Dear Ellen
I went through your clothes last week. Closets and drawers filled with things I haven't been able to deal with until now. I sorted them into piles and boxed them up, sending some to charity and some to a dark closet where I won't have the daily reminder they're no longer worn. It was hard to go through them and yes, the memories flooded in as expected for each t-shirt or funky pants or cute little dress I knew you had worn. I'd been putting this off, staring at them from time to time as I hunted through the closet for some old t-shirt of my own, never willing to move them or make any changes to this sort of shrine to what was. I had found such comfort in this for a long time, things kept just as you left them. Shoes left in the same spot on the floor for 10 months. I would simply pick them up to sweep under them, placing them back where I thought they belonged. Did I half expect you to come in and ask me where I'd put them? Maybe. I didn't dare move them, just in case.
But it was time. It became harder to walk into the closet and see them there, a constant reminder. I can't move forward if I'm holding on to the past and I know the only way I can continue this journey is to let go. It's not just you I was boxing up, but it was me as well. Clothes and shoes and pieces of me.
It's not so simple. It's not just sorting clothes. It's painful steps again, reminding me of those early months when I walked the world in a deep fog. I know I'm not escaping memories by packing them up, I know there will always be reminders of you, but I carry them differently now. I am different now. Not stronger, not better, not free of pain from the loss, just different.
I think you would understand.
love
cathy
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
About Peace.
Dear Ellen
It's been a whirlwind couple of weeks.
I went to the show in Kansas City thinking it would just be an art show. As usual, I was wrong. I can't begin to count the number of people, both artists and collectors, who came into my booth to just talk with me, ask about you, express their sorrow, share a story about you and simply share themselves with me. It was so kind and so reminded me how many lives you've touched without having ever met them.
A woman came into the booth on Sunday afternoon who had also been there on Friday evening. She looked intently at the work and then came up to me and asked,"how do you find this peace?" I was struck by the intensity and sadness in her eyes as she began to weep openly. We spoke for several minutes as the world revolved around us. I wasn't able to answer her question, I think because it was hers to answer, but I was made aware of the power of the human connection in that conversation. The words we exchanged remained with me as I finished the day and began my drive home.
There is an artist I've known for several years who has been living her life with cancer. She is an amazing artist, a beautiful and thoughtful, wise and kind woman. I hadn't seen her in a couple of years, but found her on Sunday morning at the show. We exchanged a warm hug and she lifted the hat over her head to reveal her cancer had returned, her peach fuzz hair the latest indignity. We spoke at length about your journey and now hers. She expressed how touched she was by you and by how I had continued to honor you and keep your spirit alive. "I just want to be remembered in that way". I was struck by both the words and the deep pain they sourced from. We hugged again as I left her, knowing full well I may never see her again.
I've thought so much about both of these women and our conversations. The connection was real, raw to the bone, honest and haunting. A rare and beautiful thing. So how do we find peace? How do we wish to be remembered?
My work reflects something which I couldn't recognize in myself. I never thought I would feel joy again when I lost you. I am learning, with time, with the empty loss, I have the capacity to feel joy again. My work is not so much about loss now as it is about what I've gained from the loss. In this way you are remembered and cherished. In this way I share your story with other women who are seeking themselves. The peace you found in your journey is carried forward. You will not be forgotten. In this way I will find my own peace.
I miss you
love
cathy
It's been a whirlwind couple of weeks.
I went to the show in Kansas City thinking it would just be an art show. As usual, I was wrong. I can't begin to count the number of people, both artists and collectors, who came into my booth to just talk with me, ask about you, express their sorrow, share a story about you and simply share themselves with me. It was so kind and so reminded me how many lives you've touched without having ever met them.
