My Strange New Looking Bed and Nailed to the Wall Picture
David Sandum, 2001. Used by permission of the artist.

It was there I started to draw - in my room, alone and confused. Many therapists at the time asked if I took drugs, had an alcohol problem or any other addictions, saying that people with such strong anxiety and depression most often had them. They were always surprised to hear me answer no, but I just drew and painted, even if I didn’t see it clearly then. Yet now I realize I did something constructive with the depressive. Instead of a needle or a bottle, I picked up a pen and eventually the brush. So I am completely self-taught. Art has consumed me since this time, not just because I love art, but as I’ve literally have painted to stay alive, and in it, have found empathy. It’s as simple as that. People could never tell me in words what I went through. But I could see and understand it through Van Gogh’s and Munch’s expressive paintings. It was as if they said: “I know everything around you is chaos. But look at this, I felt the same way.” I have written about this extensively in my memoir  (in English). It took me ten years to complete and I hope to get it published someday.

Q: As a colorist, do you notice a shift in tones and color as your depression ebbs or intensifies? Are there particular works of yours that you think illustrate that for us?

I think it’s a myth that depressed artists always paint black or in earth tones, though that can certainly be the case. Just look at Van Gogh’s vibrant yellow and stars, Degas inspiring ballerinas, or Matisse’s decorative color schemes. They were all depressed major portions of their life, but I see their work mainly as uplifting, even though Van Gogh’s early period for example was dark and his portrayals and subject matters often conveyed troubled times. But their colors and subject matters were vibrant. They focused on the energy inside. This is my main philosophy in art, like Matisse said: “I do not literally paint that table, but the emotion it produces upon me.” 

Depression Prayer
David Sandum, 2000 Used by permission.

I have certainly painted darker though, and my first few years I painted so dark people often said they wouldn’t be able to have my art on their wall. But now I wonder if that wasn’t just mental: that I just didn’t quite know how to paint yet and to keep my brush clean. Any true artist will know what I mean. But two of my very first paintings were expressive and colorful, and they will always be key to me.

The Law of the Jungle
David Sandum, 2000.

This vibrant and expressive painting was created late one winter’s night in the year 2000. One of my very first paintings, I painted by impulse. I had no idea what would evolve. But soon Darwin’s theory of natural selection came to mind: How the strong survive and the weak eventually become extinct–contemplating that the world is run by people who pressure others to destruction for their own gain (displayed by the evil man in profile to the left, about to crush and grab me with his claw). The “claw man” is trying to stab me; and in many aspects he represented the world as a whole.

Ironically, this painting now hangs in a law office. The lawyer who purchased it has told me it’s his dream to see it in a courtroom. 

Q: You recently spent some time in the deserts of the American southwest. People have long gone to the deserts for a cure – for asthma, rheumatism, etc. Did you experiencing a healing energy in the desert — in regards to depression, or in more general terms? How did this change in atmosphere effect your moods and your work?

I don’t think I have found the answer to this just yet (I returned home from the US last night), as I’m not the kind of artist who works entirely on site. Things need to linger in my mind, sometimes for months, and suddenly one day in my studio things will come together. But the strong impressions were definitely there throughout my trip to the deserts of California, Arizona, Nevada, Utah, and New Mexico: the peace, the silence, the beauty of the landscape. No cell phones or computers, just me and the earth. Navajo country, Bryce Canyon in Utah, Sedona in Arizona, and Ghost Ranch New Mexico, were all places of healing. I locked my door to my studio two months ago tired and weak, but have returned filled with thoughts, places, and colors etched in my head. I love the desert and I always will.

To read all the posts in this series click here. Stay tuned next week for another addition of Chronically Creative. Thanks for being here.

Awhile back, when I was in a period of struggling with pain and the way it limited my work, Claudia sent me a list of things she’d done while laid up with pain. She called her list “Things I’ve Done From Bed.” She wrote novels. She raised children. She saved a marriage.

It helped. Seeing her list rolling out long in that email. It helped.

Because of this pain, I work in a unique way. I work small. I work in tiny steps and short spurts. I have to be very realistic about my situation and work within that reality. Just dreaming big is not enough. I have to work too, in this really uncommon manner. I may not get as much done as others I admire. But I do the work of my hands, every day. Every. Day.

I thought I was getting better, moving out of the pain, but lately I think maybe not so much. And sometimes, this just really breaks me down. I look at my life stretching long in front of me and think, “Really, another 40 years of this pain?” Then I look at my children and think, “Yes, of course. As many years as I can get.”

So I’m making my list now, in the little window of hopefulness  that I have today, in case the shades snap down again. So I can remember what I can still do. So I can recall that small is beautiful — even if you have to do most of it from bed.

