The Year of Loss

 

 

A Year of Loss

This year I learned a tsunami can be more than an avalanche of destructive water; it can also be a tidal wave of loss. 

My tsunami began March 16, with the sudden death of my son, Erich, followed exactly 30 days later with the death of my mother, Erika, followed by the death of her brother, my uncle, also Erich, a few months after that.

Even though their passings were sad, my mother and uncle were well into their 90’s, so their passings did not come as a surprise.

My son, however, was an unexpected heartbreak. Only 54, he passed away within an instant on an early Sunday evening. Even as I write these words, I still struggle to comprehend the incomprehensible feeling that sharp pain in my heart and hollowness in my womb.

Images of him flood into me with 54 years of force. For sanity's sake, I try not to become consumed by the pain, instead I try to honor it and bow with acceptance, but it is hard, no doubt.

Then today I learned Tony Fitzpatrick died, an authentic Chicago icon and legendary creative. Even though I did not know Tony, I met him at his studio several years ago. He was surrounded by energetic young artists he was mentoring as they were helping him turn his creative visions into his uniquely Fitzpatrick collages. 

As I was introduced to him by my friend, who knew him very well, I was like a star-struck groupie, meeting a rock star in the creative arts arena. 

 So, another tragic loss. Admittedly, I am anxious for this year to end.

Life is Good

More Than

Our dogs are more than pets; they are companions. Pet sound like ownership, companion sounds like friend.

Because of them I slow down, looking up as they look down. I notice nature and the dazzling natural art she offers for view, flowers exploding from buds in a kaleidoscope of colors, birds riding thermal winds just for fun, leaves waving to unseen friends.

Then there is the unbounded joy and laughter they offer daily. Adoration so total, I feel bathed in the warm light emanating from their eyes. (I read when dogs fix you with a soft gaze, it’s their way of hugging us…how wonderful is that!).

 They have taught me patience. They have taught me to be more kind. They have taught me I am not the only intelligent creature breathing in this atmosphere. Because of them I have immersed myself in learning about their character, their needs, their way of communicating which has opened a door to all of nature, none of which is stagnant, not even a rock.

 Everything around us, under us, above us, has intelligence. That IS more than.

 

 

 

Imperfect Perfect

 

Making art is a life forming, life giving, life affirming jungle.

 Artists, the denizens of this fiercely independent, primordial place, thrive in its evolutionary incubation, bringing new beauty in its wild originality, to life.

We all have this jungle within us – it’s our nascent nature, part of our human harmony, like the veins running blood throughout our bodies, this jungle is the oxygen of our soul.

Our time, like the blurry flight of a hummingbird, is spectacularly brief, yet potent.

Singing our unique song is the agreement we made with the Universe upon entry. It is our imperfect imperative to swim in the tropical pools of our singular imaginations. 

If we have the vulnerable courage to share these visions, we give ourselves and those around us the most authentic gift.

Art isn’t just one thing, art is everything. Art is as simple and as complex as we are, an imperfectly perfect living, thriving, growing, always growing, dream.

 

The Poem In Our Bodies

Who knows where or when the poetry of our lives will appear.

As a child, I lived in the shelter of my imagination, a world I could control with my mind and paint with my dreams.

For companionship, I invented a mirror twin, Ila. Together, we made up wild tales and escapades. We fearlessly explored the jungle of the unknow and played in a carousel of delightful innocence.

Under the pressure of maturity, Ila disappeared from my stories. But she didn’t completely vanish, and her voice was never completely quiet.

My refuge became reading, writing and drawing things I saw with my heart.  This was the poetry in my body begging for my adolescent attention.

Eventually, I put these things aside and became part of the trinity of work, responsibility, and family. But there was a cost. A vessel filled with yearning became a restless rebel bouncing like a pinball inside the hollowness I felt. I tried to fill it with a multitude of distractions including buying stuff and drinking too many glasses of wine. 

 It wasn’t until I returned to a serious creative practice that I reclaimed my poem.

 At birth we are neonates absorbing every molecule of beingness, expressing fey wonder, awe and joy.

 Our nascent nature is still who we are. We don’t need to set it aside as we “grow up”. We expand more brilliantly when we participate in this cosmic gateway to earthly experiences. We are the witnesses to the splendor and our real job is to add to its beauty.

I do not wish my final breath to be burdened with the sorrow of regret. I want it to be a fulsome sigh as I let go and travel back into the divine, star-studded nurseries of infinity.