The Goal Now is to Find Identity without Doing

Raising young kids takes every ounce of energy you have. It is the most selfless time of your life. You spend your days watching them grow. Your hours are spent nursing, feeding, holding, teaching, and protecting them.  For the rest of my life I will have to let go as the twine unravels. It is one of the scariest emotions of my life. Trusting others with their heart and spirit. But I put my girls on a bus this year. And as I stood there as the tears flow down my face, the vacancy of purpose was fully felt. My heart ached but something inside of me pushed me forward. It’s your time. Do the work. Heal. Open. Create. Find joy.

All of this lead me to reflecting on my childhood and education. When I was young I was often withheld from the arts. It was something “I did not need.” Instead I would work with teachers on my reading, spelling and writing that were far behind my classmates. Their was this book of the most used 1000 words in the english language and I would study them. Read them. Write them. Spell them. Be them. And when they were mastered they would get crossed off and I would start the next ten words. 

As I went to middle school. I was not allowed to be in choir, band or orchestra. I took study hall with teachers to help me with my homework. As I grew older into high school I receive attention and praise for school work. I had learned at a young age the joy of surprising people when they underestimated me. That is why I ended up graduating with honors. I wanted the world to know that I was capable. But what I did not realize is the depth of the damage that was caused by judging myself on what I could produce. With a grade given on a piece of paper that means nothing now. I did not realize that I was withheld from creative expression. What a horrible thing to do to a child. Take away art and place all attention on the “core subjects.” There is a calling inside of me. I need to become my own arts teacher. As I put my toes in the water I am taken back at how alive I feel. Self expression is blood for the soul.

Recently I was photographed by the amazing Anna Yorrow for her Spirit & Bone collection. A collection about rawness, women, childhood, nature and transformation. When talking about my life I often talk about walls and shields that I have built to protect myself. As I sat in front of the camera, my witness, I found myself creating structure and a feeling of disappoint came over me. In the moment I interpreted the structures as barriers to protect me from the rawness of the experience. But as the experience began to unfold within me, it became clear that the structures did not represent shields but creation. The rocks, the sticks, the dead grass, the feathers, the debris were my building blocks. Building a being made full of strength and tenderness just like the rocks that crumble in my hands. Rotten trees fell at my feet. But there was life in the midst of it all. Flowering cacti at my back. Encouraging me to awaken.

I don’t have much experience with chakras. I do know that my heart chakra has always been a place of great pain for me. Jake and I have dabbled a little in tantric sex. But being a rape survivor it is challenging for me to give fully in this way. In recent years I have been able to be more fully present with intimacy. Recently I had a mystical experienced while making love. As the motions began I felt disconnected. I caught myself and asked my heart to open. In that moment it felt like my heart chakra broke open. My breath moved easily through my chest. I felt deeply connected to All That Is. But even more I felt worthy. I felt worthy of touch, of attraction and of love. In that moment I felt radical acceptance of myself and weeped with joy.

I am at a threshold. Letting go of old coping methods that no longer serve me. Its interesting that the more connected I become with myself the more I crave connection with others. Sharing vulnerability is a strength and much needed honesty in our culture.

Here is my reading from the gallery opening...

Sometimes I wonder if becoming a mother was a cop-out.

At twenty I had lost everything. Not my belongings, my family, or my friends. I had lost myself. A man took that from me.

I worry that people don’t want to read another story about a woman finding herself after rape. It’s like a broken record. It’s “here we go again.”  

But my chalkboard, that once described my essence, was wiped clean. My dreams taken by the wind.

Can a women become broken when her bones are intact? When her flesh is unblemished?

And if women can...what heals her?

Can the love of a man or the weight of a baby? What heals her heart? What heals a life unlived?

I have felt the loving caress of a man and I have held three babies in my arms. I have fed them from my breast and birthed them from my shadows.

But if you take them all away. If you take the roles of wife and mother. What is left?

Brokenness. My roles are a blanket that shields the work undone.

My chalkboard still wiped clean. Vacancy.

I tend to hold these blankets close, thinking they are offering protection from the world.

But all along the blankets themselves were preventing my healing. Blocking the light from shining on my broken bones and blemished skin.

I have given my blankets up to the Universe. I have let my roles as mother and wife stand beside me and not cover me.

Now I stand in this dry river bed. With my brokenness.

I begin again. My bones and tissues begin to mend. My chalkboard, my canvas.