment. I'm looking for work after my business was also destroyed. Trying to reinvent in the midst of all the devastation.
I'm still getting use to being without a home. Staying with family again and trying to find my center after so much destruction of my life. So many losses—so much to get over. So much to come to terms with. Writing this morning is hard. My cold fingers move slowly over the keys. My mind feels broken in places from all the trauma. It gets better each day, but the sharpness is replaced by the softness of being so devastated.
I took down a lot of my previous writing. Making mistakes is part of the process, but it became personal about what others had done and I'm not really a person to harbor grudges, name call or hold anger. Anger came out in places as I tried to survive and writing was all I had. The grace of forgiving is all I have now. It humbly replaces things that are said in anger even when justified. All my writing for the past 20yrs is gone. I had dreamed of writing a book, but that might be a little to big of a dream at this point. Starting from scratch with nothing might be too much in terms of my writing.
My computer is broken and there is no money now. So here we are. I miss my wool finger-less gloves to keep my fingers warm so my writing does not seem to be flowing. There is something about being warm for me that helps the process, like a favorite pen or pencil. I'm still getting use to so many of my things being gone. Trying to create in the empty, broken spaces. Trying to find a life in the midst of all the destruction. Trying to find hope when feeling there is not much.
God must have a plan, but some days I'm not sure anymore. I use to have more faith. Can I create without the things I loved. Can I create in so much pain. These are the questions now. The many years of hard work found me unable to enjoy the fruits of my labor. It finally all came together only to be violently torn apart. Even my garden was in full bloom after years of babying small plants and watching them grow into fullness. Many times I would buy from the end of season clearance and nurse the almost dead ones to life. It was a joy to watch them grow and become beautiful plants after such a hard start. As things fell apart all of these things had to be let go of. I'm still struggling to let go. Each day brings reminders of things I had in storage that are gone.
Fall was always a favorite time. I made wreaths and crafts for my home. I decorated, painted and cooked. But Fall is also a time of dying. The beautiful way it all changes belies the fact that things are in the throes of death—I feel the same. There is beauty, but I know it's the darkness of the void coming. When the creative part must start from the dark and move to the light. The silent incubation of form, thought, writing and art. It moves through me as I come to terms with another death like process. This recent creative phase never came to full life. It was born and it died. Giving birth to a dream—like a child you joyfully wait for. A business is in ways like that. A child I had nursed for 20yrs. Working on it late into the night after my full time day job.
This time of the year is fitting for these metaphors. Death can also be beautiful. A reminder that all things change—nothing stays the same. There was abundance and now there is nothing. There was much and now there is little. There was a blooming and now a dying. It did not stay for long—it did not. Beautiful it could only be for awhile, which seems like most things that are too good. Like the idea of too good to be true. A business I loved and created from scratch, but did not see the dangers. The darkness that waited for the right time. The betrayal and sabotage that lurked and stalked. The innocent way that I didn't know that evil can be so close and yet unknown.
My hands are getting warmer. The words aren't so broken, stunted, as the flow opens just a little. I stop and start and try to put the words down. The critic in my head is wrecking more havoc than usual. My creative muse just about gone—the things we tell ourselves, our inner dialog. It is all part of the process. The ghosts that linger and haunt. The memories that come and go—some good and some torment.
Fitting to be accused of being Schizophrenic. As I get to know about this Mental illness, it seems as an Artist to have some truth, but mostly part of a horrible smear campaign. Only now do I have a name for this type of sabotage in my life—Gaslighting. To be intuitive, to sense things, to have a muse is all somewhat suspect to the established mindset of certain people who locked me up and told me it was official I was "crazy." You my dear friends can decide for yourself. In times like these, artists, writers and other creatives are labeled that way. Accused of all kinds of things by people involved in my Divorce. It was never private, but an awful public witch hunt. Me of course—the witch. Told repeatedly my words ramble—I don't make sense. I suppose they do sometimes. I'm just learning to write in a public way. I started with emotional writing that you let flow on the page—lessons from the Artists Way. I like when people write in a sort of free flowing way—glimpses of their life, thoughts, feelings. Often writers don't share these things when sticking to a basic, formal style of writing—not really saying anything and yet very successful.
