There are certain life lessons you might think I would have learned by now, having had so many transitions, and being a visual artist and writer. But this one seems to have taken a lifetime.
I spent much of the weekend in discernment mode, basically exploring three or four big-picture possibilities for September and beyond. I used all the tools in my toolbox: writing, art, oracle cards, free-association, you name it. I tried hard to sense what option, if any, inspired me, or helped me articulate a life-affirming post-65 life path, and the best way of helping a struggling world. But after hours of work, I realized that these options were all deadening on some level or another. Uninspiring. It was terribly depressing.
This morning, something hit me. And that is, my so-called possibilities for the future were really based almost entirely on my past, the places and situations that I have lived in up until now. Perhaps because I'm so exhausted, perhaps because the news is so heartbreaking, perhaps because I seek comfort and stability, my imagination only seemed to be able to scan past and present realities and try to re-tool them. Indeed, some of my choices over the years were re-do's of previous phases. Is this just me, or is it human nature? After all, the media is full of references to "getting back to normal" -- going back to the familiar. We are all traumatized, needing the comfort of the known. Many of us will do anything to avoid starting completely from scratch.
I also realized that other earlier life decisions were made well before I consciously devoted myself to representing the Goddess. I was trying either to break into some male construct or other, or simply to survive those constructs. Now, in the light of what feels like a more life-affirming spiritual "place", these other physical places and situations don't have quite the same zing anymore. To use the metaphor of the painter, I absolutely need to start a new painting.
The reason that feels so scary is that in the past, when I have faced the blank canvas (say, in 1990 when I first arrived in Duluth), I assumed I had to be a blank painter. I tried to throw away most of my east coast qualifications and expectations (because they didn't seem to be helping me). I had already deep-sixed my musical passion and interest in England. I wanted to try to become what I thought was a more normal person, finding a good job, a stable home, maybe even a relationship or marriage. As all of you know, none of that has ever happened. Metaphorically, I had thrown away my legs and arms and perhaps parts of my soul. For quite some time, I completely lost who I was. I am only now realizing how devastating that was.
So this time at least, while I may be facing a blank canvas, I am not an empty shell of a painter. This artist brings with her decades of unique experiences, all of her considerable education and art/music training, all of her power, all of her foibles and neuroses, all of her passions, unreservedly and unapologetically. And I'll do over the next week or two what I would always do creating an oil painting: fill in the stark white canvas with an earth tone, and then, once that is dry, block in some basic areas of color. The details will have to wait until the blank canvas is no longer completely blank.
