“Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love.” – Rumi
Every seven years we create ourselves anew.
I no longer remember where I read this and although I’d heard this reference to dogs and cats, I’d never heard it applied to us. I’m not sure I subscribe to this notion, but it’s an interesting framework to overlay a life. If it’s true, I’m halfway through my eighth life. Ack! At this point, I’m getting a little too close to the kitty-like big curtain finale.
However.
What I do believe is that there is a rhythm to life. I believe we have seasons. How could we not? We merely have to look at every single living thing on earth to see it. Why on earth would I be the exception to the rule?
And yet, although there is a time to plant, to nurture and to grow, I have always railed against the time to lie fallow. Nope. Never been big on the fallow part; the dark drear of the winters in life, the incubation of an idea, the low points where I have to assure myself that something necessary is growing in the dark, those fetal position periods where I tell myself to keep the faith, to believe that light will once again shine….you know…that.
Almost near the end of my second life (see above – I was 13-years old), my parents took me and a girlfriend for a summer holiday. We drove down the Pacific Coast to San Francisco. I’m sure we were quite insufferable, giggling and secretly making fun of my old and decidedly uncool parents, parents that I now recognize were younger than I am now (insert heavy sigh at startling insight).
While there, I fell in love with a Maxfield Parrish print. It was about 8” x 11” with a wide wood frame. It was sort of a shadow box, the picture printed on the cardboard in the front with about 1 1/2 inches between it and the back cardboard backing.
The picture was in blues with a golden woman standing on a rock with her arms flung back. I kept this shadow box for decades, but with every move it looked a little more beat up. It eventually fell apart, no doubt weakened from the slit my thirteen-year old self had carved in the back to stuff my endless bags of pot.
Flash forward to my current life.
I have always dabbled in painting, collage and the odd drawing class, but, in spite of having a studio in Sechelt, I never truly claimed this creative aspect of myself.
But instead of regretting what I haven’t taken the time to do in the past, I am simply reframing this to consider that perhaps the time simply wasn’t right. The proverbial garden wasn’t ready.
In the ol’-put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is-plan, I am now renting a nearby art studio with my cousin, Barb Pearson. This of course, also brings the Mennonite factor into play: now that I’m paying for the space, I feel obligated to use it (kind of like bellying up to get my money’s worth at a smorgasbord).
I’m not sure what will come out of all this, but I’ve created the space and I’m promising myself to show up and see what happens. I have items of clothing I plan to deconstruct and/or reconstruct by removing or adding extra fabric or faux fur, I have old jewelry I want to upcycle, watercolours, oils, pastels and acrylics…all waiting.
In spite of all our recent downsizing and ruthless editing, much of my random artistic ephemera survived. One of those things was a water-stained book of Maxfield Parrish posters. Among those pages was a poster, a picture that is very similar to that long ago grade eight treasure. Once again, it is a golden woman against a blue background, only this time she’s seated.
Who knows, perhaps she’s a little older and a bit tired?
Without really thinking about it, I pulled that picture and started to create a collage. I don’t profess to call it great art, but JFN, I like it enough.
The irony of that selection for my first project in my studio (I love saying ‘my studio’!), was not evident to me until I started writing this piece.
Maybe it’s true that we recreate ourselves every seven years, but what feels even more true is that the same themes cycle through us as we endlessly circle in our seasons. I may be in the middle of my eighth life, but all my previous constellations and incarnations are still orbiting within. The same themes of yearning and longing, haloes of meaning and freedom and love and stars, and more often than not, all of it set against a deep background of blues.
Because truly, how else can a woman glow without her backdrop of darkness?
