Being sick…

Nothing like a few days of feeling like the underside of crap to make one appreciate good health.  I’m lucky, for I rarely am sick, and this past stint was something like I had not experienced in years.  It’s always the same, however, being sick.  So otherworldly and surreal.

When I was younger and under the weather, I used to feel like the world just kept on moving without me.  School happened whether I was there or not, and the rest of my family members would still do their usual daily routines with or without me.  I felt isolated and strange (and yucky) in my netherworld of ‘otherness’.  Time seemed to stop.  I was in a bubble of feeling ill, and was all alone in that space, to boot.  How come everything didn’t halt because I was sick?  How could life continue on without my participation?  Weren’t my classmates missing my presence?  How could my family possible eat dinner without me??

Perhaps these feelings stem from the self-centeredness of being a child, but I found it kind of poignant to have similar thoughts this week while feeling so sick.  I missed my first day of class at Merrell, and I again had that feeling of being ‘left out’ of the normal routine of life.  I slept so much that time ceased to have any real meaning, and I felt alone and ‘out there’ in the landscape of jagged throats and clogged senses.  Being sick is no picnic on a physical level, yet it is also a weird little trip out of the ‘norm’ on a more psychic level.

Mostly what I feel today is better, and grateful for the reprieve from that other space of feeling so yucky.

Today I give hearty thanks to my body’s resilience and for feeling well enough to spend some time with my family.

 

Identity crunch…

I got a second opinion yesterday regarding my wrist and the torn ligament.  Suffice it to say, something will need to be done, and that something will probably mean recovering after surgery and readjustment to a wrist that is no longer “normal”.

My right hand is my dominant hand, and is the one that is compromised.  After surgery, it won’t be the same.  Something better than a wrist that is slowly deteriorating, I hope, yet not the same as before.  I don’t know right now what it will be like to sculpt, or even if I will be able to pick up a chisel.  I’m questioning the sanity of cosmetology school and the pursuit of a career cutting hair with a prognosis such as mine, and I’m wondering who I may be after this is all done.  So much of how I view myself is tied in with what I can do with my hands.  It’s humbling and quite unnerving at this point to realize how many eggs I have placed in that one basket.

I’m wondering how I will define who I am.

Who am I if I can no longer chisel on stone or wood?

Who am I if I don’t finish school and become a hair stylist?

Who am I if I don’t contribute in ways I have always seen as having value?

Who am I if I no longer call myself an artist?

Who am I if I drop every single notion of what I thought defined me?

and on a more superficial layer…

Who am I if I change my hair color?

Who am I if I give up my life long obsession with my weight?

Who am I???  Who will I be??

We place so much value on what we do, how we look, how much money we make, how much we ‘fit in’, and on and on, ad nauseum.

If you strip it all away, surely there is something left?  How do we define the non-tangibles?  How do I measure the other gifts I may have to offer?  Does it matter that my cat loves me?  Does it matter that I can offer solace and friendship to another?  Does it matter that I love and feel deeply?

I don’t want this issue with my wrist.  I want things to be like they were before, but they are not.

I’m scared.  I’ll admit it.  I am unsure of what the future holds.  Maybe I’m most afraid of what will be left, and what will not be…

Displacement…

Yesterday at our perm final, many of my fellow students brought in their mothers as models.  One girl in particular, who I often find annoying as she is constantly apologizing, brought in her mother as well.  I understand much better now, why this young woman is like a cowering animal most of the time.  Her mother was not nice to her.  Oh, she was sort of sick and sweet to everyone else, but as I was in the station next to them, I overheard many of the not-so-nice things she said to her daughter.  Small, digging statements to constantly undermine someone’s opinion, actions, or just their being-ness.  I felt sorry for my fellow student, and was very grateful for the fact that my mother never treated me in such a demeaning fashion.

Displacement is defined as:  “the redirection of an emotion or impulse from its original object (as an idea or person) to another”.

I’m guessing this mother is not a happy person, and pushes all her emotional upset onto her daughter.  Perhaps her mother did it to her.  Who knows??  Whatever the case, it’s being passed on…

What if we weren’t allowed to do that?  What if we followed the rule that if you don’t have something nice to say, you don’t say anything at all?  What if we all believed in the Golden Rule?  What if we weren’t snarky to our friends, our lovers, our kids, our parents?  What if we just allowed ourselves to feel what we feel when we are upset, and then took a grown-up time out before speaking?

As I work my way through cosmetology school, I find that I am seeing and hearing a lot of stories that tell the history of these women.  Sometimes these stories are sad and sometimes, even tragic.

Dad was right:  don’t judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their mocassins.

