I like to take pictures, to process my surroundings, to find a remote area and connect with the earth while leaving nothing behind but footprints that will disappear with time.
And I am grateful that, throughout the years, I’ve had the opportunity to roam many beaches and deserts. I have felt grounded and levelled as my feet have sank into the sand and I found balance.

But on this trip, on this bucket list item that was meant to distract me from my new reality, I was restrained, disconnected from my surroundings, and constantly confronted by my disability.

I went to the beach with my family, and I felt the sun and sand on my skin.
I was somewhere breathtaking that many will never see, and I am very grateful for this.
But I had to be carried, and when I couldn’t be carried anymore I crawled.
And as I crawled, I dug my fingers into the sand, and I cried.
I cried from joy, from pain, from sorrow and from fear.
I cried from comfort in connecting with the ground,
I cried from mental and physical exhaustion,
and I cried from grief.

Over the years I have found joy in watching my loved ones enjoy the things I once enjoyed. But as my participation and presence diminish, as I stay behind and the sideline gets further away, as my body decays, as I struggle and as I disappear;
I long to see. To be. To feel alive.

On this trip I left trails where I crawled, tears where I cried, I let myself fall off a ledge, I slid down a hill, I bled, I bruised, I fell, and every time I found a way to get back up. I tortured myself to follow, I felt guilty for holding people back, for needing to be picked up, and for needing to be held steady. My family says they don’t mind, but I do.
I feel my path coming to an impasse,  that time is limited, and I’m frightened to tears by the thought of what is to come.

But other then that it was lovely….

Adapting isn’t always easy, we get set in our ways.
We are comfortable in the predictable, the known, the routine.
But it is possible, especially in this place, to adapt

This life and this place are different then what I’ve grown accustomed to.
I wake up at 5am when the sun beams down on me,
and as it rises I slowly fall back asleep.
I eat when hungry.
I take pictures.
I watch the sunset, and in some cases light turn to dark.
I get high, and I smile.
Comfortable with accomplishing so little yet so much more then usual.

Adapting to my normal life is difficult.
The typical, the expected, the superficial.
The pace of my friends and family, they are miles ahead and apart.
It is difficult not being able to keep up, feeling I should.
The overwhelming responsibilities.
The reminders of my limitations.
Going days without picking up my camera or a paint brush.
Searching for order in the chaos, for purpose in my existence,
and for light in the dark.
I love my life, but it is clear that it has surpassed me.

As I sit here, wind in my hair, listening to the waves
and surrounded by greenery; I know this is not my home, but
I feel grounded and part of the elements.
I have found my pace and I hope I can carry it home with me.

The painting is done, it has been shipped. And now I wait for it to arrive at its destination. I don’t know if you will like it, perhaps it’s not what you expected. No matter the outcome, I want you to know the story behind it. ….

Brushstrokes

This painting is for an old friend, someone I have always thought of in high regards. We never knew each very well but I met her during the most innocent time of my life. Early elementary. It was a time where my father was alive, where the worst thing I knew was loosing my marbles in a marbles game, where I had too many friends to pick from at recess, a time where things were simpler and emotions easy to understand. It is why I started this painting with white and primary colors.

But this period in time, this memory, is also attached to the memory of my father dying when I was only 11. Even though I had moved and you were not in my life at this time, I had to include it, the black. The pain feeds the good memories, it makes them stand out.

We met again 5 years later, in high school. 5 years is such a short time but the differences in me were astronomical. Looking at you reminded me how much I had changed, how much I had lost, how much I was broken. You were good, you were where I wanted to be, and you were impossible to reach. You were primaries and I was now the opposite. I was orange, purple and green. Secondary colors.

In the end, this painting is inspired by feelings and the colors they are linked to. It is nothing and it is everything. It is a story, a life, a relationship. The constants and the glimpses. It is convoluted and quite simple. The brushstrokes are smooth, some brisk, some well thought out, and others spontaneous. They represent the days you existed in my life. Over a thousand. A short time really, but impactful. Looked upon fondly, no matter how brief and how distant. Up close or from afar: The strokes are seen, the impact is felt.

This painting is for Tamara.

There’s much I keep meaning to do
Much I write but never finish
Paintings I mean to paint
Exercise I put off
Photographs I don’t share

I jump from thought to thought
Never present enough to expand
Leaving action in limbo