I had a meltdown.
I was writing.
I was working on a contracted project.
All the thoughts, frustrations, guilt, and grief of my decision to leave my previous work came and grabbed hold of me.
My writing became paralyzed.
I threw my hands up and went to bed.
Anxiety took over.
I couldn’t breath.
I couldn’t hold still.
I tried to quiet myself.
A little nudge came from within-
“Draw” it said.
I got brave,
I emerged from the covers.
I found my pastels.
I couldn’t find my sketchbook right away,
So I used some brown wrapping paper I use for shipping books.
A few strokes here and there,
With what ever colors felt right.
Out came a duck with a little bird by its side.
Then a chickadee on its nest.
It was magical!
I ran out of paper!
I just had to share the bliss in rediscovering the therapy of creativity.
When I was done,
I was relieved, as if I had cried a million tears.”
A dear friend replies,
You did it.
You faced the fears head on,
Gave them respect,
And then used your tools,
And the power of of using creativity instead of your brain to deal with them.”
I explore how to get to that point of artistic expression,
Without the meltdown.
I visited some of my work from long ago and far away.
I had drawings of figures, still life, paper bags, bones.
I had drawings that smelled of years of storage.
I had drawings that expressed multiple versions of me.
Neglected and forgotten.
Versions of myself that visit in dreams.
Like forgotten lovers of long ago.
“Why are you here now?” I ask.
“Only to be here now.” They reply.
I hope for a day to continue,
Being an artist,
Knowing what I am capable of.
Embracing all versions of myself,
A being of creative expression.