Hiya Darling Ones,
How goes it?
Here in the North Star State we’re in for a blizzard that could drop anywhere from 4-22 inches of snow on us according to the weather terrorists. Of all the things I’m good at, hunkering down is probably what I’m beat at. An introverted spinster who’s lived alone for 25+ years? I am the Serena Williams of hunkering down.
My hunkering plans include catching up on my many ignored crochet projects. I’m a month and a half behind on Temp Blanket 2026 and the less said about the State Fair one the better.
I’m very much the distracted boyfriend meme and Art Practice is my new obsession.
Do you know you can put colorful blobs and squiggles on stuff and be released from all that ails you for a brief and glorious moment? YOU CAN! It’s astounding.
Right now I’m copycatting things I see on Instagram (see above), doing the watercolor sketchbook, and working through a YouTube drawing class.
For the most part, I’ve been arting at least once a day. This week hasn’t been the best with the time change & an especially difficult eye treatment, but I still squeezed in some.
Taking up art feels like the best thing I’ve done for my poor damaged brain and janky body since I’ve existed.
Pre-stroke writing and reading were my favorite form of escape. I could go someplace else, immerse myself in someone else’s life. Post-stroke it isn’t the same. While I’m most grateful for audiobooks and the library that lends them to me, it’s not the same as reading a paper book with your eyes. The experience, for me, isn’t as immersive. I’m still aware of my body and its surroundings. This holds true for writing too. Even as I type there’s a part of my brain constantly noticing the tension and heaviness in my right side.
When I’m painting or drawing that noticing is much less frequent and I’m able to be more forgiving with myself. The heaviness and tremor are still there, my scoop will forever be floppy. But my brain is also noticing how the color looks on paper, how the watercolor moves across the surface. It’s thinking about what I should do next, what color, what blob, what squiggle. I can go entire minutes without thinking about my scoop or noticing my distorted vision. It is the best. THE BEST!
I’ve had a fraught history with my body. Last summer Sister #2 made a comment about how she could tell I don’t feel safe in my body. I don’t know if I responded, but I’ve thought about that phrase a lot, “safe in my body.”
Was that something people feel on the regular? What does it really mean? Have I ever felt safe in my own body? I would tentatively say, no. My body has never been a safe space. It has been a constant source of attention, often cruel and unwanted. I’d venture to guess that part of the reason I’ve chosen to live alone for most of my adult life is to protect me from that attention, even from well-meaning people who love me.
You know what though? When I’m arting I feel safe in my body. Is this how people walk around all the time with their meat sack not causing angst and fear? I hope so, because it’s kind of rad even when I experience it in teeny, tiny amounts.
Mind blown,
Jodi