1. Became famous among dozens for helping “recovering evangelicals.”
2. Wrote  several hundred posts on postmodernism as the Urban Abbess.
3. Wrote 453 posts on “soulcare for flibbertigibbets” as Magpie Girl.
4. Left my tribe and formed a new one.
5. Introduced arts and liturgy to the Seattle Vineyard.
6. Kept a dozen or so folks from committing spiritual suicide.
7. Became a spiritual director.
8. Got one tall, beautiful, intelligent girl to 11.
9. Got a coy, cute, crafty little girl to 9.
10. Managed to keep a woflpup’s head above water until manhood.
11. Made sure my husband did not live a boring life in the suburbs.
12. Created a sense of home for any number of people around the holidays.
13. Built shrines and holy spaces.
14. Created a dozen guiding catch phrases.
15. Produced seasonal zines.
16. Created a series of postmodern saints cards.
17. Submitted book proposals.
18. Landed a literary agent.
19. Decided that I didn’t want to go the traditional publishing route.
20. Published a children’s book POD.
21. Published a photography and essay book POD.
22. Started an on-line play along.
23. Started a Do Less Revolution.
24. Helped people (at least begin) to form their Soultribes.
25. Created an online brand.
26. Sold alternative prayer beads for alternative souls.
27. Joined a wonderful writers groups, who catapulted me through roadblocks.
28. Taught at conference, colleges, and churches.
29. Learned how to celebrate the Jewish feasts.
30. Bought a house, made a home.
31. Adopted a boy and a dog.
32. Made life easier for a few kindergartners.
33. Supported an urban school.
34. Navigated complicated medical systems.
35. Been present.
36. Learned the guitar.
37. Learned to knit.
38. Kept in touch with far-flung friends and family.
39. Nurtured a virtual community.
40. Never. Stopped. Trying.

What do you think? Did I miss any?

I called a friend yesterday for advice on a stuck place in my work. Was told that I am letting what I *perceive* as limitations stop me.

I don’t think this pain is a percieved limitations. It seems pretty damn real. It seems pretty damn limiting.

Apparently, some people can write books while paralyzed by just blinking one eye. Some people can write books while brain damaged. It’s amazing, isn’t it?

I don’t feel like I have the inner resources to be some people.

Still, I am trying to shift my perspective. Trying to think of how I can return to teaching — something I quit because I could no longer trust my body to be well enough to show up when I was scheduled. I’m trying to get around that limitation.

But mostly, I am angry. Angry at the illness. Angry that people can’t see how much it effects me. (I can count on on hand the number of people who truly “get” it. Lynette, you’re number one, love.)  Angry at how alone that makes me feel.

Angry that I don’t get more credit for all the herculean effort it takes to do the things I do in just one daywith pain: feed my children; endure the pain of the traffic noise as I walk them to school; exercise regardless of my condition; be emotionally present to my family, my readers, my friends. Not to mention all the extras it takes just to hold a body together when it is this frail: the length of time it takes to shower when you can’t move your limbs without pain; all the hours in the pool, on the yoga mat, at the doctors; the enormous expense of medications and supplements and alternative practitioners. Even my gym costs more than normal because I can’t stand the noise of the popular, cheap clubs. Does anyone see this? This doesn’t flow, it doesn’t come easy. It’s a hike through the desert, every single step of it.

Today’s Plan:Move on Anyway. In spite of. In the Face of Pain. I’m not well enough to bike to the club to swim, and I don’t have time to walk because of a doctors appointment. But i can do yoga at home. I’ll cook from scratch so  I can “eat clean.” Write and record the Do Less post for tomorrow. Find a new doctor (requires a bike or bus ride). Walk to pick up the kids from school for choir practice. Walk to choir practice. Walk home. Make dinner (in pain. I hate that part.)  If the pain in manageable go to my own choir practice (Tho this kind of singing in on my Mondo Beyondo list, I may have to quit this because I’m usually in too much pain by evening.) Mourn the fact that my brief dalliance with moderately pain free living has passed. I will do all of this — and more — in pain. Despite pain.

What I won’t do because of the pain:learn how to edit my podcasts, learn how to set up an ecourse registration page (can’t concentrate enough or read enough), have sex, truly enjoy anything I do (hurts to much), ride my beautiful bike instead of walking (everything takes so much longer on foot), laugh.

Wouldn’t you know it?  I’m gearing up to write a series of posts for the new Do Less Campaign, and my to-do list is suddenly stressing me out.

Universe, meet Sense of Humor.

