“I’d Call AAA…..”
detail of painting
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It is New Year’s Eve day and instead of a recap of my year, I feel like telling you about the most recent event that made me really happy..
Sort of a ‘talisman moment’ to guide my year as I see it.
Instead of making a list of resolutions, I will use the feeling of what I am about to tell you to move into a new year and know I want more of THIS:
My brother, sister-in-law and niece and nephew came to visit me. They drove from Denver in their motor home with the two dogs, jeep in tow and many tools to help me make my new and beloved home more accessible. The arrived and poured forth with wheelchair ramps! and gourmet food for my freezer! and a hand-held shower thing! and lightbulb replacements! Three-hour logs for the fireplace! and ICE MELT for my walkway!
They cleaned my kitchen, painted the ramps, helped me make a flower-covered back panel for my wheelchair, made me sit down, were conscious of my energy level, shoveled gravel, took me out for meals, were aware when I was getting tired, took Olivia on walks and tied up cardboard boxes into tidy packages.
One of the very best moments of this visit was this: We were pouring out of the car in downtown Santa Fe in the evening. It was cold and icy at the curb of our parking place. I opened the passenger door to get out, saw the ice below and hesitated. Would I be able to safely make the crossing between car and curb to grab my walker? After that little feat was successfully completed I said to my brother: “What would you do if I had slipped and slid under the car back there?”
“I’d call AAA” he said….
We all laughed that down-low belly laugh because…well, because it was SUCH GREAT DISABILITY HUMOR!!!!
Casual, easy, hysterical without the underpinnings of caution.
In 2012, my attention will be on feelings in my body rather than accomplishments or desires. I will be like a magnetic basket; going about my days gathering actual experiences of connection, fun, nurturance, worth, wonder, curiosity, communion, silliness, soft belly, unguarded heart, contentment………………
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Gifts I Give And Am Given
textile design on wool flannel
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This year found me having to re-think my gift giving over the holidays. I hadn’t the cash to go gallivanting across town hither and thither in search of the perfect THING for those I love.
I settled on writing a letter to a few friends, family, services I use and places I go regularly telling them they make a difference in my life; a BIG difference.
I told them my life is so much better because of them, that I recognize and celebrate their goodness and wanted them to know I am over here feeling rich because of their presence in my life.
The self worth issues which haunt me came from a never-ending question in my very being: ‘Do you see me?’ ‘Do I matter to you?’ ‘Are you glad I am here with you in your life?’
Because I essentially had to create my own foundation for lack of what seems a child’s birthright, I now know what it takes to feel whole and securely connected from the heart.
This has been a year of miracles for me. My amazing family and friends have stepped into my life with a kind of support and love which is quite overwhelming in it’s commitment to my well-being.
They are making sacrifices in their own lives to benefit mine. I hate it that I need their help. I feel too transparent and adrift in the ‘life-muscles’ department.
And yet- they SEE ME here…
Making my way the best I can with mistakes and confusion and successes; all of what it takes to create a new life when circumstance befalls us..
They are giving me love.
And that has been my gift to others this year as well.
I leave you on this Christmas eve with this:
The Gift Of Tears
detail of installation, 1990, porcelain, 5″ x 3″
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I wonder why I don’t cry more often
With these challenges on my plate.
A good ‘tear-washing’ feels so darn good
In the end.
I don’t seem to weep in pain
Or weakness.
Sometimes abject humility
Or frustration and anger can get me going.
But seldom fear.
I find this odd.
I had an occasion years ago
On a visit to my favorite
‘Gotta find God fast’ spot I know:
CHRIST IN THE DESERT MONASTERY.
I go there for the experience of beauty and peace.
Those monks surely knew how to pick some killer real estate, I tell you..
Anyway, they have a small gift shop there
Attended by one of the monks.
He seemed primed to be a witness.
I said: (in a courageous and transparent moment during a conversation we were having on music):
“I cry at the oddest moments.
My tears often surprise me
With their suddenness and velocity,
Their inopportune arrival most times.
I can’t hold them back.
They embarrass me.”
He replied: “Have you ever heard of THE GIFT OF TEARS
In the Bible?
Yes, it is a real thing- the heart becomes so filled with beauty or joy or love or appreciation or connection or revelation
That it can not hold it all
And must spill over.
Those are your tears.”
And so..
My embarrassment lifted
And my tears have seldom felt like the enemy
From that day forward.
Habit
detail of painting, m/m
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I had dinner with a very good friend last night.
I listened to myself tell him:
“One of the big reasons I love being with you is the fact I relax my innate state of anxiety. You are sort of like valium for me.”
That definitely came out all wrong so I backpedaled:
“Not valium in the sense of numbing or providing a buffer to Life.. more like with you, my whole Self relaxes because I feel safe, seen and perfect as I am.”
Hearing this, he relaxed himself and I continued:
“You had the blessing of true and reliable support and nurturing from your folks. That gift gave you the time and space to develop authentically without questioning your worth. I harbor the anxiety I do because of habit and not because I need to perform the endless check system I had in place with a mother who rejected me whose love I needed so badly.