And… thank you, Mom, for always being so loving and supportive.  I think I’ll pass that on…

Mirror, mirror…

I’ve been in a bit of a funk of late despite receiving relatively good news regarding my wrist.  I’m more than grateful that I don’t require surgery at this point, and though it’s a bit of a nebulous mystery as to what my future holds with wrist/pain/mobility, I am still pleased to know that my school venture will not be interrupted.

I’m just bummed that seemingly ‘old’ issues and repetitive nonsensical and damaging responses and ways of being are still floating around in my space.  I feel like I’ve run many ‘personal growth’ races, only to find that I’m still standing in the same spot.  I’m sure this is just a dramatic viewpoint, yet it is tangible, nonetheless.

How does one actually progress as a human being?  Is it circular, linear, haphazard, two steps forward…one step back, or is it one step forward…two steps back??  Any of the above??  None???

What gives me a modicum of hope at this juncture is that even when I’m in the heaviness of feeling like life is going backwards, or falling apart, I can feel whispers of the ‘other side’ of that particular experience.  Like a oasis seen on the horizon in a desert, or the sense of a cool breeze in a hot room, there is a reprieve…even for a moment, that I didn’t used to have.  It’s the sensation that if I only stood just a *little* more to the left (or right), I would be in a better space.  A more harmonious space…  A space that is life supporting…

Maybe that *is* progress??  I never used to have even a sliver of this feeling whilst in the midst of despair.  Perhaps I’m being offered an escape route?  An Alice in Wonderland type mirror to step through, without all the additional odd characters and challenges awaiting me on the other side.

I want to leap out of this old, used-up, crusty way of being in martyr/victim-mode.  Good lord but it gets weary…

I know that there is another Alison on the other side of that mirror.  She beckons…and I hear the call.

Time to enter my own personal wonderland, and explore the delights…

BFF

It’s 6:22 a.m. this Saturday morning and I rowed to get some exercise.  My wrist bothered me a little, yet I figure I should row while I still can…at least for a while, anyway.

I was pondering the notion of kindness and friendship this morning, too, while rowing.  I want to turn over a new leaf and be kinder…nicer.  Not so much to others, as I already put energy in that direction, but to myself.

I want to be my own BFF.  The one who, no matter what, is there for me.  One who does not sit in judgment, or overreact, or pity, or mistreat.  I want to be my own best friend, forever.

Time to take hold of my hand…maybe even the injured one, and move forward.  If this sounds like I’m doing a Sally Field imitation from Sybil, I’m not.  This isn’t a psychotic split, yet more of a psychic joining.

I just want to be kinder to myself.  I want to be the one that is in my corner, even if all I have to offer is worry and concern and fears about an injured wrist.  I want to be the one that soothes and comforts, saying, “it will all be fine”…. “you’ll see…”…”we’ll get through it together.”  The kind of self-talk that is life-supporting…not haranguing.

Yes, that sounds nice.  I’m ready…

MRI’s and maudlin notions…

I had an MRI on my wrist on Monday and heard the results this afternoon.  Tear in the scapholunate ligament.  Apparently the ligaments in the wrist are named after the bones they connect, and this particular ligament joins the scaphoid and lunate bones (carpals) of my right wrist.

I’m trying not to panic.  I’m in school, and the last thing I need to hear is that I need surgery on my wrist to repair the tear.  I won’t know all the details until my follow up appointment on the 4th of October, yet my mind is already racing.  It will be hard not to google all the ways in which I should be concerned, and my most sincere hope is that I can stay centered throughout this process and *know* that my goal of getting through hair design school without any major hiccups will be feasible.

Did I mention I’m trying not to freak?

This is my precious right hand.  My intricately executed and beautifully designed right hand.  I don’t doubt that it has been seriously comprimised by two falls.  Ever watch those slow motion videos of people running on treadmills?  Notice how it seems impossible that their knees and ankles can take such impact?  Yeah.  I guess my wrist is pretty damn miraculous for being in one piece *at all* after several falls.

Good lord.  This is not what I need or want.  I’m feeling kind of sorry for myself (hence the title bit, ‘maudlin notions’), and I just don’t get it.  Like Lee said, perhaps there is nothing ‘to get’.  It just happened, and now it just needs to be fixed.

Fortunately for me, I’m way ahead for my quilt show in January, and I think and hope and pray that I can find a way to continue with school, sans interruption.  I just don’t know how that picture looks just yet, and waiting is not my strong suit.

Wish me luck… Wish me the courage not to expect the worst.  Let me be like the water and flow around the obstacle(s) that seem to be in my path.  Fluid and formless.  Adaptable.

Maybe that is the lesson…  if, indeed, there is one.  Acceptance and adaptability.  The “A” words…

Wish me luck…

First day of school…

So it begins…  today is my first day of school.  More specifically, orientation.

