It's been two years since I have painted anything more than a small watercolor.
Today, I finally got my paintbrush out and just let emotion flow through the brush. These are the times I thank being sober.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
When is it drama?
Last night I was sitting in an airport waiting to fly home from an exhausting business trip. I had traveled on four planes in less than twenty four hours. I had been to nine meetings, two time zones, dinner, work and more work. I was spent.
As I sat waiting for the inevitable delay on my last leg of the journey, I became extremely emotional. Tears were flowing and I started conjuring up self deprecating thoughts...making myself feel even more exhausted.
Then I thought, why do I do this? What is causing me to sit in this airport drudging up things past? Did it matter that when I was twelve, I sat on a plane traveling alone, crying for hours because I was flying away from my best friend? Did it really need to affect me over twenty years later?
I was, emotionally, all over the place. From getting ready to rage on the person listening to their ipod next to me, to feeling wistful for some time in my childhood.
So, I decided to be rational and think about why I was creating even more drama for myself. I mean, I had just had enough with all the business and travel I was doing. Why would I want to subject myself to any further frustration?
Years ago, I would have thrived on this. I would have gone into full "feel sorry for myself" mode and began the arduous process of serious self deprecation. A place I was brink of going last evening. For some reason, I just didn't feeling like allowing myself to go there. It seemed tortuous. In some moment of sheer revelation, I decided to stop and think for a moment instead of running full steam into my internal diatribe.
First, I took inventory of all the physiological; I was tired. Hungry. Aching from seats too small and multiple flight segments. These alone are cause to feel oversensitive.
Second, I looked at my emotions and how they related to the above. I was angry because I was tired. I was frustrated because I was hungry. I was conjuring up the past because all my senses were overwhelmed.
Finally, I decided to figure out which things I could control. The flight delay? No way. The hunger...hello? I needed to find food. The exhaustion and frustration? I needed to do something calm. So, I bought a cooking magazine and turned OFF my blackberry. Easily controlled.
As for the conjuring up the past? It happens. It's not that dramatic if you are able to handle the other variables that cause you grief or frustration. I was able to understand that crying about a childhood friend twenty years later does not mean that I haven't made strides in my life or that I am back to square one. In reality, triggers happen all the time. I also made that trip two weeks after my father had passed away. I had spent most of my childhood in small planes such as the one I was desperately hoping to board. So, I knew there was significance to remembering the event and I just let it go.
My takeway from this:
As I sat waiting for the inevitable delay on my last leg of the journey, I became extremely emotional. Tears were flowing and I started conjuring up self deprecating thoughts...making myself feel even more exhausted.
Then I thought, why do I do this? What is causing me to sit in this airport drudging up things past? Did it matter that when I was twelve, I sat on a plane traveling alone, crying for hours because I was flying away from my best friend? Did it really need to affect me over twenty years later?
I was, emotionally, all over the place. From getting ready to rage on the person listening to their ipod next to me, to feeling wistful for some time in my childhood.
So, I decided to be rational and think about why I was creating even more drama for myself. I mean, I had just had enough with all the business and travel I was doing. Why would I want to subject myself to any further frustration?
Years ago, I would have thrived on this. I would have gone into full "feel sorry for myself" mode and began the arduous process of serious self deprecation. A place I was brink of going last evening. For some reason, I just didn't feeling like allowing myself to go there. It seemed tortuous. In some moment of sheer revelation, I decided to stop and think for a moment instead of running full steam into my internal diatribe.
First, I took inventory of all the physiological; I was tired. Hungry. Aching from seats too small and multiple flight segments. These alone are cause to feel oversensitive.
Second, I looked at my emotions and how they related to the above. I was angry because I was tired. I was frustrated because I was hungry. I was conjuring up the past because all my senses were overwhelmed.
Finally, I decided to figure out which things I could control. The flight delay? No way. The hunger...hello? I needed to find food. The exhaustion and frustration? I needed to do something calm. So, I bought a cooking magazine and turned OFF my blackberry. Easily controlled.
As for the conjuring up the past? It happens. It's not that dramatic if you are able to handle the other variables that cause you grief or frustration. I was able to understand that crying about a childhood friend twenty years later does not mean that I haven't made strides in my life or that I am back to square one. In reality, triggers happen all the time. I also made that trip two weeks after my father had passed away. I had spent most of my childhood in small planes such as the one I was desperately hoping to board. So, I knew there was significance to remembering the event and I just let it go.
