Eight Things to do instead of giving up

In the last few weeks, I have come very close to giving up. Completely. Turn my face to the wall and wait to die. I have managed to change my mind, but it has taken work.

It was a tough winter. I spent the first week of December in the hospital and the following six weeks in a transitional care facility. (My family would later refer to it as "that place.") For most of that time, I couldn't do anything but lie there. No computer. No Internet access. I made a couple tortured drawings. Once home, I was visited by nurses three times a week. I was allowed out of the house for three things: doctor visits, church, and "the beauty parlor." While I was in that place, I thought of nothing but healing enough to get out of it. At home, I was surrounded by bits of my old life, but I didn't have energy or physical ability to take advantage of most of them…hence the impulse to give up.

Here's what saved me:

1. Focus on one small thing that fills your heart.
   
   I went to a concert. (It was at a church... so I didn't even have to feel guilty about leaving the house www.globalharmony.org) There was one moment where the sound I was hearing was so wonderful that there was no room for anything else in my world—no room for any physical or emotional discomfort. There was only beauty. I thought: "Moments like this. Life is worth living for moments like this."
   


2. Return to the present moment.
   
   I don't know how much of my former ability and energy will return. It is easy for me to get lost in worries about the future. That moment at the concert lifted me because I was nowhere else but the present moment. Pretending that the past and future exist is a game with very limited use. I've been writing for years about “making an internal gesture.” I finally know what I mean: paying attention to sensory information and leaving behind my mind chatter so that I am in the NOW.
   


3. Feel the blessing.
   
   If someone else points out that there are people who have it much worse, I have to restrain my violent tendencies. Sometimes, though, I am reminded of these things naturally. For example, one of the pieces in the Global Harmony concert was about a Southeast Asian family fleeing violence. Hearing others' stories, I understand that—all things considered—I am blessed. When I feel that blessing, I want to go on.
   


4. Go mad.
   
   In Douglas Adams book, Life, the Universe and Everything, hero Arthur Dent decides how to cope with being stranded on prehistoric Earth. He gets up one morning and announces "I will go mad!" After a particularly difficult day in my at-home recovery, I remembered Arthur’s coping mechanism and decided to try it. I had been thinking about things too realistically. I have an incurable disease and it's getting worse, hence: despair. Ruth Gordon said, "Never give up. And never, under any circumstances, face the facts.” In order for me not to give up I will have to ignore the facts. I will have to lose touch with reality. I must go mad.
   


5. Spend time with a friend…the right kind of friend.
   
   I went to lunch with a friend and afterward felt much better. Not any friend would have left me feeling encouraged. My friend talked honestly of the difficulties in her life and how she copes with them. She is a 12-stepper and, as such, reminds me of the tools that come with that outlook on life. She is a deeply religious woman and the strength of her faith became a sort of splint for my own brokenness. Time with a good friend puts me back on the path to healing.
   
   
6. Learn something new.
   
   I received an invitation to a free webinar. It was a subject in which I had only mild interest, but free is free and I had time. I listened to the webinar and took some follow-up video lessons. The subject matter had nothing to do with illness or medicine, so it was a nice change of pace. Absorbing information used my brain in a different way than when I am caught up in the emotions or tasks of dealing with my difficulties. In the book, Nation, Terry Pratchett's characters are recovering from a tsunami. One boy thinks about needing a "thin silver line" to draw him into the future. Learning something new is a thin silver line for me.
   


7. Reinvent yourself.
   
   Having a major disruption in my usual schedule brings with it opportunity. I can reinvent myself. What is important to me? What gives me energy? What helps me move toward life? As I add activities into my life, I can choose which to reclaim and which to leave behind.
   


8. Look for reasons not to give up.
   
   I started writing two weeks ago with five reasons not to give up. Because I was thinking about it, additional reasons have been jumping up and down, waving their arms and asking to be included. This has been fun and moments of fun, well, there's another reason not to give up.
   
   

Claiming my True Identity

Terry Pratchett has written one of my favorite characters: a failed wizard named Rincewind. Rincewind can't correctly spell wizard and, most of the time, can't do any magic. (A Great Spell has taken up residence in his mind, refusing any other spells entrance...you gotta read the books.) Still, he IS a wizard; he claims that as his identity, regardless of what other people might think.

In much the same way, I am an artist. I have only sold a few paintings. I self-published my book, Dancing with Monsters (not, I pridefully point out, because it was rejected but because I have the patience of a gnat and wanted to hold it in my hands rather than schlep it to publishing houses). Like Rincewind, reality seems to disagree with me. I find comfort, however, in the assertion of the great MythBuster-philosopher, Adam Savage: "I reject your reality and substitute my own."

I was worn out by weeks spent in the nasty bowels of medical recommendation and social service bafflement. There, I am a patient, a person with disability, a supplicant to the labyrinthine God of Benefits. I realized I had to think about—and do—something else. I needed to return to my center, practice my identity: I needed to make some art.

Even that idea comes with extra baggage of fear these days. For several years, my ability to use my hands has been decreasing. My left hand is strong, but it shakes and has never been very coordinated. My right hand and arm are weak. Earlier this year, I passed a milestone: the paintings I did for Lent were created using my left hand as much as my right. I felt as if there were a stop watch counting down the amount of time I would be able to make art.

I find inspiration in the work of Henri Matisse who, when he started using a wheelchair, shifted his art from painting to paper cut outs. Because painting was too physically rigorous, he found another way.

When I first started painting, it changed the way I looked at the world. Instead of just seeing a tree, I would notice the colors in the bark and the leaves and wonder what paints to use to mix those colors. I would think about what movements of the brush I would need to make to communicate the textures in front of me. The world became a magical puzzle and I love seeing the world that way.

Here in eastern Minnesota, we have been in near drought conditions. I looked at the sky. The sky that day moved from a light blue at the horizon to a deep blue right above me. It was like a clear, crisp, sustained note—a crystal chime. I sang back to it. I didn't have time, that day, to respond with an image. I did remember, though, and that working on the computer allows me to paint with light.

For several days, I looked at the sky and try to memorize what I saw. Finally, the weekend came and I had time to play with images and colors. I created "Five Skies."




It felt good to be making gratuitous art again.

Not too long ago, exhausted by the media harping on the bad economic news, I put some CDs in my car player. I was listening to Sweet Honey in the Rock. One of the things I love about that group is the rich texture they create with their voices. Thinking about that, I remembered that texture speaks to me. I want to touch things.

The clear blue sky, though, doesn't have a texture. It has depth. My digital drawings weren't capturing that depth.

I came back about a week later and made some refinements:



I don't know if the changes are even visible to the casual observer, but I felt better about the piece after making them.

When I updated my website to add the new sketch, I said I was working on "Five Series of Five." As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I started envisioning what the next five would be. (This time, I am definitely going to get to play with texture!)

Looking at the world through artist eyes, I feel interested and hopeful. Those days of sky gazing taught me that the seeing may be enough. If my hands and arms fail me completely and all I can do is watch and imagine, that will do.

I will be a maker as long as I can be. I will be an artist as long as I live.