A woman came into the booth on Sunday afternoon who had also been there on Friday evening. She looked intently at the work and then came up to me and asked,"how do you find this peace?" I was struck by the intensity and sadness in her eyes as she began to weep openly. We spoke for several minutes as the world revolved around us. I wasn't able to answer her question, I think because it was hers to answer, but I was made aware of the power of the human connection in that conversation. The words we exchanged remained with me as I finished the day and began my drive home.
There is an artist I've known for several years who has been living her life with cancer. She is an amazing artist, a beautiful and thoughtful, wise and kind woman. I hadn't seen her in a couple of years, but found her on Sunday morning at the show. We exchanged a warm hug and she lifted the hat over her head to reveal her cancer had returned, her peach fuzz hair the latest indignity. We spoke at length about your journey and now hers. She expressed how touched she was by you and by how I had continued to honor you and keep your spirit alive. "I just want to be remembered in that way". I was struck by both the words and the deep pain they sourced from. We hugged again as I left her, knowing full well I may never see her again.
I've thought so much about both of these women and our conversations. The connection was real, raw to the bone, honest and haunting. A rare and beautiful thing. So how do we find peace? How do we wish to be remembered?
My work reflects something which I couldn't recognize in myself. I never thought I would feel joy again when I lost you. I am learning, with time, with the empty loss, I have the capacity to feel joy again. My work is not so much about loss now as it is about what I've gained from the loss. In this way you are remembered and cherished. In this way I share your story with other women who are seeking themselves. The peace you found in your journey is carried forward. You will not be forgotten. In this way I will find my own peace.
I miss you
love
cathy
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Pieces of the Puzzle
Dear Ellen
Already I'm preparing for another road trip, this time to Kansas City. I'm just barely back to my little routine from the last therapy session and now I'm packing again. The good part is I love Kansas City and the people who come to visit me at the show. It will feel good to be there and it's only a day's drive instead of three. I'll hardly have time to work myself up in thirteen hours.
It's hard to believe how much my life has changed in these past nine months. Sometimes I sit still and let it all in. How did I ever get from where I was in those beginning dark days to where I am now? I don't even remember much of those first few months. I think I just kept getting up in the morning, kept trudging along until I realized my legs were under me. Grief is a great teacher. It's such a painful process, but I've learned so much about who I am and who I want to be. I am at a place now where I can understand and recognize this as a gift. Maybe it's a gift I didn't ever want to experience, but the value has been etched more deeply by the pain. I know it will take me a long time to fully understand how it's changed me, but I am beginning to place the pieces together.
Time to head to the studio. There's a kiln load waiting to be brought forth into the world.
love,
cathy
Already I'm preparing for another road trip, this time to Kansas City. I'm just barely back to my little routine from the last therapy session and now I'm packing again. The good part is I love Kansas City and the people who come to visit me at the show. It will feel good to be there and it's only a day's drive instead of three. I'll hardly have time to work myself up in thirteen hours.
It's hard to believe how much my life has changed in these past nine months. Sometimes I sit still and let it all in. How did I ever get from where I was in those beginning dark days to where I am now? I don't even remember much of those first few months. I think I just kept getting up in the morning, kept trudging along until I realized my legs were under me. Grief is a great teacher. It's such a painful process, but I've learned so much about who I am and who I want to be. I am at a place now where I can understand and recognize this as a gift. Maybe it's a gift I didn't ever want to experience, but the value has been etched more deeply by the pain. I know it will take me a long time to fully understand how it's changed me, but I am beginning to place the pieces together.
Time to head to the studio. There's a kiln load waiting to be brought forth into the world.
love,
cathy
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The journey home.
Dear Ellen
Oh, it's so good to be home. Sitting here on my Sunday bed, surrounded by newspapers and cat, a cup of coffee not from an odd machine in a hotel. No concerns about tearing the room apart for those damn bedbugs I was paranoid about all the way across America.