Do Less kicks off tomorrow with Why I Keep A Have-Done List. But since it’s *8 Things Thursday, let’s do a little warm-up exercise.  It’s time to think about what you need to stay healthy and sane on a day-to-day basis. Here’s my basic set:

1. Sleep: I need 8 hours a night, and if my migraines are flaring I grab a nap at 3pm as well.

2. Exercise: A walk or swim and at least 10 minutes of yoga a day is helpful in keeping the migraines and bay.

3. Quiet: My brain hyper-processes all sensory intake, so background noise stresses me out. I work without music or talk radio in the office.

4. Meditative Activities: If I’m feeling stressed, a few rows of knitting or some time on the guitar always helps.

5. Work/Rest Rhythm: This book helped me figure out a good work/rest pattern.  If my migraines are bad I have to work one hour, rest one hour. One good days I can work 2-3, rest 1. It makes me feel lame, but I’m learning that it is what’s functional for me right now.

6. Morning Cuddle: this 15 minute check-in time with my girls is a must. (more here)

7. Grown Ups: I work alone and live in a culture where I don’t speak the language. At least one coffee or lunch with a friend each week is required to keep me sane.

8.  Meaningful Conversations:  “Only Connect” is a big theme for me. Talks with my Soulsisters and my teenage-darlings must regularly for my spirit to feel strong.

What *8 Things are your self-care essentials? Grab a button and play along, or leave your link for this week’s list is the comments below. Thanks for reading!

It’s Dreamboard time, and the Flower Moon is sending us its lovely blooming energy. According to Trish Hoskins at Suite 101, now is the time to celebrate bouyant, playful energy and to “meditate on your thankfulness for the feeling of renewal and rejuvination.”

All this month I’ve known that my theme for the May dreamboard would be “All Systems GO!” Which has been encouraging because I’ve had a bad migraines in May and every day has brought me pain. Today the pain finally broke and –you guessed it — I came down with a stomach bug. In Sweden. On vacation.

Have you noticed that this tends to happen with stress of all sorts? For instance, my mother was a teacher and was often sick on the first few days of our holiday breaks.  I think maybe the fight-or-flight rush of adreniline keeps the germs at bay, and once that’s gone — WOMP! — you’re sick.

So with this dreamboard I’m holding on to hope with both hands that the next few weeks will find me healthy and read to MOVE on all the lovely writing and community-building projects The Universe has given me of late.  In spite of the pain this month, I have felt that blooming, joyful energy in great abundance. I am immensely grateful that the work that’s been set in front of me rejuvenates me body and soul.

This dreamboard was made in our hotel room in Stockholm. The Cate drew the rocket ship for me and we stuck them up on the amazing wall paper. I love how it makes me think of the Flower Moon and of my hope for forward motion. Perhaps we should have written: All Systems Grow!

What is the Flower Moon bringing you these days?

Thankfully I get these little moments of relief where I can dash off a microblog or make notes for a longer piece or writing, or you know, take a shower or something dumb like that.

This is making me nuts because my deamon is downloading writing ideas to me on an every-five-minute basis. I am holding him by the tail and fretting a little. Leonie says, “Don’t worry Possum, they will be there when you need them. And I’m trying Leonie, I really am, just to trust in abundance and to not worry about lack.

In the meantime let me make a confession. I don’t really read blogs. Shocking, I know, and tragically unfair. I don’t really read much at all anymore because of my head, and the eye strain, and the ache. Which is completely awful because words are my absolutely favorite thing. I’m totally dependent on audible.com, which makes me worry that my intellect is slipping because it’s a bit of a dust-up trying to find audio books of quality. So far I’ve dredged up a few good ones and my brain feels pretty well fed. (Phew!) And thankfully some of you podcast and some of you vlog, and there’s always dear old TED and TAL to keep my brain engaged.

But my point is, if you blog, and you know I’ll love you (or that I already do) you really must Twitter or Facebook for me. If you tweet your new posts, or get them up on FB, I will read you. I have the most organized TweetDeck and FB lists in the world, and I follow my readers, soulsisters, and family(ish) folks faithfully. Your’s will be the blogs I manage to gaze at, and retweet, and love-link to. And that’s good for the giant pool of wisdom, right? So good for us all.

So please follow me, and I’ll follow you and together we’ll make it thru this crazy little journey called life.

All my Magpie love,

Rachelle

Now in love with these new-to-me writers thanks to Twitter!

Pen at The Penny Has Dropped (so pretty, so wise)
Emma Bradshaw (because i do love the eccentric britts)
Susannah at Ink on My Fingers (for bravery and beauty)
Megg at More to Me (we live in the same time zone, woot!)

my august dreamboard, now on display with a candle in the middle of the kitchen table.

