Can't, Won't and the Difference in Building Something That's Ready

I have a terrible habit of saying, "can't," when asked to do something that I "won't" do or be. I don't know if this happens to other people, but for me it is a little smoke and mirrors thing I picked up along the way and I've realized in the last year that it clearly has become a habit worth kicking. The fact is that owning "won'ts" is a leap for anyone trained in people pleasing. Saying that I won't be what someone else wants me to be means that I am willing to upset the apple cart just to be myself. It is nearly painful to even consider it, honestly, but that is what I must do.

Gestation, Oil Pastels on Black Archival Paper, 8" x 10",
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

What does this have to do with anything? It has something to do with just about everything I do from morning until I fall over in my tracks at night. Right now it is the eggshells I'm walking on with the notion of me as an artist. How to balance the incredible support that I receive for my development as an artist with my need to slide into professionalism slowly. I watch other new artists have shows and opening galleries and selling their work on-line, turning it into very wonderful merchandise while I am sloth-like creeping, sometimes mistaking my own hand as an evil predator that needs to be attacked, and I say, "Thank you, but I can't...because...(and then I make something dire up hoping it will go away)."

I say I can't do a gallery show yet. Really, I won't do it yet. The reason I won't is because I am still developing my art. I feel like I'm just cracking open the doors of perception. I haven't made more than a dozen pieces that I feel begin to express what I'm interested in, enough to continue drawing along those lines. A lot of the drawings I do now are my healing method, a gift to myself after several challenging years, a wandering into darkness, dreams and old stuff. A lot of the drawings I do now are to see if I can do it. It feels like selling this practice, self-absorbed work in a public show is a little bit blow hard of me. Worse than that, it is a fraction of me rather than my whole.

There are consequences when I say I can't do it. I delay on finding the bits and pieces I need to complete the dozen pieces I really like. Everything gets lumped into "can't" but if I start saying "won't" maybe I'll be able to retrieve some of the work from the can't zone after all? Because I choose this won't. I won't do a gallery opening right now and I won't be pushed into believing that this means that I'm blowing off the only opportunity I'll ever have to sell my work. I know myself, and I know that throughout my life I have seemed to be a surprise. I've lurked in the background and observed and worked things out myself and then, trumpets blaring, I come out from behind the curtain with a fully developed whatever it is. This is how I work. The big difference is that instead of saying I "can't" now, I'm going to try a different tact. Now I'm going to say, "Thank you for believing in me! I hold your support like this (and you would see me pantomiming holding a treasure near my face and then bringing it down) in my heart while I'm developing my skills and talent. When I'm ready, you'll be among the first to hear, but right now I won't be doing...that...with my art." And I hope that it is understood.

What am I building that is so important? I am building myself, that's what. I have gone through a near total destruction of everything I was for two decades. It has taken a divorce, two major surgeries, and a financial loss of "Job-like" proportions. I have amazing angels around me, my husband, my children, extended family and friends, you, who, like a chrysalis, have held the metaphorical goo that became me, while I located the things of me that remained. Just like a butterfly I have been rebuilding into something new.

Chrysalis, Oil Pastel on Archival Paper, 9" x 12",
2013 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Everyone knows that if we open a chrysalis before a butterfly fights its way out, then the butterfly will never fly, but the urge to help is always there. Trust me. Do not help a butterfly fight its way out of a chrysalis. No. Never. Just watch and your own heart will expand exponentially.

It is not that I can't fight my way out of my chrysalis. It is not that I won't EVER fight my way out of my chrysalis. It is that I'm not quite there yet, and I won't fight my way out of it until I'm ready. Maybe it will be tomorrow. Maybe it will be next year. I'll know though, when it is the perfect time.

When I say "I won't..." please view it as a matter of trust, not as a negative, or a never. It is going to work out fine in the long run. I know it will. I still have my digits, my mouth and eyes, and somehow out of this goo, I am growing wings. I have a good feeling about this.

Itchin' to Say Thank You

As I make a slow shift from recovering from serious medical issues back to the world, I’m itching to be sayin' that I know just what I’m going to do. It seems to be obvious to many other people what I should do, what I have a talent for and what my gifts are, but honestly there is not as much consistency in the views of others as you might expect.