I’m proud of the fact that for the last two months while I’ve been off, I’ve accomplished a lot.  I am in good standing for my art show in January, and I’ve created other works for various other art venues.  No one could call me a slacker and have it stick.  I’ve been productive, on a myriad of levels…and it feels good.

The one downer as I start this day is the continuing question mark of my wrist.  It’s been a week plus since the shot, and though it’s a bit better, it’s not what I had hoped for in terms of a fix.  The silly blob of swelling is back, and I keep wondering if I’m nuts to be starting school with this issue.  What exactly *is* the issue?  Is this just a sprain, or have I upset the balance of my wrist more intensely?

The doctor wants me to get an MRI if the shot doesn’t do the trick, and part of me wants to go ahead so I’ll know, yet the other part of me worries about the cost (literally) and the psychic cost if there is actually something ‘wrong’.

Sigh.

For today…I’ll just go see what school is to be about…

A row of grown ups…

For a myriad of reasons, I’ve been thinking about the ‘younger me’ these past few days.  Somewhere in the eleven year old range, I would guess, and back to a time when life felt safe.  As I seem to be on a never-ending quest for a very personal sense of inner peace, I have been exploring the notion of feeling safe in a rather esoteric way.

When I was little, thanks to my parents in a large part, I did feel safe.  Safe in a literal sense, yet even more important in a way, safe to explore the world around, and the world inside…  Safe to be me…

A row of grown ups.  That’s what this knowing felt like…  As if a protective barrier of adults walked right behind me at all times, and because of this, I was free to explore the day.  Open and hopeful and joyful.   What did I want to BE??  What did I want to do??  Oh, the possibilities!!!

Now that I am the grown up, I find I miss that particular sense of security.  How can I be the row of grown ups for myself?  How do I tell myself in a way that I will believe, that it is safe to be the totality of me these days?  Especially in a world that repeatedly shows us otherwise?  A world that wants to mold us into just another cog in the machine?

I want that feeling of freedom and security from so long ago.  Perhaps real enlightenment these days is when you can be the grown up and yet retain the childlike sense of wonder and fearlessness we all had at one time.

I think it’s important to offer this sense of safety to ourselves.  It’s portable, it’s personal, and it’s “about time” for me…

Maybe if I turn my head at just the right moment; I’ll find that they are all still right behind me…

Little Me…

Le poignet…

Poignet is French for “wrist”.  Sounds lovely, as most French words do…

Here’s to lovely wrists.  I’m hoping mine will return to a state of familiarity, in that it works happily and without pain or issues.  The cortisone shot I had yesterday made it sore, yet it seems to be better today.  I can only hope this continues.

We take too many things for granted, I fear.  The more I’ve been reading about wrists and how they operate, it’s truly miraculous that they work so well most of the time, anyway!  How intricate and complicated the structure really is!

I need my right hand.  I need the articulation of my right wrist.  What will I be without this agility??  How could I carve wood, or draw, or cut hair, or pet my cat, or dry off from a warm shower without my wrist?  Or for that matter, what about holding a cup of coffee, or unscrewing a lid on a jar, or brushing the hair out of my eyes on a windy day??

Gads.  This experience has been so humbling, really.  Two silly falls (or two and a half if you consider that extra slide/fall at Gerbes) and me with a bum wrist.  Part of me is wondering if it’s symbolic, and then the other part of me says, “crap…don’t go there!” Whatever will that mean or say about my future if I explore that route??  Sigh.  I prefer to just think it was a period of gracelessness, and now I appreciate a part of my body in a way I never did.

I’d like to be smarter, though.  I’d like to appreciate things before they are altered or gone so that I have no choice but to appreciate them in retrospect.

It’s time to be pro-active.  Time to give a shit before it’s too late.

Here’s to Cortisone shots mixed with some Lidocaine, and here’s to my wrist!  May it forgive me for being clumsy, and may I truly understand and appreciate all that this body does for me on a regular basis…

Off the wall visuals…

Cemeteries are kind of trippy.  They elicit a myriad of thoughts and emotions, and are often inviting in their isolation.  All those people that once were here and now are not.  Life is such a strange thing to do, really…

I had this visual one time while passing a cemetery that many would probably find bizarre, yet I’m going to share it anyway.

I was thinking about the fact that all those no-longer-here people all started out as infants, as we all do, and instead of seeing a lawn full of headstones, I saw a lawn full of wiggling babies.  The notion that we are all the same in the beginning, as we are in the end, was profound.  Here, and then not…

I don’t know…it sort of put things in perspective, perhaps?  The cycle of life and all…

Now, whenever I pass a cemetery, that is all I really see.  The beginning, not so much the end.  Babies… Oddly, it comforts me to know we were all babies once.

Yes, a bit off the wall, I know…but I’m an artist.  I understand my world through images and analogies.

Here’s to life; from beginning to end…