I wish I could trust in healing. That it will come in this life time. That Josh’s deep conviction that I will be free from this pain will triumph over the calm quiet voice inside me telling me, “Girl, you’d better get used to managing this, because this is it forever.”

I wish I could trust my body. That when it wakes up in the morning, it will allow me to do the basics of my day. That it will not make me cancel, lie down, swallow pills.

I wish I could trust my doctors and practitioners – all 31 of them, each of them speaking with so much confidence on my first office visit these words: “I have such good results with migraines.” All of whom now know me only as a cold case, as a stack of files.

 I wish I could trust in Alanis’s soft sermon. That I would be good, even if I could do nothing. That I could be good, even if I got and stayed sick.

 I wish, I wish…

After five straight days of mild-to-killer migraines, I’ve decided it’s time to pack it in and spend the day on the couch. I’ve been trying to press through, in part because I had a deadline. But now that that’s done, it finally dawned on me that if I’d had a fever for five days I would have been down on the couch long ago, right? So why not try a little rest and re-coup with the migraines.

Most of you know that I am a chronic pain survivor. I have chronic, often daily migraines with a side of insomnia and a new and improved symptom of general muscle-and-joint pain which I’m combating hard right now so it doesn’t turn into fibromyalgia. I don’t write about it that often because there are such excellent sites out there for headache troubles, and because I’m working hard on not letting the pain become my primary identity.

I often forget that for ‘normal’ people, it’s really hard to see and to understand what everyday life is like for people with chronic pain. Because it’s not like a cold–it doesn’t go away with a jug of OJ and a few hours of daytime TV. To some extent I try to mask my pain, especially from my girls who are already expressing concern that they are “going to have headaches like Mommy” when they grow up. (Something I am terrified of, because it is genetic and lurks on both sides of our family tree.) But even though I’m pretty open about being sick, and I feel like I bitch and moan quite a bit, the reality of managing chronic pain must be fairly hidden because nobody really gets it. Not the community that met every week in my home, not my best friends, not my parents.

Once, when I had to go off all my meds for a while to reset my system, Paul and I drove out to my parents’ house and asked them to sit down in the parlor with us. We told them very seriously, in that “Grandpa’s been diagnosed with cancer” sort of way, that my migraines were really serious. We explained that I was going to have to go off all my meds, and that this would throw me into a severe pain cycle for about six weeks. We were letting them know, because we were going to need some back up. Could they help with the kids?

I must have looked pretty bad already, because I recall them looking at me in a very concerned way. It was clearly an ‘ah ha’ moment. By this point I’d been sick for years—at least 3 years if not longer. But it was clear that it had never sunk in how deeply impacting this conditions was. And these were my parents, who we are very close to, who see us all the time. But still, they hadn’t really twigged in. Thankfully, they totally rallied. My mom called during the week to check on me. They took the kids for the weekend. They helped fold the laundry. It wasn’t that they hadn’t been willing to help. They just hadn’t realized how serious the situation was. To me, it seemed blatantly obvious. I thought the whole world was saying, “Wow. Did you see that woman? She is clearly sick!” But it wasn’t working that way—my illness was more hidden than I realized. And all I needed to do to get help from my folks, was to tell them.

So maybe we chronic pain survivors should explain a little more. Maybe that truth-telling would make it a little easier on everyone.

Recently Sacred Suzie sent me an excellent article by Christine Miserandino called The Spoon Theory. It might help you, it might help me, and it might help someone you love. In the article Miserandino describes how after many years of living together and seeing the effects of lupus, her best friend reveals that she doesn’t really understand what it’s like for her to have chronic pain. Miserandino gives her friend a fistful of spoons, explaining that this is all the energy she has for the day. The friend laughs and wants more spoons. Nope, this is what you’ve got. Then the friend tries to say that she’ll use one spoon to get ready in the morning. Miserandino points out that no, that will take three spoons: one for the energy it takes just to get up with joint pain; one for the mental energy of assessing where your body is at today (can you manage buttons? Does a low grade fever require a sweater for the chills? Etc.); one for the act of taking a shower when everything hurts. (In my case it hurts my scalp to wash and comb my hair, it hurts to lift my arms over my head, etc.) Then there’s breakfast… You get the point. By the time the friend is ready for the day half her spoons are already gone. Do you get it? Does that help?

Today, I don’t have very many spoons. Today I have to spend a lot of time on the couch. But tomorrow may be better. Tomorrow is another day.

The Spoon Theory is a good metaphors for describing life with chronic pain. Maybe they will help you or someone you known. And maybe if you understand a little better, that disconnect over not understanding will end, freeing up some energy and preserving another spoon for something better. Here’s hoping you have enough spoons to slurp up life today! May Shalom greet you at every turn. Namaste.