I am home from my 4,800 mile adventure and finally rested. I know there was an art show sandwiched in between the 60 hours of car therapy, but I realized on the last few hundred miles it was about so much more. I was delirious at that point, but knew it had been a journey I had to find my way through. I think I wanted to push myself, remove myself from a comfortable routine and strip my thoughts down to their core. I resisted for a couple of days and then as I crossed into the Mojave Desert my protective barriers dissolved and so did I. It seemed to fit the desert landscape. Sometimes, I guess, you have to be in a desolate place to find what you're looking for. After some hard tears I found such a beautiful sense of peace as I rolled along, deep in thought, watching the sunrise in my rear view window.
The hole in my chest is closing. It's smaller now. It was a gaping tear reflected in my sculptures, hard to look at without cringing, but necessary for the process of spilling out my grief. I am sure there will always be a small opening near the scar. Grieving you will be a part of me, just as love for you will be held within.
Now though, the opening is left behind for what comes to spill in. Now I have room for whatever it will be.
So the journey emptied me and yet I feel filled again. Funny how sixty odd hours spent in a car with yourself can do that.
The cat is snoring. Happy dreams I suppose. Maybe she's happy I'm home.
I know I am.
love,
cathy
Oh, it's so good to be home. Sitting here on my Sunday bed, surrounded by newspapers and cat, a cup of coffee not from an odd machine in a hotel. No concerns about tearing the room apart for those damn bedbugs I was paranoid about all the way across America.
I am home from my 4,800 mile adventure and finally rested. I know there was an art show sandwiched in between the 60 hours of car therapy, but I realized on the last few hundred miles it was about so much more. I was delirious at that point, but knew it had been a journey I had to find my way through. I think I wanted to push myself, remove myself from a comfortable routine and strip my thoughts down to their core. I resisted for a couple of days and then as I crossed into the Mojave Desert my protective barriers dissolved and so did I. It seemed to fit the desert landscape. Sometimes, I guess, you have to be in a desolate place to find what you're looking for. After some hard tears I found such a beautiful sense of peace as I rolled along, deep in thought, watching the sunrise in my rear view window.
The hole in my chest is closing. It's smaller now. It was a gaping tear reflected in my sculptures, hard to look at without cringing, but necessary for the process of spilling out my grief. I am sure there will always be a small opening near the scar. Grieving you will be a part of me, just as love for you will be held within.
Now though, the opening is left behind for what comes to spill in. Now I have room for whatever it will be.
So the journey emptied me and yet I feel filled again. Funny how sixty odd hours spent in a car with yourself can do that.
The cat is snoring. Happy dreams I suppose. Maybe she's happy I'm home.
I know I am.
love,
cathy
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Dear Ellen
I leave tomorrow for California. The van is packed and waiting, fully loaded down with work for an early morning exit from New Orleans. I wish I could say I'm looking forward to this journey, but the truth is I'm afraid. I know it will be good for me to get away, to experience some fresh air, but the anticipation of spending three days in a car with just me for entertainment is a daunting and frightful thing. I'll be gone for twelve days. Twelve days away from everything I've come to know as safe and routine. My cave where the cat and I hide to heal our wounds, my studio where I'm always happy to be. All my safe little crutches removed. The only connection to sanity will be a cellphone with tenuous coverage for 1,950 of the 2,260 miles I'm traveling.
How can I have come this far, spent so much of the past 8 months alone, and feel so undone about being in a car for six days? I see myself as stronger now and yet, as our dear friend Donna reminded me this morning, I'm also so fragile. I keep pushing forward as though I'm in a race to prove myself, but the truth is I have faultlines along my edges. I'm like the porcelain boat I pulled from the kiln three weeks ago which had split wide open to reveal the flaws hidden in the first firing. No longer perfect, I broke the piece apart and mosaiced it together again. An attempt to make it whole, knowing full well where the faultline still left scars. I can't hide my scars, but they are making me stronger. And maybe I'm learning that being split wide open is a good thing. To be vulnerable, to be afraid, just makes me most human.
