Pulled

I am being pulled to do something.
But with the soulful pull comes Resistance, which rears its ugly head as self-doubt - the easiest hook.
"You are not educated enough! You don't have the proper credentials!  Why would the world want you? You couldn't help because you don't TRULY understand."

Blech.

But I have agreed to pursue it anyway.

I believe in the power of creativity.
Creativity is a place to pause and a place to discover, a place to move through.
It has helped me muddle through grief and lead me depression.
It has helped captured moments of great joy and allowed my mind to rest by simply watching a colored pencil move back and forth on the paper.

I am being pulled to provide creative opportunities for people in grief, particularly mothers grieving miscarriages, stillborns or infant loss.

It's huge.  'Tis more than I can get my head and heart around.

"God, you must have gotten me confused with someone much more qualified."
Nope.  The signs keep pointing which way I am supposed to go.

I shall go.

May My Fear...

...be changed to love.

My Grammie

Last weekend, while visiting my family in California, I made sure to take time to visit my Grandma.
When I arrived, her dusty-blue jammies matched her dusty-blue upholstered furniture and her brand new dusty-blue carpet.  Her pink socks were the only thing that stood out.

My visit was heartwarming and heartbreaking.


At one point she asked, "What do I do with the rest of my life?"
What do you say?

Over her shoulder, I noticed her box of hair rollers; the same box she has been using since I was a little girl.  Getting to stay up late and watch her put rollers in her hair was a childhood favorite!

Once in my late 20's, during a round of depression, I was able to watch my grammie roll her hair.  It was the only thing that made me feel sane for a wee bit.

ORANGE

Orange ya glad I didn't say Orange Things In Heather's House?
Ar-r-r-r-r-r-r-r...

Well, these are.  And orange is my favorite color...most of the time.

Blue Things In Heather's House

I Will Comb Your Hair

I adore my sister.
We are like Ernie and Bert: quite opposite.

She is cool. I am a nerd.
She's social.  I'm a home-body.
The list goes on.

One deeper difference is I am not afraid of sad.  She is.
She won't let me sing Old Shep or Puff the Magic Dragon.
She didn't understand the feelings I shared when a friend was dying.
"Have you ever had something be so sad it is beautiful?  Or something so beautiful is breaks your heart?"
"No," she replied.

Last January, my sister spent a week in the hospital was a very severe case of double pneumonia.
I arrived on day 4 of her stay.  And for 4 days no one had brushed her long mane of thick hair.
It was a tangle mess!
She was on oxygen, exhausted and felt like absolute hell.
I grabbed the unused fork from her lunch tray and told her I'd comb her hair while she lay there.
It took a long time but it worked!  Once finished, I braided her hair and she smiled-ish.

I didn't think much more of that moment in time until a few days ago.
Via Facebook, she was commenting on an image and using words that don't usually come from her, regarding HappySad.
With predictable teasing, I replied, "Is that you?"
She typed: heartbreaking+happy=your sister brushing your hair with a fork.

She gets it.

What I Do When...

 ...I wake up in the middle of the night.                                   ...I have a headache.                  

Coloring is good medicine.

Fitting

Although drawn 3 weeks ago, this is fitting for this evening.

One minute you are talking about someone at dinner.
Then next minute you receive a text that they are gone.
House fire.

One Time When I Was A Photographer

2009

Online photo editing.  Endless filter choices.  They make me think I'm a photographer.

But I'm not.

Except this one time.

Five years ago, in my hometown Redlands, California, I  took a walk early one morning.  The day before it had rained long and hard, saturating everything.  As I walked, the sun came out and brought steam out of every field, lawn and tree.

Don't know if I was a photographer momentarily, or simply lucky to be at the right place at the exact right moment.

Non-Dominant Hand Drawing

The process is slower, but more enjoyable.
The accuracy is close, but allows for some slight wonkiness that give it more character.

Almost. Done.

When I draw with my left hand, the inner critic shuts up!  I love that!

Forgotten Artwork Stuffed In Drawers

2008

1991

2006

2006

2006

2010

2000

Hands

Her hands were beautiful and fragile, just like her children.