Related Posts:

God, Migraines, and Stillettos
Leftovers: Lonliness
Pain: Collage
Small Things you Can Do When You’ve Been Sick a Long Time
*8 Things: Songs I Need to Breathe
It’s Like a Miracle
On Pain, Mourning, and Telling the Truth
How Pain Shapes an Artist
On Pain and Indentity

Here is the problem I am having. Whiplash. Schizophrenia. Wild facilitation of perceived reality.

Am I a lucky lady of leisure with time to write, and bake and make art? Or am I an isolated pampered middle class white woman with no purpose in life? Am I blessed with dear souls who love and appreciate me? Or am I alone in the middle of a city so teaming with people I can hardly bare the noise at the grocery store? Am I a productive writer with lots of material and a cache of faithful readers? Or am I an unfocused flake who can’t produce a piece of finished work? Am I a healthy, curvy hot mama who feels pretty damn good about herself at nearly 40? Or someone with a broken down body who’s in pain more often than not and who can’t figure out what to eat to save her soul?

I don’t know how to live in this facilitating world, in this inconsistency. Is stability possible? Preferable? Can one feel like a stable person for more than two hours at a time? Can one feel sturdy, reliable, consistent for a week? Is there some way not to feel like a crazy person over the span of 30 days? How, tell me how. I’d like to know.

This is my dreamboard for August as I pray/wish/hope for shalom in my physical self.

Last month’s dream of curtains and spotlights is still alive and kicking. I’m still playing guitar, and I’m working with a life coach to figure out what that mysterious phrase might mean for me.

For more information about dreamboarding click here. Good shabbat to you!

I am coming to the realization that I have two functional weeks a month. Otherwise the pain level is too severe. I can’t write well when I’m this foggy.

For awhile there, for a beautiful hopeful season, I was in better remission and I had most of the month free and clear. But now, it’s back to just two weeks. If it gets worse, if it gets to be more than this, I’ll have to fly home and see my super special Dr. Woo-Woo and get back on top of this. You all have to hold me accountable to this okay? If I’m out of it more than two weeks a month you have to say, “Rachelle, it’s worth the money. Fly home. Spend a week or two on Dr. Lewis’ treatment table.”

Chronic pain is such a complex creature. It is a large part of your life, but it is not your life. It is a big part of you, but it is not who you are. Living within those paradoxical realities is challenging, perhaps as challenging as figuring out the physical bits and pieces of it–the medicines and the food allergies and the exercise and sleep needs and all the more attainable nuts and bolt-ness of it all.

I’ve wanted to write something about this for while. Something like Nicholas Wolterstorff’s Lament of a Son which not a self-help book, but the author’s story about the death of his son. The telling itself though, is helpful. The telling itself is the companionship for the journey.

In the beautiful children’s book Frida, the author says “she turned her pain into something beautiful.” I’d like to do that. I’d like to tell true things – stories that are also helpful.

I don’t know why I always leap to the idea of a book, when clearly articles and essays are my most natural length. (I just get so distracted by sparkly things, and without a real deadline I skip from project to project. This is not a boon to my agent.) At any rate, maybe an article would be more reasonable here….maybe something for The Sun. I have a couple little bits that might turn into something. This one for instance, or this artsy bit here, or here. Or maybe these more practical stories. And then there is what I wrote this morning, based on an image that came to me while I was doing Shavasana on the living room floor:

I offer this pain to you on a gilt platter.
No, held aloft in a silver bowl.
I give it to you coiled, or swirling and boiling.
A dark depth. An oily surface.

I give it to you as an offering because it is a part of me.
Because some days, it is all of me.
I give it to you as a gift, you who the wise ones says want all of me. (Though perhaps they are not so wise.)
I give it to you as a gift to see what you will make of it.

Will you touch it with a long-nailed finger and turn its surface to silver? Sprinkle it with some earthy magic? Feed it drops of Lucy’s cordial? Will you blow on it and part the waters; wave a hand and vanish it all; speak and make it to run clear; drink it down within yourself?

What will you do then,
with this pain that drains from the trinity of my eyes and the bridge of my nose?
What will you make of this dark offering?

Play us out Sister Alanis.

But we don’t have to like them.

Thankfully this last creativity challenge got me moving and I finished some projects. I finished my second embroidered kid’s jacket, and for the first time I knitted something for myself – this pretty lacey scarf made out of Kid-Lin.

