28. The wisdom of torn things

Sometime last year, I started tearing up my own art.

And I don’t mean metaphorically. I didn’t set out to deconstruct it, analyze it, or critique it. I mean I literally started ripping it apart.

That huge pile of paintings had been staring at me from the corner of my office, where they had squatted for over a year. Daring me.

I had painted them during the hard days of healing, learning to paint and learning to heal one wondrous drop of my beloved Prussian blue at a time.

It wasn’t art to hang on a wall or put in a picture frame. It was art that had grown out of the newfound delight that had sent tender little roots into that sea of struggle. It was art that had nudged out the fear and made space for a little bit of me to come home, one messy, imperfect painting at a time.

But it wasn’t art for keeping.

So I started tearing it up.

My hands reveled in the surprising, almost naughty, feeling of the paper giving way, ripping in this direction and that, leaving beautiful jagged edges and unexpected shapes. My heart reveled in the giggles that bubbled out of me.

I had no idea how good it would feel to hold the hard past in my hands and literally tear it to pieces. I had no idea how good it would feel to choose what parts I loved and wanted to keep, cherish even, and what parts I was ready to throw away.

The unexpected happened when those torn bits and parts rearranged themselves onto blank canvases and demanded to be moved this way and that, enhanced with new backgrounds, new splashes of color, and then collaged into new pieces.

If you look closely, dear one, you’ll see the jagged edges and the layers of paper (sometimes even other textured materials). These were the layers of time, the layers of me, and the layers of my adventure that came together into new images and new messages.

I had never experienced anything like it. I held the brush. I squeezed the paint tubes, and I felt into what wanted to happen. But I wasn’t in charge. I was a co-creator but not the creator. The art was of me, but not entirely mine.

It was alchemy. The alchemy of letting myself be guided, saying yes to inspiration and invitation, and allowing the old to be torn to bits and rearranged into something new and unexpected.

I thought the visual, tactile alchemy was more than enough of a miracle. But then came a second wave of the unexpected: each piece of art had something to say, a poem that wanted to be born alongside it.

I couldn’t have been more surprised. I had never before written poetry.

But there was no denying it. It demanded that I write it.

It felt like a whisper from the Great Mystery.

She whispered to me. But I know she was whispering to you too, dear one.

Here is what she said…

I see

You, who look so still,
almost dull,
to those who don't know how
to really see.
But you can’t fool me.
I see your sparkling veins
I see your flesh full of miracles.
In the deepest dark,
the deepest quiet,
when no one else even thinks to look,
I see you.
And finally, I see me.
I see my sparkling veins
and my flesh full of miracles.
In your quiet magic and mine
I can never be lost.

Stardust

Even in the darkest night of the soul,
or maybe especially then,
a stunning beauty lies in wait.
For it is only there,
in the transcendent darkness,
that it is quiet and still enough
to see the stardust lighting my way.

Wonder

Do not pretend you know,
dear one.
It's the wonder,
that will make your sun
rise and set
and keep your heart
soft enough
to hear. 

Alchemy

A beautiful being,
although it mostly died.
But even in its near-death,
It still glowed
with hidden mysteries.
Mysteries where new things
took root
and bloomed.

Phoenix

The universe has no choice
but to break our hearts and send them
spinning out into the cold world.
It's the only way to get to the
beating heart of being
that lies beneath
the surface of us.
There lies the birthplace of the phoenix
that wants to come bursting out of us
in all its gaudy, gorgeous color.
So embrace the heartbreak, dear one.
It's the only way
to be free.

I framed these five pieces and hung them on the wall in my little office. Whenever I forget the most important things, I look at them and I am reminded…

…Reminded that I am made of the same stuff as the trees and the stars, that I am made of potential and miracles beyond what my little mind can fathom.

…Reminded that there is unique guidance available to me, even in the darkest times, if only I take the time to be quiet, to be still and to listen.

…Reminded that the best way to listen is to be in wonder, to stay curious and oriented to the unknown.

…Reminded that rebirth is always available. Available in the smallest ways every day with just a breath or a few minutes with feet on the earth. But also available in the biggest ways after the hardest things, in the alchemy that turns darkness into new growth, new light.

…And reminded that the hard things are essential, that this being human is about the heartbreak more than it is about the ease.

Because it’s the heartbreak that invites us to spread our wings into their fullest width and their brightest colors.

If you’re new here, welcome!

However you made your way here, I’m grateful you found me and happy to have you pop into my little world, whether it’s for a brief visit or a longer hangout around my campfire.

Accidental Alchemy is a serial memoir, so if you’re curious and have the time, I recommend starting with the Prologue and reading chapters in order for the full experience. You can access all chapters on my Substack homepage.

For the best reading experience, I recommend reading in a browser and on a larger screen. It makes it easier to enjoy the art and navigate through the chapters with the buttons at the bottom of each post.

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PS.. All art and poetry included in this memoir are my own unless I specifically credit another author or artist.