I miss my mom and pops, but I’ve since had to learn to live without them.
At first, I found myself praying for peace but unwilling to be it. I spent so much time grieving that I have had little energy left for my kids. I was looking for peace of mind like an addict looks for narcotics to numb their pain. Sometimes we need to keep physically busy when we are grieving.
You see, I hear mom moaning in the mornings when I roll out of bed. I sometimes see her eyes looking back at me in a mirror when I am combing my graying hair. I hear her voice when I speak. I see her hands when mine are busy. I don’t mind so much crying anymore when I think about my parents.
We cry at weddings, births and funerals. Some tears welcome new beginning. We cry when saying hello or goodbye. We cry not only for ourselves but for others. We cry when saying hello or goodbye. We cry when we’re not loved. We cry when we’re successful, and we cry when we’re not. We cry when we are happy, and we cry when we’re not. Tears of grief and longing are healthy when they come. They do not compromise our strengths. They are gifts of mercy that bless us all.
How strange with all these truths in the upper either of my mind. These truths conceived from the excitement of tapping into a wealth of inner knowledge that lay dormant in me since childhood. Truths like where there were fear and hesitation; my brain kept digging through genuine and disingenuous memories. My hands kept busy digging through soothing wet clay till I found my happiness and began living my special purpose.
To draw spontaneous images for my book in the Paint file, I start out like I always do with squares, slashes, circles and squiggles. These are my favorite symbols to draw and read. I began playing connect-the-dots with my imagination. I saw myself in a world-wind of confusion with depression trying to still my dreams. I saw my significant other Joaquin, close by if I should trip and fall. I saw my daughters smiling at my 18-year old granddaughter, Heather, comfortably lying on her stomach drawing her heart. She wants to be an artist. I imagine again, seeing the city that never sleeps at the right top, a common theme in my work. Also familiar to my work is the sun. It is pulling the depression out of me day-by-day.
Begin playing connected-the-dots with your scribbling’s and begin developing your inner childish sensibilities. It takes time to read the unseen so do not give up. It may be the only way to map visually your soul’s palette. Do not be surprised if your inner child points out different messages in the same drawing from moment-to-moment from day-to-day.
Your mind is a reservoir of untapped knowledge like Joyce’s poem begins, “Purple River Currents, My Heart is a reservoir for Purple River Currents, not blood red, not lagoon blue, Not raging in a deep dark mysterious abyss, But passionately racing through our bodies, our veins, lapping up oxygen like long hungry tongues, Purple River Currents cannot be damned, nor can resounding echoes be ignored, Still we count on them flowing a long, long time!”