My takeway from this:
- Be conscious of the things that can be controlled like hunger or sleep.
- Realize that triggers exist, let them fire off, put them in their place and let it go.
- And, give yourself a break once in a while from the self imposed drama. It's worth it.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Renewal
The long awaited spring is starting to finally arrive in the Hudson Valley. I commute home on the train along the Hudson river and am happy to see it's no longer dark when we pull into the station. Spring fever is running rampant. The cows on my farm are crazy, the dog, virtually everyone I know.....all the pent up energy from a very long winter in the NorthEast.
This weekend, I felt a sense of massive relief. The months of being introspective and cold are making room for the experience of warmth and free spirited-ness.
And with that, in my own recovery, I have to remind myself that being a free spirit can happen without the lures of being intoxicated (from alcohol at least).
This year, I think the intoxication of the flowers starting to bloom, the wind being warm and the joys of throwing tattered Uggs in the closet are enough.
It's a lucky time in life. I don't think I have ever remembered being this impressed with the renewal that comes with Spring. I used to dread this time as it began the season of being more social....more opportunities to feel sorry for myself that drinking was no longer an option.
Today, I'm happy that when I leave work, I can watch the sunset along one of the coolest rivers around....and still have a few precious minutes of daylight to see spring happening in all its simple glory.
Friday, April 04, 2008
the last glass.
People have requested that I post this again, I wrote this story years ago.....
I started with twenty-four. Twenty-four Waterford wine glasses. It was weeks before my wedding to the man I so arduously loved. Some were gifts from my family. Many were gifts from our friends. The blue boxes with white ribbon poured in like the wine collection I so astutely built. I took each one out of the box, unwrapping their delicate tissue. The chardonnay glasses with their spindled stems- as if ready to be caressed by the sophisticated hand. Waiting for the candlelight to pour through, reflecting romantic evenings. The cabernet glasses with their wide mouths waiting for a supple reward. I could tilt the glass back to meet the succulence in my lips. Finally, my most cherished eight..the Bordeaux glasses. They were the generals in my army. The glasses were heavier in weight yet far more elegant than the rest. I sat waiting for the right vintage to begin my revolution.
I whimpered when I broke the first six. Three months after my nuptials to the man I thought I loved. The expensive vintage collection began to dwindle. In its place came the bottles that I found at a local winery. Not a bottle from Georges Duboeuf, but some fine wine. A large soiree, friends mingling around the fire. Forbidden fruit poured endlessly by the gracious host, who was subsequently in the Garden of Eden herself. Words began to unfold and emotions began to erupt. First went the chardonnays. Thrown with such vigilance. Aimed right at my beloveds head. There went two hundred dollars towards the refrigerator door. Tearfully, I swept up the shards of glass. But, alas there were eighteen more. I still had the reds. In my battle, I had lost a troupe but still had soldiers.
I cried when I broke the next four. In the early light of spring, I reached for a glass. My coordination stifled by my constant imbibing. I poured a bottle of inexpensive cabernet into my tall glass. I no longer took trips to the winery anymore. I had been there far too often; my face was beginning to be recognized by the patrons. I searched for replacements and conjured up my imaginary wineries in Southern France. I could pretend. I could pretend that my wine rack was not empty. I could pretend that I was not alone. I was drinking away the grief that his silence caused. The grace of the Waterford could not still my shaking hands. I dropped them. Four of my best friends dropped in one evening. With such ferocity, I tried to save them. I had my own personal drunken funeral for my glasses. Tossed into the trash compactor.
I sobbed when he took the next eight. Fall had come. He left with the decanter. The wonderful Waterford decanter. With it etchings so meticulously set in the glass. He lovingly wrapped up the reds and left me with six. He continued the romance, the love affair with elegance and sonnets. Only, my glasses were now empty on the shelf. No life seeped into them. No reflection from candles would burn again. Dust began to choke my thirst. And the flames had been extinguished. Candlelight would no longer pour through the same glass. The wine bottles taken to a new place. To begin a new life. Without me.
