This morning I felt depressed and nauseous. It would have been natural to go back to bed, hunker down in a fetal position, and try to lose consciousness.
Instead, I went out to the studio, put an old painting on my easel, and began to cover it over. I worked fast and freely without regard to the finished product. I was painting for myself. I was painting to save myself. I was painting to save my life.
That’s what art can do.
And that’s why I turn to art, I think, rather than mindfulness, when I’m in a dark place.
An old friend from Kentucky that I hadn’t talked to in years called me yesterday. We talked for two hours. He told me about the projects he was working on—projects anyone might question in terms of their value versus the time he spends on them.
But I realized, while listening to him, that he was deeply involved in uncovering the narrative in people’s lives. He is a meticulous researcher. He tracks people down. He is patient. His work has nothing to do with producing a publishable product. His work is the art that is saving his life.
In the course of our conversation he asked me if I still believed in painting. “I’m not sure I believe in it any more,” I said. “But I’m still compelled to do it.”
Why am I adding to the death of trees instead of making art with recycled materials?
Why single out that one aspect of my life? I am in no way a model citizen of environmental conscientiousness.
But this morning I collect all my flaws, and they are legion.
That’s what I do when I’m down—collect my flaws, reflect on lost opportunities, and regret my cowardice.
I didn’t expect to wake up depressed this morning, though the wine I drank alone last night might have been a clue that it was coming.
I had given up drinking alone. I had cut out evening eating binges.
Then I said aloud, “When Adrian comes back from the dead,” I’ll give it all up.
It’s all right to talk to yourself out loud after your husband has died. There’s no one else to talk to.
It’s been two years. I thought I’d be OK by now.
How come I’m not?
. . . .
A few days later, Adrian does come back. He visits me in a dream, and his body feels warm, delicious and strong. He is naked from the waist up. We embrace. I feel his skin through my thin shirt.
But I’m cooking soup on the stove, so I offer him some. He sits down at the table. I put a plate too full of soup in front of him, and it spills. There is a stack of papers on the table. We race to save the papers, sop up the spilled soup.
Too soon, I wake up.
