Recently I started writing again. I’m finding it very cathartic. I’ve always been better at explaining myself through the written word then explaining orally. I am someone who needs time and space to organize my thoughts and being able to write it gives me what I need. The forms of writing I’m currently working with are journalling, this blog and writing poetry.
My mom is an artist. When I was a child she created stunning water colour paintings. I loved looking at her art supplies. I loved the way her paints that she squeezed onto her pallet to dry looked but mostly felt. I would trace my finger tips over the flattened by water blobs of colour that she used frequently and compare it to the mountain colours that didn’t get used hardly at all. I loved taking the liquid mask and brushing it onto a surface and then once dry rolling it into a teeny rubber ball. I loved how the brushes all felt so different, some bristles delicate and soft some coarse. My favourite was the brush which was a fan shape. It reminded me of a mermaid tail and I imagined my mom creating soft waves over her page.
I tried hard to be an artist, to be like her because I admired her ability to take nothing and make something beautiful. But a painter I was not. I found my art in putting words together. So my canvas became paper and my brush a pencil. My watercolour was the collections of words carefully crafted in a poem.
Recently I was in hospital. The days tended to be long and sometimes I felt like I might climb the walls. I took to my journal to create poems. I wrote 3 while I was there and I have 2 more that are inspired from my time.
The one pictured above titled “Quotes out of Context” was the first poem I wrote in hospital. It was born when I re-read my journal from the last year and a half. My entries were often formed out of things that people said to me that stuck, that I couldn’t shake away. A lot of time they were empowering things that made me glow, but often they were negative and often from the same individual.
This individual could also be a poet. They crafted their words to make me feel powerless. Sometimes it was positive they would pull me in and I would feel like I was larger than life. Often they would reduce me to nothing short of a broken shard of glass, only for the cycle to continue. I wrote many times that I felt vulnerable, too dependant but I was afraid that I would end up alone and I felt broken and worn down. I also wrote that I just wanted to be more confident, stand up for myself and not allow this person to control my emotions.
This is what this poem achieves. It counteracts the negative quotes with confident statements. With this poem I have taken the power back. Instead of staying quiet when I have an opinion I’ve spoken up, and it’s a statement that I will not allow words to make me upset and be turned against me so I am seen as “crazy and dramatic.” The poem has a shift, an acceptance, it takes notice of the positive quotes that had been shared with me. The truth is I have a whole crew of people in my corner who are cheering me on. They see my value and they want me to find peace in my heart.
On January 7, 2017 I wrote in my journal “I am worth being loved, I am worth being cherished, I am worth being an effort, I am worth being somebody’s everything.” I’m learning that this is truth that I’m holding myself up with purpose. That I am stronger, better and confident and I do not have to chase people for opportunities or let their manipulation of truth hurt me and break me down.
Oh and some positive quotes that didn’t make the poem but I still think are worth mentioning because the last month and a bit I’ve returned to them over and over are these ones below.
“You are a brave woman.”
“Your hair colour is great.”
“You are amazing and beautiful.”
“Your kids are lucky to have you and they know they are loved.”
“You always look so put together.”
“Your new neighbours don’t know how lucky they are.”
“You’re doing the right things.”
“You are a great person, a great friend and a great mother.”
P.S. Here are some of my mom’s paintings. The one top left I actually own 🙂 I’m thinking my mom and I need to collaborate sometime, she paint and I write.