Alice went down the rabbit hole and she hasn't returned. I love the Alice in wonderland metaphors. I always find them fitting for my life. The changes are surreal this time for sure. Can she go on. Can she try again. Can you create when it all is destroyed. I'm not sure, but I'm here today on this page and showing up and that is a good thing. It can be brutal and it is. The demons dance and lurk, laugh and taunt—happy that so much was destroyed. Darkness always interwoven with the light. Sometimes we cannot fend them off. Bad things happen. Good people can have horrible times. The good guys can lose terribly. The truth of life is often not the happy ending, but in living well with the broken pieces. When the wreckage threatens to do you in. How many times can you glue a broken piece of china? Glue and glue until finally you have to let it go—broken so many times you cannot salvage it. All that is left is the memory and even that fades away. What is left? It's still hard to come to terms with all my stuff gone. I've read of Artists who leave entire studios. These are my muses and mentors today.
http://mentalfloss.com/article/82874/10-writers-and-artists-who-wanted-their-work-destroyed
I have a room these days and I'm grateful not to be homeless again. A small room my mom is letting me stay in after losing my home in a brutal Divorce. I'm grateful to take my nephew to the park and his laughter. For the company of my mom's dog after my beloved dog was taken. For having my broken computer that I can at least write on. To have finished the first draft of my resume. To pick up the broken pieces and try to find a way to create another life. To go on when all has been broken.
Fall has arrived. I'm cold, soul tired and attempting to write—while feeling there is no point. I have always been cold sensitive and after all the trauma it has become permanent. Growing up poor, heat was always hard to pay for, but as I became successful I made sure I always had enough heat. It was one of those things I would rather have then things like jewelry. Things like a cord of wood would always made me happy—those days are gone now. The coldness and violence of being made homeless has not left me yet. It lingers in my soul. My prayers to those who are homeless or are facing it as Fall returns and Winter is on the way.
The loss of all my personal belongings took with it my collection of wool. I love wool and had saved, thrift and bought some nice pieces over the years. I have to basically start over with nothing now. The pain unbearable. All my things gone, auctioned off from a storage unit I had for 3yrs—unable to get any decent housing after being the target of continual harassment. I'm looking for work after my business was also destroyed. Trying to reinvent in the midst of all the devastation.
I'm still getting use to being without a home. Staying with family again and trying to find my center after so much destruction of my life. So many losses—so much to get over. So much to come to terms with. Writing this morning is hard. My cold fingers move slowly over the keys. My mind feels broken in places from all the trauma. It gets better each day, but the sharpness is replaced by the softness of being so devastated.
I took down a lot of my previous writing. Making mistakes is part of the process, but it became personal about what others had done and I'm not really a person to harbor grudges, name call or hold anger. Anger came out in places as I tried to survive and writing was all I had. The grace of forgiving is all I have now. It humbly replaces things that are said in anger even when justified. All my writing for the past 20yrs is gone. I had dreamed of writing a book, but that might be a little to big of a dream at this point. Starting from scratch with nothing might be too much in terms of my writing.
My computer is broken and there is no money now. So here we are. I miss my wool finger-less gloves to keep my fingers warm so my writing does not seem to be flowing. There is something about being warm for me that helps the process, like a favorite pen or pencil. I'm still getting use to so many of my things being gone. Trying to create in the empty, broken spaces. Trying to find a life in the midst of all the destruction. Trying to find hope when feeling there is not much.
God must have a plan, but some days I'm not sure anymore. I use to have more faith. Can I create without the things I loved. Can I create in so much pain. These are the questions now. The many years of hard work found me unable to enjoy the fruits of my labor. It finally all came together only to be violently torn apart. Even my garden was in full bloom after years of babying small plants and watching them grow into fullness. Many times I would buy from the end of season clearance and nurse the almost dead ones to life. It was a joy to watch them grow and become beautiful plants after such a hard start. As things fell apart all of these things had to be let go of. I'm still struggling to let go. Each day brings reminders of things I had in storage that are gone.