It reminds me of a May Sarton poem I read a long time ago called "Somersault", the passage I remember, "Is it a question of discipline or grace? The steel trap of the will or some slight shift within an opened consciousness? The tightrope walker juggles weights, to lift himself up on the stress,and airy master of his own loss, he springs from heaviness. But we, stumbling our way, how learn such poise,the perfect balance of all griefs and joys? Burdened by love, how learn the light release that, out of stress, can somersault to peace?"
I will be allright.
love,
cathy
I leave tomorrow for California. The van is packed and waiting, fully loaded down with work for an early morning exit from New Orleans. I wish I could say I'm looking forward to this journey, but the truth is I'm afraid. I know it will be good for me to get away, to experience some fresh air, but the anticipation of spending three days in a car with just me for entertainment is a daunting and frightful thing. I'll be gone for twelve days. Twelve days away from everything I've come to know as safe and routine. My cave where the cat and I hide to heal our wounds, my studio where I'm always happy to be. All my safe little crutches removed. The only connection to sanity will be a cellphone with tenuous coverage for 1,950 of the 2,260 miles I'm traveling.
How can I have come this far, spent so much of the past 8 months alone, and feel so undone about being in a car for six days? I see myself as stronger now and yet, as our dear friend Donna reminded me this morning, I'm also so fragile. I keep pushing forward as though I'm in a race to prove myself, but the truth is I have faultlines along my edges. I'm like the porcelain boat I pulled from the kiln three weeks ago which had split wide open to reveal the flaws hidden in the first firing. No longer perfect, I broke the piece apart and mosaiced it together again. An attempt to make it whole, knowing full well where the faultline still left scars. I can't hide my scars, but they are making me stronger. And maybe I'm learning that being split wide open is a good thing. To be vulnerable, to be afraid, just makes me most human.
It reminds me of a May Sarton poem I read a long time ago called "Somersault", the passage I remember, "Is it a question of discipline or grace? The steel trap of the will or some slight shift within an opened consciousness? The tightrope walker juggles weights, to lift himself up on the stress,and airy master of his own loss, he springs from heaviness. But we, stumbling our way, how learn such poise,the perfect balance of all griefs and joys? Burdened by love, how learn the light release that, out of stress, can somersault to peace?"
I will be allright.
love,
cathy
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Muse
Dear Ellen
I've been thinking about you a lot this past week. It's crunch time in the studio as I get ready to go to Sausalito for a show. I don't think you liked crunch time too much as it meant I was anxious and grumpy up until the hysterical last minute, but we always managed to get through it and you were always happy to see me when I returned home. My work reflects the change I was hoping for and I'm pleased with it. So many times I wished you were here to help me figure out the finishing touches on a piece and so many times I'd hear you in my head telling me to "calm down". It makes me smile to think of how many times you've had to tell me that.
In a way, I'm taking you with me to Sausalito. The new work is clearly about the loss and transitions I'm making, the expressions and emotions reflected in the faces I've carved. For the first time in a few years I am a little afraid of setting them up at a show and hearing the reactions from people. It feels like I've been stripped down to a core and now waiting for the verdict. I guess, like you would say, "there's only one way to find out". So, a week from today it's off to California and in the meantime, a flurry of fur in the studio.
I'm meeting with someone tomorrow from your old school, Nicholls State. I've decided to set up an endowment scholarship in your name for students who have lost a parent to brain cancer. I think it would make you very happy to know how many lives you touched, not only during your lifetime, but long afterwards. It makes me smile, because I know you wanted to leave some of your estate to charity, but couldn't decide which one. I think this would feel right to you.
I'm off to the studio as there's fur to fly.
I know, I know. Calm down.
