I would love to know what squirrels think, when they see a person walk by, who suddenly stops when they hear their chatter above; stop, dig, reach in, snap, stare and stare and stare. Move along… For any length of time, no doubt, that squirrel is surveying an escape route. But you must question why the squirrel said anything to begin with, if he did not want company?
I never could have imagined sitting here nine years ago. I could barely talk. Was I saying any thing? Perhaps in my eyes you would have seen the pain. I welcomed death. I contemplated suicide.
After a year of therapy, my confidante encouraged me to reach out. I wrote everything in prose, and poetry to him, and so I thought, why not gather my thoughts and start a blog. It is anonymous after all. (Hahaha. That was not quite his idea of reaching out.)
Hahaha…this! (I may have posted elsewhere, a picture of myself?)
Regardless, I have changed from those once fateful days. I graduate with highest honors, a 3.96 gpa. I walk on December 16 and will be with my husband, two of my children, and countless bloggers who have seen me through. Whether you know it or not, you do now. I will be thinking of you. And my therapist. Forever grateful! 🤗❤️
I hope to continue my blog. I have become fascinated with the arts. I have traveled alone. Taken two poetry workshops with incredible poets. I have become. And when those brief moments appear, and I slip, dancing with death, I fight as all my might will muster. And write a poem. Or paint a picture. Or visit an art museum. Etc. Etc.
I have a macabre fascination with artists who have committed suicide. One, because I love art and the creative process and two, because I have family history of suicides and suicide ideation. In my quest to understand the mind of a person who desires nothing more than to be absent from the present, I have read and reread countless books. Recently, a van Gogh painting was advertised as being on display at the IMA and I knew immediately that I needed to make that a summer destination. This past Saturday my dream came true. I stood before van Gogh’s Landscape at Saint-Remy, 1889, and was blown away by the amount of paint, the number of brush strokes, the myriad of colors and the sheer fortitude he showed in completing a true masterpiece. His painting was by far my favorite of all the works seen, including Gaugahn, Pissarro, Monet and Rembrandt.
“There is nothing more truly artistic than to love people.”
“What am I in the eyes of most people — a nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant person — somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short, the lowest of the low. All right, then — even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such a nobody, has in his heart. That is my ambition, based less on resentment than on love in spite of everything, based more on a feeling of serenity than on passion. Though I am often in the depths of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony and music inside me. I see paintings or drawings in the poorest cottages, in the dirtiest corners. And my mind is driven towards these things with an irresistible momentum.”
–Vincent van Gogh
Volunteering at a homeless shelter I come across so many with those same sentiments. There is a little van Gogh in each of us.
My doctor originally told me the biopsy results would take two weeks. I graciously was told a few days ago, that the tissue sample tested, came back benign. How happy I was. Was, until I thought of my blog and how I had told my story and would have to give an ending. I thought of all those who hear they are afflicted with the dreaded “c” disease. It can be ravaging. I did not want my answer to be a curse onto those with different fates. (Do not despair! There is an answer for you as well. Seek it!)
We all face bad news at some point in our life. The answer can be cruel. The answer is a lesson. I feel guilty for being cancer free when others face hurdles I escape. In my past, in the physics department where I worked, a professor and his wife were expecting a baby, as I was. We both went into labor the same day. My baby lived. Their baby was stillborn. My baby was a miracle. Their baby was too, in a different way. It taught a lesson harder to accept. An answer hard to discern.
The bigger questions demand bigger answers.
I am obligated to embrace both.