I do NOT need to work so hard to prove my worth.
But the vestiges of the original question remain and amp up my nervous system even when I intellectually know I’m free.
The HABIT of contraction remains.
And when I am around you, I remember another way to be.”
My friend looked at me with a slightly veiled eye
Because he doesn’t really like ‘this kind of talk.’
He humors me because I know he thinks about what I’ve said later when he is alone.
And I’m pretty sure he counts his blessings that he is a foreigner to my battlefield.
I’ve surrendered a long, long time ago
But still find dirt in my fingernails on occasion
From the muscular grip
I need to muster
On this slippery slope.
I honor mySelf
For the woman I have become
With all her sheen and flaw
Because She is here.
And this passage as a lover-of-life
Is an EARNED state of being
And truly not a given.
We Are So Beautiful And Terrible…
“FACE”, 1997, 12″ x 5″, ceramic
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We are so beautiful and terrible,
Broken and resilient,
Inspired and bored.
We are full of wrath one moment
Only to wipe a tear from a child the next.
I know light
And I know shadow.
How could it be
That we hold all of these things
Right next to one another
In our hearts?
In my wider moments
I love all of it.
Because if I don’t
I know I am armoring-up my heart once again..
(Something like: “You can have my attention because you feel good but if you don’t- leave me alone..”)
That hardness is now becoming intolerable.
This is one of my favorite photographers.
His ‘eye’ helps me make room for it all, somehow..
Clemency
detail of monoprint
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I have what I consider a strange habit.
I look to my eyes in the mirror probably 10 – 20 times per day.
What is the need to keep checking?
It really is not a vanity thing
But more of a temperature reading:
Does how I feel physically, emotionally and spiritually
Match up with what I see in my reflection?
My quest for authenticity
Helped me find this tool.
“I feel GOOD!” and after a brief gander at my eyes, sometimes I see the hardness there and the worry.
A lifetime of hyper-vigilance
Has taught me the difference
Between smooth and gleaming waters
And the rugged chop of an unknown sea creature
Barreling it’s way to the surface to sound.
My nervous system is stuck in overdrive
And God is the only force
Which seems to actually calm me.
I worry about getting to the next wall to hold on to.
Taking too much time to get dressed and being late for an appointment.
Unanswered phone calls. Wrapping a large wedding gift; (no wrapping paper, no card in the house, no strength to get them) and delivering it in a timely manner.
Bills unpaid.
Dishes in the sink.
Not wanting to eat when I SHOULD be eating..(I tend toward gauntness and am willing myself to eat more often and just MORE).
Are you bored yet?
I am.
I had to look up the definition of the word: CLEMENCY.
It means mercy. And leniency.
Mercy and leniency and mildness.
Yes, I know the word is usually used in association with crimes and misdemeanors..
Yet, in my book, a sin is only that which acts against our natural state of perfection and well-being.
Working my way through the ancient propensity
To live inside this ever-present nervous static
Is another exhaustion!
I know it’s there.
I am altogether sure it is not my natural state.
I am acutely aware that I needed the skill in my family of origin
And that it likely saved me.
Today, I do not need the thing
And yet.. I continually see it there behind my eyes when I look.
I can hate the static and demand it’s departure and blame it for all my woes.
But that sounds like what the general population
Does with any energy that stands in the way of what they want.
God is my last ‘go-to.’
For me, MS stands for ‘my static’
And of course, I WANT IT GONE!
These days I am practicing small gestures
Like a pause or a metaphorical hand smoothing my hair with the tenderness of a good mother.
Or drinking the air on my morning roll ’round the neighborhood with Olivia
And finding it fine as wine.
My nerves are so scarred and taut with anticipation of the worst
That they need mercy
And leniency
And forgiveness
And appreciation.
For here I AM still…
A courageous and continually curious woman in love with Life.
And that, dear readers, is a high accomplishment, indeed.
The Elevator Is Stuck
UNTITLED, 1999, 20″ – 25″ x 3″ (varies), ceramic, steel
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I was brought up in the suburbs of Detroit.
I never learned how to be a neighbor
Because I didn’t have to.
We lived in ‘auto-executive-manicured-lawn-land’
And I took cues from my parents as they slid
Conveniently behind trees
At the sight of another human
In order not to connect.
I realized that I now know exactly how to gather my TRIBE.
I know what a tribe is
And I know who is in mine.
The startling recognition of tribal members
Can come in an instant
Or after years of tending a relationship.
These are people
I would still be curious about;
Spiritually, emotionally or mentally fed by
Even after spending a week with them
Stuck in a tiny elevator.
These are people I remain ever interested in.
Could never know all there is to know.
Believe me, my tribe is quite small.
How does one gather a tribe?
For me.. I notice how my body feels when in the company of a person; defended? safe? electric? familiar? open? wary?
Then, over time, I gauge the distance between their heart and mine;
How far have we moved together?