I miss you
love, cathy
I've been thinking about you a lot this past week. It's crunch time in the studio as I get ready to go to Sausalito for a show. I don't think you liked crunch time too much as it meant I was anxious and grumpy up until the hysterical last minute, but we always managed to get through it and you were always happy to see me when I returned home. My work reflects the change I was hoping for and I'm pleased with it. So many times I wished you were here to help me figure out the finishing touches on a piece and so many times I'd hear you in my head telling me to "calm down". It makes me smile to think of how many times you've had to tell me that.
In a way, I'm taking you with me to Sausalito. The new work is clearly about the loss and transitions I'm making, the expressions and emotions reflected in the faces I've carved. For the first time in a few years I am a little afraid of setting them up at a show and hearing the reactions from people. It feels like I've been stripped down to a core and now waiting for the verdict. I guess, like you would say, "there's only one way to find out". So, a week from today it's off to California and in the meantime, a flurry of fur in the studio.
I'm meeting with someone tomorrow from your old school, Nicholls State. I've decided to set up an endowment scholarship in your name for students who have lost a parent to brain cancer. I think it would make you very happy to know how many lives you touched, not only during your lifetime, but long afterwards. It makes me smile, because I know you wanted to leave some of your estate to charity, but couldn't decide which one. I think this would feel right to you.
I'm off to the studio as there's fur to fly.
I know, I know. Calm down.
I miss you
love, cathy
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Blessings.
Dear Ellen
We have wonderful friends. Last evening there was a dinner party here with several of them. Lots of good food, wine, interesting conversation and most of all, plenty of laughter. I thought of you often, knowing you would have loved the evening, knowing time with good friends always made you happy.
I even put art up on the walls before everyone arrived. I guess I'm planning on staying here for a few more months. It's starting to look like someone lives here now, instead of feeling like I'm staying at a hotel. I suppose both things, a dinner party and art on the walls, are signs I'm joining the human race again. There's a little more balance in my life, more awareness of the world revolving around me. Mind you, I have my moments when I dissolve into sadness, but now they don't fill my days. Now when I think of you, it's more often a good memory accompanied by a small smile. Sometimes, I still can't believe you're gone, but there seems to be some level of acceptance about it.
Our friends have been a big part of my returning to the world. Honestly, I don't know how I would have kept trudging along without their love and support. Old friends have been with me every step and stumble, new friends have become a joy and blessing to me. I figure everyone coming into my life, through the door of the gallery, have been directed there for some good purpose. Familiar friend or not, I consider them as a small jewel in my day, a gift of conversation from a stranger or an exchange of love and support between friends. In many ways this is what gives me purpose now. I feel your presence with me, giving me strength to move forward, but it's these small gifts of love from friends which give me hope again. I truly am a lucky girl.
Love you, miss you.
cathy
We have wonderful friends. Last evening there was a dinner party here with several of them. Lots of good food, wine, interesting conversation and most of all, plenty of laughter. I thought of you often, knowing you would have loved the evening, knowing time with good friends always made you happy.
I even put art up on the walls before everyone arrived. I guess I'm planning on staying here for a few more months. It's starting to look like someone lives here now, instead of feeling like I'm staying at a hotel. I suppose both things, a dinner party and art on the walls, are signs I'm joining the human race again. There's a little more balance in my life, more awareness of the world revolving around me. Mind you, I have my moments when I dissolve into sadness, but now they don't fill my days. Now when I think of you, it's more often a good memory accompanied by a small smile. Sometimes, I still can't believe you're gone, but there seems to be some level of acceptance about it.
Our friends have been a big part of my returning to the world. Honestly, I don't know how I would have kept trudging along without their love and support. Old friends have been with me every step and stumble, new friends have become a joy and blessing to me. I figure everyone coming into my life, through the door of the gallery, have been directed there for some good purpose. Familiar friend or not, I consider them as a small jewel in my day, a gift of conversation from a stranger or an exchange of love and support between friends. In many ways this is what gives me purpose now. I feel your presence with me, giving me strength to move forward, but it's these small gifts of love from friends which give me hope again. I truly am a lucky girl.
Love you, miss you.
cathy
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