Don the cape

I had yet another Light bulb moment.  I Am a Writer.  This realization knocked me clean into Kentucky and wasn't something that happened overnight.  It happened probably as soon as I was old enough to put two words together and make my first sentence. I was a Writer even back then.  My only fan was my sister, my quirky confidant.   We were polar opposites stuck in a family that thought girls were useless and were constantly reminded of that notion.   Endlessly.  My sister, who is 6 years older than me was like the Poster Child of Nerdom.  She could've probably won awards for it, but instead, was bullied and messed with because she was smart and different.   I love every bit of that Nerd, because she taught me to write and to think and to Dream.  She taught me that just because I was cute and blonde, I needed to use my brain not my looks, because sooner or later, the hair would turn colors (she checked Daily!) and my looks would change.  Thanks, sis...thanks a lot.

In addition to my tutelage from my sister, I wasn't doing normal kid things like the other kids in my 'hood. Instead of making tree houses and pretend bat caves, I was sequestered on one of those lawn chairs of the 70's, where you wear the imprint of the webbing on your ass all day.  I studied the thesaurus.  Yep,  I became a wordsmith at the ripe old age of 6.  I would sit there for hours looking up words and writing poems and stories.   I got accolades from my first grade teacher for my poems and even got published in the local newspaper.  I still have the article to this day - 'Squeaky the Mouse' made it in the paper next to the ad for gas for a buck and the obituaries.  My poem, "War, War...What is it for?" made it as far as my first grade teachers bulletin board, as the subject matter was too advanced for a kid like me to write about.  It dealt with the atrocities of war from the innocent eyes of a 7 year old kid.  Mind blowing that it was over looked and misunderstood, but I was a kid in the Midwest, so go figure.  

Over time, I've written and scraped many poems, kept more journals than there are volumes of the encyclopedia.   When I was unattached, I used to befriend guys online to test drive my stories.  I had given up finding a guy that understands me for Me, so instead I seasoned my dialogue with just the right kick to keep them wanting more. They fell in love with my writing, but never got as far - or as near - as looking into my eyes and seeing the depth my heart could truly go.  I put a limit on my spending as far as my writing went. I was very frugal with my stories and poems, as I knew if I 'sold out', I could never really have my souls secrets to myself anymore,.  That's why they call them secrets after all.  I preferred to be a bit of a ghost writer to these men that swooned over my words, as the confidence faded when time comes to actually meet the someone that has fallen...for my writing.  The risk of maybe someday someone Getting me was a tightrope I was not quite willing to walk.  How about if they reject me - say my work is stupid?  No way, no how. I always kept a metaphorical baseball bat at my side in case someone failed to see my tender heart lay behind my mellifluous words. 

Fast forward to my Light Bulb moment.  That thing I was getting to that I had to take 3 or more paragraphs, before editing, to explain.  The thing I need to focus on is not if my writing wins other people over, but if it wins Me over.  I'm not looking to fall in love with a reader, because then I would become the 13th Disney Princess and become animated and buxom.    I needed to fall in love with myself, with my writing; see that I have purpose and unleash my guarded heart, not settle for Mr. Almost.  .


Once burned
lessons learned
twice shy
stupid guy
wants to look for something more
sounds like Macys closed at 4

Told me he's a fragile man
Can't you buy that in a can?
Think I'll put him on a shelf
Sell him for a penny
Give him free if you don't mind
I'm calling in his nanny

More is betta
so he said
I though that meant in money
Conquests are a dime a dozen
 I don't think its funny 

Maria ... I just made a gem named Maria!

This may seem like a fairly simple feat for the average jewelry artist.  Making jewelry that is pleasing the eye of both the creator and their audience.  It's more than that for me.  Two years ago, I could see myself walking into my studio area, fondling the individual stones, maybe even piecing something together in my head, but it would stop there.  I wouldn't, couldn't let myself see that I had even a smidgen of creativity to follow this pursuit, this seemingly straightforward task of creating this perfect little bauble.  Looking at these today, I haven come a loooong way, baby!