I panicked when I broke the next five. One more left. I no longer looked at the glasses with a fervent eye. I used them for anything that could numb the pain. Vineyards had stopped producing the fruit of my garden. In its place found the weeds of alcohols existence. I could only bring myself to lift the glass if it contained venom. I had begun to despise the glasses for the life that used to be contained in them. Glamour had ceased to exist. The clanging of glasses was not in toast but in concerted effort to forget celebration. If the glass was not full, I panicked. Pouring into the loneliest, endless black hole. But not even the last of the glasses could sustain the ache. I threw them in angst. Threw them into the floor as if I could demolish my past. As if I could break this state of destruction. Angry rants begot sophisticated conversation. The stems became daggers into my own heart. One final glass remained.
I rejoiced when the last one broke. It stood on the shelf. An icon to my former life. I worshipped the last glass as if it was on a pedestal. Like a far removed screen star. I looked lovingly at the shining reflection every evening. Yet, I hadnt touched it in months. Hadnt caressed its sleek, smooth body. A friend from my old life came. She let it go. It slipped out of her hand. I watched it. I saw its demise. Falling, falling, it shattered into tiny pieces. The stem no longer recognizable. The body marred. Suddenly in one moment, the pieces were gone in the trash. I had scraped them up and thrown them into the past. I looked up. My heart lifted. The war was over. The Waterford was gone. The whites, the reds gone from my life. The wine defeated. Swept up into a pile and discarded into the past. I smiled.
My glass was empty. My life was full.
copyright, kjpartstudio 2008
I started with twenty-four. Twenty-four Waterford wine glasses. It was weeks before my wedding to the man I so arduously loved. Some were gifts from my family. Many were gifts from our friends. The blue boxes with white ribbon poured in like the wine collection I so astutely built. I took each one out of the box, unwrapping their delicate tissue. The chardonnay glasses with their spindled stems- as if ready to be caressed by the sophisticated hand. Waiting for the candlelight to pour through, reflecting romantic evenings. The cabernet glasses with their wide mouths waiting for a supple reward. I could tilt the glass back to meet the succulence in my lips. Finally, my most cherished eight..the Bordeaux glasses. They were the generals in my army. The glasses were heavier in weight yet far more elegant than the rest. I sat waiting for the right vintage to begin my revolution.
I whimpered when I broke the first six. Three months after my nuptials to the man I thought I loved. The expensive vintage collection began to dwindle. In its place came the bottles that I found at a local winery. Not a bottle from Georges Duboeuf, but some fine wine. A large soiree, friends mingling around the fire. Forbidden fruit poured endlessly by the gracious host, who was subsequently in the Garden of Eden herself. Words began to unfold and emotions began to erupt. First went the chardonnays. Thrown with such vigilance. Aimed right at my beloveds head. There went two hundred dollars towards the refrigerator door. Tearfully, I swept up the shards of glass. But, alas there were eighteen more. I still had the reds. In my battle, I had lost a troupe but still had soldiers.
I cried when I broke the next four. In the early light of spring, I reached for a glass. My coordination stifled by my constant imbibing. I poured a bottle of inexpensive cabernet into my tall glass. I no longer took trips to the winery anymore. I had been there far too often; my face was beginning to be recognized by the patrons. I searched for replacements and conjured up my imaginary wineries in Southern France. I could pretend. I could pretend that my wine rack was not empty. I could pretend that I was not alone. I was drinking away the grief that his silence caused. The grace of the Waterford could not still my shaking hands. I dropped them. Four of my best friends dropped in one evening. With such ferocity, I tried to save them. I had my own personal drunken funeral for my glasses. Tossed into the trash compactor.
I sobbed when he took the next eight. Fall had come. He left with the decanter. The wonderful Waterford decanter. With it etchings so meticulously set in the glass. He lovingly wrapped up the reds and left me with six. He continued the romance, the love affair with elegance and sonnets. Only, my glasses were now empty on the shelf. No life seeped into them. No reflection from candles would burn again. Dust began to choke my thirst. And the flames had been extinguished. Candlelight would no longer pour through the same glass. The wine bottles taken to a new place. To begin a new life. Without me.