Fall was always a favorite time. I made wreaths and crafts for my home. I decorated, painted and cooked. But Fall is also a time of dying. The beautiful way it all changes belies the fact that things are in the throes of death—I feel the same. There is beauty, but I know it's the darkness of the void coming. When the creative part must start from the dark and move to the light. The silent incubation of form, thought, writing and art. It moves through me as I come to terms with another death like process. This recent creative phase never came to full life. It was born and it died. Giving birth to a dream—like a child you joyfully wait for. A business is in ways like that. A child I had nursed for 20yrs. Working on it late into the night after my full time day job.
This time of the year is fitting for these metaphors. Death can also be beautiful. A reminder that all things change—nothing stays the same. There was abundance and now there is nothing. There was much and now there is little. There was a blooming and now a dying. It did not stay for long—it did not. Beautiful it could only be for awhile, which seems like most things that are too good. Like the idea of too good to be true. A business I loved and created from scratch, but did not see the dangers. The darkness that waited for the right time. The betrayal and sabotage that lurked and stalked. The innocent way that I didn't know that evil can be so close and yet unknown.
My hands are getting warmer. The words aren't so broken, stunted, as the flow opens just a little. I stop and start and try to put the words down. The critic in my head is wrecking more havoc than usual. My creative muse just about gone—the things we tell ourselves, our inner dialog. It is all part of the process. The ghosts that linger and haunt. The memories that come and go—some good and some torment.
Fitting to be accused of being Schizophrenic. As I get to know about this Mental illness, it seems as an Artist to have some truth, but mostly part of a horrible smear campaign. Only now do I have a name for this type of sabotage in my life—Gaslighting. To be intuitive, to sense things, to have a muse is all somewhat suspect to the established mindset of certain people who locked me up and told me it was official I was "crazy." You my dear friends can decide for yourself. In times like these, artists, writers and other creatives are labeled that way. Accused of all kinds of things by people involved in my Divorce. It was never private, but an awful public witch hunt. Me of course—the witch. Told repeatedly my words ramble—I don't make sense. I suppose they do sometimes. I'm just learning to write in a public way. I started with emotional writing that you let flow on the page—lessons from the Artists Way. I like when people write in a sort of free flowing way—glimpses of their life, thoughts, feelings. Often writers don't share these things when sticking to a basic, formal style of writing—not really saying anything and yet very successful.
Alice went down the rabbit hole and she hasn't returned. I love the Alice in wonderland metaphors. I always find them fitting for my life. The changes are surreal this time for sure. Can she go on. Can she try again. Can you create when it all is destroyed. I'm not sure, but I'm here today on this page and showing up and that is a good thing. It can be brutal and it is. The demons dance and lurk, laugh and taunt—happy that so much was destroyed. Darkness always interwoven with the light. Sometimes we cannot fend them off. Bad things happen. Good people can have horrible times. The good guys can lose terribly. The truth of life is often not the happy ending, but in living well with the broken pieces. When the wreckage threatens to do you in. How many times can you glue a broken piece of china? Glue and glue until finally you have to let it go—broken so many times you cannot salvage it. All that is left is the memory and even that fades away. What is left? It's still hard to come to terms with all my stuff gone. I've read of Artists who leave entire studios. These are my muses and mentors today.
http://mentalfloss.com/article/82874/10-writers-and-artists-who-wanted-their-work-destroyed
I have a room these days and I'm grateful not to be homeless again. A small room my mom is letting me stay in after losing my home in a brutal Divorce. I'm grateful to take my nephew to the park and his laughter. For the company of my mom's dog after my beloved dog was taken. For having my broken computer that I can at least write on. To have finished the first draft of my resume. To pick up the broken pieces and try to find a way to create another life. To go on when all has been broken.
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