V. H. King's Ink

In a fictional world, the late spring season is one for processing grief.  Instead of leaving everything behind at the turn of a new year, the resolution is one of gratitude for days both coming and gone.  It is not until spring that a body feels ready to loosen—swaying in fresh breezes, thundering through shifts in temperature, struggling with cold and warmth and the proper place for each.  In the light of so many sunny days, sometimes it is easier to see the weights we carry and recognize the toll they take.

In my life, May has always been a time of transition.  From schoolyear to summer, from one home to another, from one season of accomplishment to another of goal-setting.  When faced with a lack of structure, I often tried to build my own routines.  Turns out, I’m not always great at keeping them.  Who would’ve thought my body was calling me to rest, even back then?

Once again, the month of May came with turning points this year.  I would be moving back in with my parents…indefinitely.  I was officially unemployed, and remain so for the foreseeable future.  My goals centered around balancing physical and speech therapy appointments, the usual admin things, and trying to maintain a creative presence on my various pages.

Earlier this month, I completed my second round of physical therapy.  The mutual agreement was that, while we could always come up with reasons for me to make appointments, a better use of my energy at this point was learning how to manage my day-to-day energy.

What does my life look like when I’m not constantly crashing

from the week’s appointments and administrative tasks?

I don’t want a life fueled by the anxiety that I’m running out of time, that I have left too much undone, that there is more that I should have learned by now.  Chances are I’ll still have those worries, but I want to recognize them for what they are: the desire to give my best to the world. In my current circumstances, I’m faced with allowing myself to do less…which is most definitely one of the biggest challenges I’ve had to face.

There are so many ideas in my head, and I often fear not being able to get them all out—not only that, but to do them justice.  To tell a story in the best way I can.  To share a painting as it truly deserves to be seen.  When I look at my current situation, the most tempting thing to do is dive in deep.

I want to devote myself to completing every project, to telling every story perfectly.

But what if perfection is not what my stories need?

Stable health sounds lovely, but I have a feeling it’s not on my horizon any time soon.  The real work is gauging my capacity on what amounts to an hourly basis.  As a dear friend said to me, it’s like learning how to (re)use a muscle.  Understanding how to transition from one task or activity is another muscle, and I have to practice coordinating the two.

On top of that, I don’t have the promise of muscle memory—either literally or in the sense of routine.  Repetition doesn’t necessarily come with increased ease; it takes just as much effort for me to focus on writing every time I sit at my computer, regardless of whether I do it at the same time each day or random points throughout the week.

Scrawling words across the page still comes with a certain degree of strain, both for my body and my brain.  Most medical folks think that the more I do (or the more often I do something), the more I’ll build up my endurance.  I’m not convinced.  Instead, I’m focusing on listening to what I’m capable of right now.

As much as I want to plan my weeks around creativedays and rest days, I have to admit that I don’t know if I will have the focus to write that frequently.  I don’t know how often I’ll be able to withstand an afternoon painting at my art desk.  And I’m choosing not to focus on the arrival of someday when I would be able to schedule my goals and hopes and dreams on neat timelines.

At so many points throughout my recent days, I find myself simply basking in the present.  It’d be trite to say one doesn’t have to chase their dream when they are living it.  I certainly didn’t imagine any of this happening, and I don’t know if I want to say the last year has been the unexpected twists and turns that needed to happen in order for me to live my dream. My life already was about writing and art.

My life will always be about story,

regardless of my physical or cognitive capacity.

My work isn’t about what I can gain from doing it;

it’s about how I can live.

So I’ve made a choice: I’m not sacrificing my well-being for the sake of a truth I know will always be inside me.  With regards to producing any sort of product or profit from my writing, my reservations are plentiful.

That calendar of spring grief is all about that very decision: In what ways can I choose to keep living?  How do I honor a memory for what it was?  How do I embrace a moment without clinging to it?  Sometimes I know I’m not ready to make changes.  I can practice habits without putting my heart into it.  I can listen to repeated advice and admonishment.

My creativity has always been about the struggle

to forgive who I’ve been and accept where I am now,

all while offering myself compassion and space

for healing.

These days, I’m learning to do that in the very physical/ cognitive context of recovering from brain surgery.  It’s emotionally exhausting—and that effort takes its toll on the rest of me.  There are some battles I can’t fight every day.  There are mistakes I will make.  The pace of my life has changed.  The entire landscape of my future seems like a giant question mark.

And in that face of all that?

I smile at so many small things.  Sunlight on my face.  The smells of grass and soil and sweat and dirt.  Curling my toes into carpet and the cool surface of tile on my heels.  Markers in their bright and bold liquid.  Crayons with textured strokes. Birdsong and dog-barks.

Gratitude for corn fields and grain silos and vegetable patches and flower planters. Excitement in wonderful things: one person feeling confident, another daring to take risks, someone else searching for community. Joy in wonders I’ve rarely seen, if ever—northern lights, elephants and giraffes, butterfly colonies, sea cucumbers and coral reefs.

This world holds so much, and I’m part of it.  I’m worth the care and support that allows me to experience and learn and grow from all these things.