In spite of these finishes, the last few days have been slow and frustrating for me. I had four days of bad migraines, followed by one blissful pain-free day which left me in a state of mania as I tried to get a backlog of stuff done. Then the migraine came back so badly that I had to take every med in my arsenal and curl up in the fetal position so I wouldn’t start vomiting and end up in the ER. (Nothing keeps you from getting sick like the idea of spending the wee hours of the night in the ER.) Today Paul and I are both sick with head colds, and tomorrow I’ll spend most of the day freezing my scalp muscles at the neurologist. Then we leave mid-week for Texas and when we return the kids get out of school at noon for ten days. Sigh. On weeks like this I feel like I never finish anything. How’s a person supposed to work?

That’s when it’s helpful for Paul to sit me down and tell me everything I actually got done. This week’s list included cleaning most of the house, folding five baskets of laundry, making it to the post office, buying the dog his special food and shampoo, and making up some shrine kits for etsy. I also pulled apart the hat I finished knitting because it didn’t fit, and I’ve got it about half way knit again.

Because of the migraines, I didn’t get the next chapter of my manuscript written, which is my biggest disappointment. Nor did I clean out the kid’s room for the move, which is stressing me out considerably. Still, not bad for a ‘sick’ week.

What do you do when your time seems to get sucked away by “other “ stuff? What do you decide to finish..and how do you talk to yourself about your accomplishments–or lack thereof? Advice for the poor of finishing, please!

There is a part of me that misses preaching, and another slice of my persona that desprately wants to be this guy. So here’s a little bit of both captured in my very first podacst — it’s me reading my latest blog post. It mentions a couple of things you can link to like Tweet and this charming get away.

What makes this round of migraines particularly disheartening is that it is drop dead gorgeous outside – high 70’s/low 80’s with a lovely little breeze and sun as far as the eye can see. We’ve been waiting all Summer for this kind of weather, and where am I when it hits? Behind the shades in my attic bedroom wrapped in ice and darkness. Ugh.

Well, the least I can do is jot down the absolutes that have come do me as I’ve let the post-BlogHer idea-fest percolate in my brain:

- I want to be the priestess of special events: weddings, births, coming-of-age, deaths, high holy days, etc. I’d like to make a business of this, and although I already have a master’s degree from a good seminary, I think I may do something like this as well. (Although Jen says I need to do doula and hospice training to heal my inner self from all the trauma of Simeon’s stillbirth and my other two shitty birth experiences. Jen’s attitude is “something healing this way comes.” And mine is, “Yeah….whatever.”)

-I want to get paid to write about these things – though books, articles, and as a paid blogger. (Anyone ready to hire?  )

-I want my writing-and-art-making life to be connected to my spirituality.

In order to make these things a bigger priority, I’ve learned that there are a few things I need to change or do:

-I can’t lead a weekly spirituality group any longer because my energy for spiritual practices is focused on special events, not weekly gatherings…. and because it demands too much of my writing time.

-The things I offer for sale at buy magpie need to be connected to my priestessy life. So, I’ll probably need to fade out of the vintage world and focus more on things that are directly related to soul-care: rosetta stones, saints and sinners, soulful zines, etc. (Damn! And my vintage sales were just starting to roll…maybe my housemate Rebecca will want to take over that little gig….)

-I need to spend time every week looking for places that I can submit articles to. These pieces have to be related to women’s spirituality, children’s spirituality, communal living, seasonal celebrations, and artful living.

-I do not want to write (primarily) about parenting issues. I’m not a mommyblogger.

- I do not want to take any ol’ paid blogging gig – only something that has to do with spirituality/soulcare.

Okay, I think those are the big epiphanies. I’ve been all over the map lately, goal-wise, and I feel like I’m starting to regain some focus again. ‘Though I’m sure I’ll remain distracted by sparkly things for some time to come. Oh, and one more idea:

-I want to produce a “small is beautiful” art-zine/guide for small bloggers. (Oooooh! Pretty! And also very soulcare-ish!)

Oh goodie, now the Blue Angels are practicing for their weekend extravaganza by doing fly-bys over my rooftop. How can something be simultaneously so amazing (precision formations! technical skill!) and so depressing (fuel consumption! military recruitment!)?

Well dear ones, do pray for me. Let’s all hope that Jen is right, “something healing this way comes.”

Well dear friends, I’ve discovered that one of my migraine medications is giving me severe rebound headaches. So it’s cold turkey for me the next week or so. (Ouch!)

I know I write about being a pain quite a bit, which I suppose is a bit incongrous for such a cheery little site. But it’s such an amazing and complex challenge to learn how to live with chronic pain. Sometimes you really must press through it and do the work of your day or “Pain” will become your first name. Other times you have to listen to your inner ten-year-old self and just lie down with a cool cloth for awhile and remember that sometimes bed and lame television are the best cure. The hardest thing for me is to determine which of those things to do on any given today.