Are they friends with their own shadow so I can trust them with mine?
Can they see the largest part of me and remind me of her when I forget?
If I tell them my truth about something, can I count on the intent to give a thoughtful reply or will I get a ‘reaction’ we may never recover from?
Do they know their own worth and share it generously with me and others?
Is an intimate sense of the sacred in all Life of value to them?
Can I cry and laugh with abandon in their company without reservation?
Is there a distinct feeling of luxury in their company? Gratitude?
Very, very occasionally someone will appear
Who I recognize instantly
As a part of my clan.
A meeting such as this
Has the feeling of ‘everything of significance known’
And all that’s left to do is enjoy the theater of the thing.
My tribe includes humans, yes.
But also a dog and a particular tree I adore which is very alive to me.
(Did I just lose you?)
I’ll offer no apology.
If the elevator should become stuck
I’ll have no regrets, what so ever…
“Good Medicine” continued..
‘ALEXANDRA’S INFLUENCE’ 1995, 16″ x 16″, m/m
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introduction continued..
.
In three years time, chiropractors and massage therapists and psychotherapists and injections became too familiar as my body slipped into and out of working order at an alarming rate. I became an unreliable friend as I cancelled more often than followed through on plans. Eighty percent of my life energy was going toward worry, pill taking and trying to keep my wobbly balance a secret. Life was getting narrow.
My ability to tame my point-of-view concerning physical illness has been my best medicine. Somehow, I have always recognized that between the lines of a diagnosis etched in stone are possibilities no one ever talks about. These gifts are born of the shadows cast from any illness; chronic or otherwise.
I love my life. This is not pie-in-the-sky denial talking. Of course, I am not thrilled with every second of every day but on the whole, for me, life is very good. My creativity has naturally segued from labor intensive art making into writing which feels natural and satisfying. My values are shifting from ‘out there’ gratification toward cultivating my own garden. I am judicious as to who and what I invite into the new world I am creating. I understand obstacles as challenges and way-showers inviting me into pockets of life that feed me deeply. I cry more and feel washed clean. My laugh is ready and real. I sense a transparent quality about myself reflected in the eyes of others. I am more authentically Cathy than I knew I could be and I like her very much.
My intention with this book is to change the paradigm of disability in our culture; to lift the societal veils surrounding illness and reveal a very new color palate enriched by humor, beauty and an honest look at possibilities instead of the narrow prescriptions of our well-meaning medical professionals.
I can promise you a laugh or two, a tear perhaps and certainly the tools I’ve found to craft a life of possibility instead of the out of control downward spiral all too often offered those of us in partnership with a high-maintenance body.
Balance
detail of monoprint
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How does one create balance?
What does balance feel like in the body?
Mind?
Relationships?
Spirit?
Food?
Aesthetics?
Politics?
Heart?
Fashion?
Self care vs. Other?
Nature?
Food?
Money?
Sex?
For some reason, lately I have thought a lot about my fairly short-lived marriage and subsequent divorce.
Why did I say yes?
Why did I eventually say no?
What was the initial draw?
Why did that change?
Who was I then?
Who am I now?
When I am in questioning mode, I have always found indigenous people to have an intelligence I yearn for when my own ‘go-to’ places are beginning to fray at the edges and lose their initial usefulness to me.
I found a short video explaining The significance of the FOUR DIRECTIONS in the MEDICINE WHEEL
To the Lakota Indians.
It is digestible in a beginner Anglo kind of way.
I found answers to a number of my questions.
It is worth a look.
And maybe another.
What, Exactly Is Creativity?
monoprint, 1991, 22″ x 30″
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A friend asked me this question recently.
It hooked me and hasn’t let go so I thought I’d write about it
Without looking at what anyone else had to say before I began.
Does this topic (or the myriad others I choose)
Have anything to do with MS?
Healing Through MS DEMANDS a holographic point-of-view (is that a non-sequitur?)
For me, creativity is a wash.
I mean: ‘something other’ washes over me, through me, into me
And my mind is like a nest.
All it has to do is get out of the way
And let the eggs laid there, hatch.
The man who asked me this question
Is a plumber-writer.
He has lived his life following the instruction book.
It scares him not to.
He wants to know how not to feel afraid of the unknown where Creativity lives.
The thing is… there is no instruction booklet
If one desires access into where originality, genius, healing occur.
We are alone there.
Takes some moxie to even entertain the thing.
We must love our own company.
To sit still and ask:
“Where am I drawn to go?
Who am I drawn to see?
What mark wants to be made now?”
And then REALLY LISTEN and RISK ACTION.
It tends to be a solitary road, this creative life.
It needs space and forgiveness and fuel for the fire
Because it has nothing to do with a manufactured life.
An INSPIRED life is full of the unknown.
In fact, that is the very foundation of it:
There is NO SOLID GROUND TO STAND ON!
I am always trying to find my sea legs
And it looks wonky in so many ways…
But the thing that continues to wash over and through me
Is nothing less
Than my reason for waking up.