BOTH FEET ON THE GROUND
I pick up my pen, uncap it, and hold its body in my hand. The pen and I wait together. Feeling the connection, we wait for the words to come, each of us a vessel; one contains ink, the other blood. Each of us will spill our contents onto the page, even though I will not literally spill blood, I will pour out my heart.
The connection to creativity has got me through these challenging 7 weeks. Weeks when, so much of the time, my only identity see to be that of an injured person. We all know any kind of bodily harm take us over. Even a cold has the ability to make us feel like we’ll never recover. A cut finger suddenly seems to represent one’s entire being. Breaking my femur into 7 pieces often has me feeling that that’s all I am: a cartoon version of myself as an enormous shattered leg.
I often write about the 50/50 nature of reality; today the pen and I are in search of inner balance – balance itself being a 50/50 reality – having got pretty good at the outer balance on one leg as I hop from rollator to bed, sink, counter, couch, fridge or any handy surface that I can reach which will allow me to put both feet on the ground. Both feet on the ground: literally and metaphorically. I am now able to walk with the rollator putting 50% of my weight on the injured leg and I will never forget that first time, after 6 weeks of bed and wheelchair, feeling both feet touch the floor.
Connection. Balance. Connecting to our essence and to the earth, and to each other. Balance: between body and mind, intellect and emotion, solitude and company, stillness and action. We need to connect in order to maintain balance.
Like everyone, I carry childhood wounds. One of mine is allowing myself to act on my creative impulses. Having had my creative spirit parentally repressed for the first 16 years of my life it’s taken a lot of work to give myself back to myself; to become aware, to accept and to act creatively is how I connect to myself and the universe and thereby rebalance both mentally and emotionally.
The drawings posted here were my first attempts, starting a week after surgery, to cleanse my psyche of the horror; a way of owning and then letting go of the pain and finding, embracing and connecting to my essence. The act of creation is the antidote to destructive thought. Doesn’t matter what it is: bake a cake, take a photo, make up a silly song. It doesn’t matter how “good” it turns out, or if anyone else appreciates it. In the act of creating, we both lose ourselves and find ourselves: about as divine a balance as you’ll ever experience.
We were fortunate that three weeks after I came home from the hospital, we were joined by dear friends with whom we are in collaboration on a year-long creative project. Although at times I found it exhausting and wondered if the injury would make it impossible for me to continue, in the end the gift of creative collaboration kept connecting me to the reality of each moment, as well as re-balancing me.
Our friends left a few days ago. The first day back to being just Joel and me was lovely. The second day, I began to feel low. Today I knew I needed to create something in order to remind myself that although my recovery has weeks to go, that’s not all I am. It is, of course, impossible to be in a state of permanent balance; one only has to look at the see-saw to understand the nature of life’s ups and downs. I’m learning to walk again. Some days it goes well, some days not so much. The fear of falling, both physically and emotionally is intense.
The thing is, throughout life we have to continually pick ourselves up and get going again. Action, whatever it takes. Creating is my action. Creating without expectation. Not all drawings work. Neither do all essays. Frankly I don’t think this one is particularly brilliant. But I don’t mind. The important bit was taking the cap off my pen; putting pen to paper; feeling connection in the doing. The fine art of balancing.