This morning, I was musing out loud in my kitchen about how to arrange my priorities as both my day and the pain dawned together. I know I’ll only have about 4 hours of function today and I was debating out loud how to spend it. Should I get in my daily walk, or save that hour for other things? Should I clean the house for Jen’s visit, or try to get my zine to the printers? My housemate Sharon, who often feels like Wisdom, said I should “get thee to thy studio.” The house, she says, will always need some sort of cleaning. And Jen? Well, Jen would certainly prefer me in the studio than anywhere else in the world.

So with that wise counsel, it’s off to the studio I go with these pretty red birds in my pocket. Hopefully, by noon or so at least one of these will be used to tie up the first copy of Tweet! a zine for summer. Aren’t they just so sweet? I made them by scanning in a little watercolor bird and printing it on ink jet shrinky dink film. Do you need to get in touch with your inner ten-year-old? I highly recommend watching shrinky dinks curl up in a toaster oven. Delightful!

Every have the feeling that you really ought to just stay in bed?

Today I tried to go to my writers group. I meet with these great women writers twice a month. We catch up on life and review each other’s work, sometimes in unequal proportions, but mostly with the amount of discipline required to really help each other become better writers. Today we were meeting on one of the Christine’s boat (There are three Christines!) for an end-of-the-year potluck. It has been lovely here for nearly a week straight, so the boat seemed like a great idea. Then today dawned grey and drizzly, not rainy exactly, but piddly and wet. Still, the cabin of a boat is nice too, so we gathered our potluck food and started to head out to the marina.

I’ve never been to this marina before and mapquest said it would take 17 minutes, which I totally DID NOT believe. So I gave myself 40 minutes, put my strawberry-rubarb crisp in the car and headed out. Of course, the mapquest directions were long and I got lost, then stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, then lost again. I finally called Christine and got clear directions and told her I was going to be late. At this point it was really storming and the rest of the group had decided to abandon the boat and wait for me in the parking lot before driving to Christine’s house. Okay. Right. Good Plan.

Then I got hit by car, the driver of whom waved merrily at me and then drove away!

Needless to say I did NOT make it to my last writer’s group of the summer, and instead returned home to take anti-inflamatories for the whiplash and for the blindng headache that was being inhanced by the lovely group of guys who are jackhammering up my front porch.

Thankfully the meds worked, and the sun came out, and my car is not much damaged.

In light of trying to make the best out of bad days and painful things, I leave you with this beautiful illustration of and from Frida (English Language Edition)“>Frida, a children’s books for all ages. May we all learn to turn our pain into something beautiful. That would indeed be like a miracle.

Shalom,

Rachelle

Okay, so PMS and migraine hit last week and by Thursday I was cussing under my breath, throwing plates at the anger altar, and wondering WHAT ARE ALL THESE PEOPLE ARE DOING IN MY HOUSE?! It’s been a hard week and week-end with a lot of pain, meds, and foggy headedness. Saturday we spent way too much money going to see Pirates of the Caribean III, which was totally disppointed followed by a long day Sunday doing absolutely nothing — just hanging around the house all the grey day, watching bad television and putting all of our CD’s on my Zune. Today is Memorial Day and a third blessed weekend-day when the sun finally broke though! In spite of the ongoing migraine, I put my dog on his leash and walked to my studio. I was grumpy enough to intentionally avoid the sweet developmentally disabled seniors who live in the group home between my house and my studio (they love Sam, Sam doesn’t love them), but shored-up enough by Paul’s willingness to let me spend most of the day away from the kiddos that I got my butt in gear in time to spend 5 blissful hours snipping and transfering and generally making a wonderful mess at my drafting table. I added several pages to the Summertime zine, including this one which confirms that yes, inspite of PMS and patriarchy, I enjoy being a girl. Hope it brings you a smile today.

P.s. A very BIG thank you to my long suffering spouse for his unwavering belief that I should “get thee to thy studio.” Your right Paul, I always DO feel better after I’ve been in the studio!

Much Love and Whimsy,

Rachelle

I have two friends who are women, and artists, and who live with pretty serious bipolar disorders. We often talk together about how similar their illness and my illness are.

When we are sick, it feels as though we are staving off depression with one hand, wielding a sword which is overly large and quickly grows too heavy. Our work stops, because what we were working at had a joy in it we can no longer access. Or it begins again, filled with sorrow and melancholy and creeping along in progress at a glacial pace because our health allows us to work in only the smallest of bursts.