When I started my journey back through this Ptsd stuff, I had no idea what I would uncover.  The road is painstakingly hard and slow as a baby turtle, yet I know I am no where near the Finish line.   When I started delving into this Pandora's Box of Emotions, I prayed,  meditated, threw salt over my shoulder....anything that would take me back to the Me I knew was inside. With the help of time, patience and a few wonderfully wise women, I have begun again.

I titled this on my jewelry site, The Maria, as it is sleek, beautiful and quietly strong.  The real Maria that inspired this piece has all of these qualities...and then some.  I had the privilege to meet her last summer at Brave Girls Camp; an experience I'll never forget.  None of us will. The experience of bonding with these girls was like the Ya-ya's,  the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and any other fantastical novel about a group of seemingly different women, coming from different paths, different socio-economic levels, meeting in a lovely, unbiased, neutral ground to Find ourselves..  We saw that inside, in our core, we all want the same thing.  Love.  Love of self, more than any other type of love,  is the missing link.  The key ingredient that Connects us all.

This Lil' Light of Mine

I remember as a child going to church with my family.  It was a bit silly, I thought, as our family is going to a sacred spot for an hour to "get all holy" was screwed up, as we would act as-if for an hour, inside this 4 brick walls with stained glass angels watching over us little fakers.  When we got home, instead of feel refreshed and anew, took our usual places in the Punch & Judy show, and who the hell is Judy?!    Even though I have these cray-cray memories of life as a kid, I also have the pictures that float in my mind; the sweetest melodies in that bliss-filled hour  I still hum randomly.  The best thoughts of Church weren't the damnation or tarnation people often link with the traditional Church Lady stereotypes.  The best memories were those songs - songs that we there for me unconditionally every week.  The liturgies, the Sanctus, the Offertoryhymns that gave me comfort, even though I didn't know what it meant.  As my life at home was unpredictable and protected, this red brick building we went to every week to "Act Saved" was there for me, giving me these rote songs that didn't judge me or make me eat brussel sprouts or the dreaded liver and onions.  It gave me the peace of my understanding - exactly what it said it would do.
The thing I craved most as a child was peace.  As a family, whether at the dinner table or the church pew, each member would play their part in the game of Deactivating Peace.  Usually my brother would start the marble down the slope by saying something rude to my sister.  That would send her into a tizzy, which caused me to delightfully kick my brother under the table to stop being such a tool.  That would make him complain to his mommy, which made my dad yell at her for being his cheerleader.  On and on, no matter where we were, this pinball game would go off, sending the ball this way and that, going no where while going everywhere.  This constant state of unrest seemed a bit of a cheat, as even in a legit pinball game racks up points; feel that momentary rush when the lights and bells go off at the end.  The sad point of our game was there Was no end. All I learned is how groovy flowers and fuzzy neon pink footprint stickers would cover the holes in the wall that were made by my father.

the good fairy

I remember when I was in kindergarten, my constant goal was to be good. Not "good" in the sense that I could finally sit in the "A" table or be one of those annoyingly perfect curly headed beauties soccer mommies oogle over.    I wanted to be the Good Fairy that taps everyone on the head when nap time is done.  Remember that?  In school, I was taught that you would be rewarded, whether temporarily or permanently, for your good deeds. At home, it was a different story, but at school I could be vindicated!  I could be the one that people look up to and learn from.  I could have an audience, people to laugh at my jokes and see the things I make and do weren't stupid.  With this in mind, I took every opportunity to shine.  My teachers thought I was cool; a prodigy of sorts.  My poetry was awarded , my pictures graced the walls of my teachers, but still at home I was a Lemonhead.  If I had only given up trying to please the very people that brought me into this earth, and work on shaping me into a gift that should be cherished instead of kicked around, would my life be different?  All things happen for a reason, and I do feel that all that junk back then did shape me. My empathy for the underdog is unparalleled, as I knew that title well. 