I panicked when I broke the next five. One more left. I no longer looked at the glasses with a fervent eye. I used them for anything that could numb the pain. Vineyards had stopped producing the fruit of my garden. In its place found the weeds of alcohols existence. I could only bring myself to lift the glass if it contained venom. I had begun to despise the glasses for the life that used to be contained in them. Glamour had ceased to exist. The clanging of glasses was not in toast but in concerted effort to forget celebration. If the glass was not full, I panicked. Pouring into the loneliest, endless black hole. But not even the last of the glasses could sustain the ache. I threw them in angst. Threw them into the floor as if I could demolish my past. As if I could break this state of destruction. Angry rants begot sophisticated conversation. The stems became daggers into my own heart. One final glass remained.
I rejoiced when the last one broke. It stood on the shelf. An icon to my former life. I worshipped the last glass as if it was on a pedestal. Like a far removed screen star. I looked lovingly at the shining reflection every evening. Yet, I hadnt touched it in months. Hadnt caressed its sleek, smooth body. A friend from my old life came. She let it go. It slipped out of her hand. I watched it. I saw its demise. Falling, falling, it shattered into tiny pieces. The stem no longer recognizable. The body marred. Suddenly in one moment, the pieces were gone in the trash. I had scraped them up and thrown them into the past. I looked up. My heart lifted. The war was over. The Waterford was gone. The whites, the reds gone from my life. The wine defeated. Swept up into a pile and discarded into the past. I smiled.
My glass was empty. My life was full.
copyright, kjpartstudio 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Artwork
I'm finally getting my artwork together and have added an album on facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=100616&l=00cef&id=759620569
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=100616&l=00cef&id=759620569
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Life Ahead
At this very moment, I am sitting here truly feeling a sense of self awareness. The emotions I feel are mixed at this point; Past failures, present life and the future that is before me.
All the pieces are there, it's a matter of allowing them to fall into place. Life is ahead, not behind.
Right now, I am ready for the things that are infinitely possible. Available. There for those who choose to move forward.
I am feeling grateful and my faith is creeping back into my heart.
Thank you.
All the pieces are there, it's a matter of allowing them to fall into place. Life is ahead, not behind.
Right now, I am ready for the things that are infinitely possible. Available. There for those who choose to move forward.
I am feeling grateful and my faith is creeping back into my heart.
Thank you.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
One foot in the past.....
For as long as I can remember, I have always kept one foot in the past, while trying to walk forward in my life.
Given, many of the anchors in our past are good memories, significant events and life lessons. These are things we tend to incorporate into our core being. We thrive on those memories and life events. We smile or laugh.
But, there are times when keeping the past close is more detrimental than character building. I'm guilty. When things get tough, I tend to crawl into the hole of bad memories and pain that I should have left behind years ago. It's always been a comfortable place for me. But, the side effects from this are far reaching. Dwelling, self deprecation, negativity, hindrance.
Not long after I left my ex, a few months ago, I decided that I was moving on...in more ways than one. If I wanted a healthy relationship, I had to let go. If I wanted to be happy, I had to let go. If I didn't, I felt as if I would keep repeating all the patterns in my life, regardless of the fact that I was sober.
And so, I made the decision to take my damn foot out of the past and start moving, I mean really moving, into the future.
Here I am, three months later, in a completely different life emotionally. It's strange how you can make a commitment like that and if followed, actually works! I still have to drag the foot out, particularly when life becomes stressful. But, it's worth it. It's liberating.
So, instead of anchoring life, set it free. Move on, walk on and keep moving forward is my mantra of the week.
Given, many of the anchors in our past are good memories, significant events and life lessons. These are things we tend to incorporate into our core being. We thrive on those memories and life events. We smile or laugh.
But, there are times when keeping the past close is more detrimental than character building. I'm guilty. When things get tough, I tend to crawl into the hole of bad memories and pain that I should have left behind years ago. It's always been a comfortable place for me. But, the side effects from this are far reaching. Dwelling, self deprecation, negativity, hindrance.
Not long after I left my ex, a few months ago, I decided that I was moving on...in more ways than one. If I wanted a healthy relationship, I had to let go. If I wanted to be happy, I had to let go. If I didn't, I felt as if I would keep repeating all the patterns in my life, regardless of the fact that I was sober.
And so, I made the decision to take my damn foot out of the past and start moving, I mean really moving, into the future.
Here I am, three months later, in a completely different life emotionally. It's strange how you can make a commitment like that and if followed, actually works! I still have to drag the foot out, particularly when life becomes stressful. But, it's worth it. It's liberating.
So, instead of anchoring life, set it free. Move on, walk on and keep moving forward is my mantra of the week.
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