Artist dates will happen for sure as well as writing of course although I wasn’t diligent with writing this week. I skipped two days and have no idea why. I’m not sure if there is something that I don’t want to know or see, or if I just need to take a break for a moment.
Weeks ago Patrick said that for our last class everyone will bring in something to eat and an artist gift that we made to give to someone in the class. We would be drawing names and going from there. He said it’s always interesting how the gifts people make end up being perfect for the receiver’s name they draw. He also said not to worry about this project, to just let an idea come.
I went with that and ran off with the idea that something would eventually pop into my head. I didn’t need to worry or obsess over it so I didn’t. One sunny afternoon while running, the idea of making a set of postcards with my collages popped into my head. I’m obsessed with Frank Warren’s “Post Secret” books. (www.postsecret.com) As an art project, he had people decorate postcards, write a secret on them and send them anonymously to him. This was several years ago and became a huge success when he compiled them into books. Off I went in putting together twelve postcards plus three blank ones so the person that would receive them could make some on their own.
On Monday morning I took the bus to Trader Joe’s to get salad goodies to bring to our pot luck. The sun was out, I had no real agenda except to finish the postcards and make the salad. It felt amazing to wander around outside after buying groceries, look at all the budding trees and blooming flowers. I stopped for a moment to take some pictures. This seems to be the longest winter ever and I’m simply giddy at the sight of colorful life pushing up through the ground.
Once home, I make the salad. I got this idea from a friend a few years back. It’s just lettuce, spicy pecans, apple, smoked gouda cheese and balsamic vinaigrette. It’s always been a hit whenever I’ve made it. I never come home with leftovers.
I get to work on the postcards after that, finishing all the last minutes details while listening to Tori Amos, sunlight coming through the open windows, kitties sleeping nearby. Perfect afternoon…
An hour later I’m on a packed train barely able to breathe. This part, I will not miss. Trying to get to class during rush hour is simply hideous. I’m desperate for fresh air and space to move my limbs once I’m off and walking.
People trickle in, setting up their food and sitting down in the circle like always. A prayer is said and we’re off to the table. I end up chatting with a really sweet girl I’ve wanted to get to know better. We are so much alike it’s scary in the best way. I hate I didn’t spend more time talking with her previously but am thrilled to exchange information and agree to keep in touch.
After eating we go through our usual check in. I listen to everyone share about their week and thoughts on class ending. I’m at a loss for words. I have no idea what to say. This has been happening rather often, this loss for words. Finally I share my gratitude for the class, the fact that I wrote five out of seven days, giggling as the eyebrows shot up in surprise. I’m one of few who actually enjoys the daily writing. I then proceed to cry and share about April being a tough month, about losing Rob and about the contest I’m entering in a few days. It’s an erotic fiction contest at the Whistler, a bar in Logan Square I’ve wanted to go to. The contest is part of a benefit for the Chicago Women’s Health Center and has been on my mind so much that I felt a strong pull to write and enter. It’s on April 21st, the day after the three year anniversary of Rob’s accident which I felt was rather interesting being Rob fully supported my sexier subject matter.
“It’s no coincidence that the contest is on the twenty first.” Patrick smiled.
I giggled, wiping my face.
“Melissa, that was such a sweet, sweet story.” another woman piped up to share after me. “You are such a strong person. I really admire your courage.”
I’m crying again. I love that people think I’m a strong person but I don’t entirely feel that way. I feel it’s a wall I keep up. Behind it is all the sadness and grief that I refuse to touch. Instead I’m scaling this wall, making it higher and higher trying to get away from all the sadness that’s there because honestly, I don’t know how to feel it. It’s territory I’ve never allowed myself to delve into. Not then, not now, not ever.
The sharing continues until we’ve all spoken. Gifts were exchanged by way of drawing names. My name was pulled by a lovely woman I’ve befriended recently and I pulled the name of the woman I had been chatting with this evening which made me ecstatic! Everyone’s gifts were so sweet and beautiful.
For twelve weeks I’ve been able to share some of the most precious pieces of my being with these wonderful people. Pieces that have never seen the light of day have emerged and been expressed to a loving audience. It has meant more to me than I ever thought possible to share and to listen and feel boundless compassion for each person along with more gratitude than I ever thought possible.
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