The last time I used my paints, it was August 2014. I wanted to create something peaceful, happy...because that is how I felt at the time. Within a few short months, the tides would begin to turn. So, it was very interesting to apply those future events to the art that revealed itself to me months earlier.
I started with turquoise, teal, silver, white, and shades of blue. Water was on my mind. But as I painted, using both broad and narrow "S" strokes, adding shades of lavender here and there, I felt like something was missing. I let my hand glide over the tubes of paint, and an ochre yellow called to me. I began in the center of my peaceful waters, already on the canvas. More "S" strokes guided my hand and then, dark red made it's way to the center. I realized at some point that the repetitive "S" and the background of water was connected to someone I loved. What I could not yet see was that what I painted was not some abstract form of him, but a literal translation of his soul. A soul that had the context of serenity, but serenity had been disturbed by something violent. Evil. Monstrous. A hole ruthlessly ripped right into it. Yellow puss oozed out of the open, bloody wound--directly in the center of what looked like a now-sorrowful soul. Glints of silver and lavender, along with the mixture of teals and turquoise and blues still gave it an overall attractive appearance. But, if you looked closely, you could see bruising. Cuts. Burns, Gashes. Slashes. All leading to a bleeding, weeping, seeping incision--a place where I imagine a heart once was.
Another canvas I completed in 2011--my first large canvas--showed me water and fire building a bridge between them. Merging, swirling, becoming one to form a strip of earth. But then, the water began to turn halfway through. The fire was now the one reaching. Fire cannot stop its warmth. But water is not as generous as fire. Water's temperature can be mercilessly freezing until a warm rip current cuts through the cold. Blue balls to bathwater. It's as shocking as it sounds. You never know when that warm stretch of water will disappear, leaving you out in the cold. In less than three years, the prophecy foretold by that canvas came true. Fire and water built a bridge together--common ground. Water was the first to reach out. Then, fire kept coming back for more. A tiny strip of earth emerged, until water turned away. Fire just kept trying to reach out but the water was moving in a different direction. The separation between the fire, the water, and earthy-patch in between was definitive as a result. And, stayed that way. Even when the water changed direction, trying to return, all it could do was lick at the tight border the fire had created of earth, now baked into stone. A headstone, to be exact. My daughter's.
Part of my recent trip to Ireland was to check out cemeteries there, so I could find a place for my daughter, my grandmother, and me. A nice place. Somewhere open, free. Near the sea, too. Trademarking my daughter's name isn't enough. Helping heal kids in seven states and two countries in her memory isn't enough. Keeping her little dress in my closet isn't enough either. Will a marker in our ancestral home be enough? A grave??? No, it won't be enough. Nothing ever will be. Especially since I cannot open another door. At least not on my own....
You see, Emma wasn't my creation. Like all art, I was just a guardian. Her guardian. It was my job to show Emma how to cross the threshold into our world. To usher her through the door. In fact, I was the door! Too bad someone else had the key.
Today, though I'm safe, I still fight for finality. For what? Any of it. All of it. The official classification is a series of "severe" traumatic events. Those events fell like dominoes cascading throughout the last few years of my life. Past the very edges of infinity. And, beyond what is somehow still an ever-expanding Universe. Even with cancer, I got a modicum of closure. But it's impossible to get closure on my own when it comes to #Emma...I mean, I'm not the Virgin Mary. Zeus didn't visit me in a dream.
Abandonment is a terrible burden to bear. But I suppose, my burdens were barely a thought, let alone a consideration.
Even in the midst of #OperationHappy--and all its many benefits--I still struggle with the physical deficits of the aforementioned traumas. Because, I'm still paying for the consequences. It's my life and I have no other choice but to pay, except...this wasn't my choice. It was someone else's. And I suppose it will always hurt as a result. Most people shy away from admitting to pain; they don't want to give the person who caused it any satisfaction. But, being honest is strong--brave, even. Hiding from the truth tends to be much more painful. Perhaps this is a good time to note that, while unhappy at being forced to survive when I should have just been left alone to live my life, I am no victim. Expression of social disappointment is not at all the same as a pity party. I actually pity those who hurt me. I pity everyone and anyone too afraid to truly live...and, love.
You can do everything right. You can be the best human being you can possibly be. But bad things can (and will) still happen. Just part of physical life. We're all vulnerable. Which means that even those who have chosen cruelty over kindness, judgment over compassion, are vulnerable, too.
What we risk for love is so much more than a bruised ego and a broken heart. We risk our very souls. Most find reasons to abandon or neglect real love in order to avoid that pain, never knowing true joy--the reward for those with the courage to have faith. In themselves. In humanity. In the world itself.
Physical existence is largely about faith. The unseen. If you were to interview 100 people over seven decades of their lives, do you think you'd find tremendous happiness brimming between the pages of your notes? No, you wouldn't. What you'd find would be moments of joy scattered throughout that time--just enough to give the individual faith that things could get better, because there was a moment--once upon a time--where happiness emerged. Like the image on a blank canvas. Or a new life from the womb. A surprise of traits and attributes and characteristics that come to life with or without you. A piece of living, breathing art. Will she have my eyes? My smile??? Will she be a writer? Will she be a mother, too? Will she heal others, or at least, try to?
When we finish our human lives, our art is our legacy. It's what we leave behind to help the next generation build an even better world. I hope my canvases don't end up in some dumpster. But even human beings can be thrown away like garbage, so, it is odd to consider that my canvases might well be treated better than me at some future point. Fear has such a stranglehold on humanity. In some ways, I'm glad Emma doesn't have to experience it. But I would have loved to have seen her give it the old college try...it was my job, after all. Not mine alone, of course, but I'm the only one here now, aren't I?
#Awake-Life #TwinFlame Post-script: The painting above (the close-up is featured in the picture insert) is for sale. Serious buyers only The value was set by a gallery in Soho at $1,200--I'll cover the shipping costs. It's 24x36--original #TwinFlame art using acrylics on canvas. The proceeds will benefit my #EMMA #VIPKids initiative--a program to honor my late daughter's memory. #EMMA has helped children in seven US States and two countries live better lives since 2015. Use the Contact page or email me directly to inquire about availability--thank you!