When we are well, the repressed tidal wave of creative energy that is unloosed threatens to drown us in its enthusiasm and power. For my friends, the mania of the bipolar highs can be quite disturbing, even frightening. I have a similar experience when the pain finally abates–for a day or for a season–and all the pent up creativity comes spilling out in a rush of ideas and inspirations. It’s not frightening, but it is overpowering. When a particularly bad streak of migraines passes, I am overly energetic, ridiculously optimistic. I buy supplies for projects I shouldn’t start because I got sick mid-process on the last round of ideas and haven’t yet finished those. I lose sleep, pacing the house at night awake with ideas – and consequently worrying that the lack of sleep will in turn trigger more migraines. I flit from project to project without finishing much.

Up until recently I’ve tried to tame that feast-or-famine cycle, especially the rush of creative ideas. I’ve tried to be a disciplined person, to put my nose to the grind stone, and finish what I’ve started. But now, I’m wondering, maybe I should just embrace the flibbertigibbet that emerges when the pain subsides. Maybe I should allow myself to get distracted by sparkly things. Maybe there’s fruit there. Maybe there’s finishing, or finishing enough for today. Maybe the artist that is being carved out by my pain doesn’t have to be so focused, so well honed. Maybe she can have her fingers in a half-a-dozen pies and still be real, be serious, be authentically an artist. Maybe she can sell vintage clothes because they are one of a kind, beautiful and made by hand, not in sweatshops. Maybe she can string prayer beads and write new rites. Maybe she can try her hand at writing a book, and learn to put together presentation packages with her agent. Maybe she can collage notebooks and make shrines and knit up cute and fuzzy bunnies. Maybe she can. Maybe she can.

The thing is, I have migraines. Not the occasional, “I have to go home from work early and lie in a dark room” kind of migraines, but chronic daily unrelenting migraines. My stitch-n-bitch pal Mel once announced to the knitting circle, “I’ve had a headache since 1990.” I didn’t even miss a beat in my stitching and just nodded matter of factly. That’s how you know a fellow migraneur –they don’t even try with the solutions. They just nod and move on, nod and move on. That’s what you have to do when you are sick, when you are nearly always in pain.

I have had this condition for roughly four years now, and the longer I live with it the more I come to uncover the complexity of it. Chronic pain is infinitely layered, and labyrinthine. Chronic pain demands attentions, lots of attention, and it takes over a much larger piece of your life’s pie chart than you want it to. If you let it, pain will eat the whole pie, become your entire identity. When I think of who “I” am, I come up with a short list: Writer. Artist. Mother. Community Builder. Chronic Pain Suffer. I try to keep the pain towards the end of my list of identifiers. But on days like today, when the barometric pressure shifts and I watch the 24hours of relief I’ve recently experienced lapse with the incoming clouds, it threatens to become THE defining part of me.

I don’t want to write too much about pain, or give it too big of a voice in my life. It’s a drag. Plus, how many people want to read that your head hurts everyday? I don’t even want to read about that everyday, and I’m the one I’m writing about. Still, I recognize that there are a lot of us out there – especially women—who suffer from physical conditions the medical industry cannot or will not treat. Fibromialgia. Endometriosis. Chronic Fatigue. Hormonal Depression. It’s actually quite a political issue, which I won’t go into here. Suffice it to say that we shouldn’t not write about it either. I don’t want to remain silent about my condition, writing only about sparkly things and tripping through daisies ever so la-la-la when really, pain lurks. So both “me’s” find a voice here: the suffering nearly 40 year-old woman who mourns her youth as it fades rapidly with every attack; and the hopeful 30something girl still looking forward with hope and imagination at what is yet to come.
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More on life, pain, and sparkly things coming soon….

Gin and tonics also work, as long as you never EVER stop drinking them.

Do you have any idea how much is SUCKS to write the really boring “marketing analysis” part of a book proposal when you are on day 13 of a migraine that is rapidly escalating to dark-room-and-ice-pack-stage?

Okay, enough bitching, time for an inspiring quote:

“To view your life as blessed does not require you to deny your pain. It simply demands a more complicated vision…”
Isn’t that great? It goes on…

“…one in which a condition or event is not either good or bad but is, rather, both good and bad, not sequentially but simultaneously. In my experience, the more such ambivalences you can hold in your head, the better off you are, intellectually and emotionally. Categorical statements become meaningless. The saddest stories are shot through with humor. You come to tolerate people, ideas, and circumstances wholly at odds with your dreams and desires.”
- Nancy Mairs, Carnal Acts: Essays

One problem, I don’t think I can hold many more ambivalences in my head. At least, not without the help of that controlled substance….