Fast forward to 40 years later.  Sitting here pondering this next shift in my Life.  I'm entering the vortex of something a bit exciting but raw, magical but seemingly risky... but I want it.  I want the challenge like I was that little girl sneaking into the boys bathroom all over again.   Will I be discovered?  Found out to be this amazingly talented writer/collage artist that the Universe has been missing All.This.Time??!  Or will that other part of me, that part that sees the devil-may-care attitude fall flat on my arse!

 The risk to put myself out there, for all to see is Great.  The adrenalin rush makes me feel like I'm standing in the middle of an intersection in my underwear.  Everyone will see my flaws scrutinize me if I don't use correct grammar or I glue shit down that looks like a kindergartener did it. .  Scary stuff. Brave stuff.  Necessary stuff.
This collage is done  in moments of complete Bliss.  Nope, not in kindergarten anymore. The collage was from a workshop given by Jonathon Adler . It was interesting as the male perspective led to different emphasis, shapes and placement instead of details.  It's like that in real life too - men speak in generalities, using fewer word to describe things, to make things happen. Women use the language of Detail.  Descriptive, mellifluous words that skip around the subject and flirty-flirt with the nuances, not nail it in the gut.  Case in point: a couple in a paint store. The guy would look at the color, and in one caveman grunt, he would blurt "Blue.  The color of the wall is blue".  The women, on the other hand, would describe the color as having hints of azure, cobalt, robin's egg-such-and-such, with a tad bit of the ocean in July.  Dude, it's not blue!

Eat your Broccoli

I remember when I meditated for the first time.  It reminded me of the first time I prayed back in my childhood. I was at this Youth function at some hotel.  Yes, it took me That long to figure out what prayer was!  My childhood was force fed Religion kinda like a vegetarian would be fed a cow; stuffed in my face, dismissing my stance as an individual and Made to look at my seemingly heathen ways as a person of only 9.  How the heck could I be that bad at 12?  Did I rob a bank or con a con in Paper Moon??  I'm pretty sure that was a movie, and I secretly hoped to god that the life I had was a movie too.  But there I was, sitting amongst all these people staring at my heathen ways. tsk tsk.
Fast forward to my meditative state in the confines of my living room.  Thinking the right placement was East, to get the best exposure (or was it blessing?) from the Sun.  Even though my form wasn't all that Zen, and maybe I was facing a little westerly from the correct Northern Exposure, I felt deep in my heart that all I needed to do was close my eyes and breathe deeply.  In and out.  In with wisdom, out goes the pain.  In with enlightenment, out with the indecision.  I kept this up for quite some time, and slowly focused on Not focusing.  Slowly but surely the clarity and awareness came.  Not like a thunderbolt, but just this Peace that said "Go There".  "Do This".  It was a gentle nudge to shift awareness to something that suited my character better, fed my passion more suitably.  After sitting there with my focus only on the Nothing my soul needed in order to really see my true vision, slowly the background of stillness and light took over the jibber-jabber of my inner critic.  What became of this first Sit was monumental.  For in those 20 minutes of calm, I realized my path was to get  back to my roots and teach people about beauty again.  Show women how to recreate their wheel and feel good about themselves.  My eyes opened, my feet moved, and I started to set the stage of my vision.  I set out to become an Artist once again.

Now I sit here at my beloved blog, ready to recreate My wheel.  Something has again shifted in me, and I'm ready to Learn more, Do more, Become more.
I am slowly learning that those wicked insults and condemnation of my art as a child was purely Sickness and jealousy.  I'm done trying to fix a mother that was clearly broken and angry at the world for what became of her.  God put me here to do beautiful things, to show people how beautiful they really are.  That is my purpose.  That is my Gift. 

Laughing out Loud

The wow-factor of seeing where I've come after all this time has me laughing out loud with glee as I think of my very first post of its kind that graced these pages.  My heart was giddy with love and excitement, all twitterpated over someone that eventually lost his pizazz - or maybe I just gained some!  I created this space as a means to figure out the Why of what I feel and connect it to the What Next.  Though the relationship that brought all those endorphins to a head is long gone, I still feel grateful for the chance to ride the wave of emotional output to where I am right this very moment.  After that relationship died a quiet death,  I cried, reasoned, justified my way into all sorts of emotionally colorful places. I allowed myself to get angry enough at my words and feelings, wanting to jump into my computer, taking my blog by the jugular and shake out all the hurt so I could begin again.  Just as quickly as the ebb and flow of anger also came the notion to give my words the biggest hug of Gratitude for being there Unconditionally for me when I couldn't be there for myself.
My journal has been a stronghold and critic for my artwork, spokesperson for All.Things.Nancy..and even All.Things.Fancy.Nancy.  My Rock.  I've been so guided to write-and-feel-and-need-and-Thrive that it's so natural to me to have yet another volume of my life to turn a page through.  I remember when the only thing that saved me through one of the most violent periods in my life was my Words.  My journal held me like a blanket and soothed the beast inside that wanted to do due justice to the situation that made me so vacant.  I could only write poems and songs and more poems because I just couldn't mouth the words.  Writing is a common  go-to for me when I experience Loss.  It's like drinking that first sip of tea; you feel the decent down your throat, as it coats and soothes all the bubbling stress and anger, then splashes into that happy place where sadness and pain turn to a thirst for something better.
  I've turned to it when no person place or thing would suffice; my unconditional solace.

I found a heart
a human heart
so empty and alone.
Its form was rather odd, you see
as it was made of stone

I dusted off each ventricle
as if it were a child
that fell from flight and
scuffed up knees
one kiss - then pain was mild

I polished carefully the front
revealing words unspoken
doing right had swallowed life
now bitter, pale and broken
I wondered how
so fragile
a form like this could get
away from beating, caring,
thinking love could make it quit

I wanted to embrace it
to kiss that knee again
to reassure the will to live
and somehow be a friend
but knowing life
like dreamers do
to turn a stone into a rose
could end in only death.

Can we say Morbid?  Well, maybe, but when we were young kids, we didn't know any other way of living better or differently.  Being in the midst of a childhood constantly mistaking pain for love,  a slam into the wall may mean in a twisted, roundabout way that we mattered. 

Mental Cement

When I look back on the past 5 weeks, the landmark theme has always been Boundaries.  I had been skipping in and out of a relationship that needed some firmer Bedrock to stand on. This blog and I have the perfect relationship; we connect when we need to and have an unconditional understanding of love, as long as the keyboard doesn't freeze -then things get ugly!   My blog supports me, and though I'm not here to create a fan base, I appreciate each and everyone that takes a look.  My biggest critic has always been me, and through the Brave Girl classes, I'm turning myself into a fan, and lay off the critical stuff.  We can be sooo hard on ourselves can't we?!  I came across this lovely place to vent; a rubber room where I can bounce Creatively and stay safe all at the same time. Safety has always been an issue for me.  I discovered in the first part of my soul restoration, that it has come up too many times to remember.  There was a time when I actually started to go to my creative space to relieve some of fear that was bottle up inside, when I felt like I couldn't talk to just anyone about what happened to me.  Now I'm re-discovering that young girl, and hearing her words for the first time in a couple decades.

When I was younger, some 20-ish years ago, something unspeakable happened, something that just should not happen.  To anyone.  I was left there afterwards,cold and scared and determined not to show my fear.  I Hurt and grieving, I turned to inward, like many of us do to heal wounds.    I could Not bear to face what had happened to me.  Did not open up about it., but instead turned the experience around and decided  if I helped other rape victims. While I helped other women, at first I didn't know how to take my own advice I was giving to all these girls. I finally got to a point where I had to face my own pain in order to teach other women to see and face their pain.  Pain is the best teacher, as if a part of ourselves will need to forgive that other part that is hurting, grieving, in order to move on.  I did this by writing.  I wrote scads of poems, journal entries, stories about what happened, until my fingers were numb.  I wanted to write until I could turn into an innocent bystander, a third person party that just happen to read about my story instead of be part of that story.

 I wrote this poem when I thought there would never be a color darker than the color of my heart.   No place could every be as cold as the one inside me.  Then slowly, over time, my heart began to thaw.

Will Pandora save her box for me
stark white with rubber walls.

Where all the problems I have faced

would seem like none at all. 

Tell her to find a golden lock
and throw away the key
For if I let my feelings out
I'm sure that she'd find me.

I can't remember how to see
the evidence so clear
For all the reasons that my ♥
would be so full of tears
Just tell Pandora, "Hurry"
for I fear my time is soon
Where all my past, my future
will be locked inside my room

Even though many years have passed, I truly feel I didn't address that cold place until now.  I got into relationship after relationship, hitting the same wall when the situation got to a certain point, I would freeze, morphing into that cold, lonely place again.  I went to tons of support groups, read gazillions of books but nothing could take that Victim title away from me.  What would happen if I actually started living and loving life?  I'm not used to that!  Let's just stay in this dark place; even though I hated it, it was a familiar place to go -even though I thought my life basically sucked rocks, at least I knew the outcome.
Fast forward to my 48th birthday.  A day I decided it was time to have my life stop sucking.   It was.Time. I found this odd little video of Facebook of this gal that like this crazy bohemian cowgirl that was stinking Spot On with what she was yakking about.  She was full of unicorns, rainbows and the unadulterated truth that we were all knuckleheads, and we were worth living for!  I looked around for a hidden camera over my shoulder, as this was too bizarre to just randomly happen. Right?!

 I was sitting at my jewelery bench, my laptop in place of my soldering tools that hadn't been touched in years.  Over the last few years, the times I tried to sit at my familiar spot and create beauty and art like I did onceuponatime  was few and far between.  I made excuses and justifications better than a thief on trial.  This happened, that disappeared...always another reason to do everything But my artwork. It was a very neglected space over the last 8 years, when I sat repeatedly awaiting some jolt from above, some Di ine Intervention finding nothing but white noise and an itchy butt from sitting there waiting for response from the gods. Then It happened - I started to find Me again.  I found these hippie chicks, these Brave Girls actually said things , lots of things I could relate to.  Other women just like me felt Less Than and Stuck.  I wasn't alone anymore.  I'm sharing with likeminded women in acrossthe country, and together we're growing.  Together we're learning to add color to our black and white worlds.  I'm actually painting!  Creating!  Thinking about things other than medical this's and that's and actually using energy in different, more constructive ways.  Yippee!

I started to play with the notion of using mediums that I was unfamiliar with.  This was a very similar experience to feeling the emotions I wasn't familiar with.  Gratitude, Honor, Love - things I felt for other people, but it never dawned on me to actually apply them to myself.  I painted this picture to my left out of sheer pain.  I honestly was amazed the paints didn't run from the tears mixed in! During this little crazy time, I realized that these hidden traits were keeping me from my very own process of creation in the literal sense, and also figuratively.  For through this painting I realized that I had been hiding myself, my talents, my  title I held onto since childhood just naturally took hold of me as an adult.  I unknowingly grew into that undeserving Victim status as an adult,creating and re-creating a blob of mush. Now, the mush is starting to clear and I'm not only putting gesso over the darkness, I'm shining a new light of Happy.  The inspiration for the painting I did to the left, was from Botticelli, with the face cut out, symbolic of what I felt like; blank and raw.  The face on the left is the "good" side of me.  I painted her freehand, as it is someone that I was not too familiar with, but I have to admit., she turned out beautifully.  The new found Me that is bright, positive, skippy and playful.  The darker me isn't entirely awful, like a secretive ax murderer, just a sad, tired droopy drawer girl with no where to go and no one to play with. boo.
When I finished this exercise, the world truly became My Oyster.  I looked at the things I truly wanted and thought that they could finally be attainable.  The dark droopy, Debbie-Downer girl was a facade.  The real me is full of all things bright and lovely.  I help zillions of women so that I can help me find that force that won't take on that role anymore. I found Me.