For instance, just when I said I’m finished with screenwriting, of course, I get the first clear screenplay idea I’ve had in three years. Also, I had yet to fulfill one last promise to teach a screenwriting class to a film club of teenagers. Well, last night I taught the class and I remembered how much I love teaching this material. Seeing the lights switch on in their eyes as they began to comprehend the opportunities they have, should they choose this pursuit, was a true joy.  I also gave them the wake-up call to how they’ll have to hone their skills and habits for quite a while to make it in a very competitive industry. They didn’t want to leave, and they told me that I was their favorite speaker so far. The icing on the cake was that my daughter is part of the club and I didn’t embarrass her at all. For a mom not to embarrass her teenager is better than anything I imagine. She said I was cool! I could definitely do it again.

Meanwhile, I finally drew, for a commissioned portrait project, a sketch that I feel will lead me to a great portrait of a life-long friend. This is huge. I feel like I finally rounded a big ass bend in the path towards making art a career. I’m getting down with how a whole project has to be planned, contracted, and fulfilled. It is a shy sort of love affair...we’re taking it slowly...but I think there is really great potential.

C.G. Jung Laughs, Oil Pastel on Black Archival Paper
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Finally, I made it, after a month of social media campaigning, into the Final Round of the Daniel Smith 11th Annual Art Contest with my portrait of C.G. Jung. It is very exciting just to know how much support everyone gave me for this to happen. It means “you like me, you really like me!” as one of my favorite actresses once said, and that is a very humbling and profound feeling.  I’m now in a round with dozens of other artists that will be seen by professionals and judged worthy or not. It’s not an experience I take lightly and that may be just because it is my first art contest since maybe fourth grade. At any rate, I count myself lucky just to be in the race still. Thank you to everyone who helped is hardly enough gratitude to express.

Still, where am I headed? What is my goal? To be  honest, I also have my MRI appointment this week, and a meet up with my neurosurgeon next week. What I want more than anything is to be clear and mending ever more rapidly. I have a glimpse of regular life with regular commitments coming into the lens of my inner camera. I can’t drive yet, but I can imagine that I might be able to work out something to get out a little more. I can imagine socializing in real life a little bit more especially in order to share what I’ve learned and be helpful to others wanting to face their challenges with a snarky grin.

I want to finish this recovery period up and get out into the world and see what I can do. Can that be a goal? Is it that simple?

My Big Religion-Related Thought For the Year

Hamentaschen always takes me back to afternoons of my childhood. Hamantaschen being about Purim, and Purim being about our “lots” being cast by choices, their trajectory and our careful observance of the story unfolding around us. If we do not pay attention, there is a lot to lose. This is not something I knew about Purim as a child. I’m not sure I even knew that the Hamantaschen I loved had anything to do with being Jewish. Still, I do believe I was taught the essentials. 

If we’re lucky, we have someone in our life’s story who listened to us, told us what was, and watched us as we unfolded into the world. My person was my grandmother, Mamaw. Mamaw picked me up after school once a week and I went to my grandfather’s and her apartment for a sleepover. Yes, it was on a school night. I am fairly sure my parents were dating at first and that later became counseling and it didn’t work out as they’d planned. Anyway.

Esther Williams

On this school night there were traditions. They had an indoor pool, and Mamaw couldn’t swim but would take me to the pool in the winter months. I would swim with the old folks in their pool. Mamaw would toss coins in the pool and I would dive to get them. I would see how far I could swim holding my breath. I did back flips and forward flips and she sat on a lounger cheering me on and wringing her hands, because what if something happened? She told me I was like movie star Esther Williams, and I would smile doing the backstroke. She constantly told me how brave I was.

In autumn and spring, we went to the library or the park and she told me the history of the family; of the city,; of being Jewish; of the death of her daughter, Betsy, to MS; of my sloppy, slouchy, uneven-buttoned, too smart father; of her childhood and all of her losses along the way. The librarians knew her at two libraries in the city well enough to always have stacked reserves of books for her to pick up, and to call her, “Mrs. Morris,” upon seeing her. She read classics to me when the weather changed. She showed me how to look things up in the Dewey system, and in encyclopedias and dictionaries. She liked biographies, and funny books and drama. There were NOT video tapes at the library until the end of her life, but she knew about audio books because her daughter, Betsy, had lost her vision and listened to the Library of Congress audio books on a record player that became mine when she passed on. All of this to say that words and their power were of utmost importance in our relationship.

In the park, she pointed out edible mushrooms she gathered as a girl, and her absolute hatred and fear of squirrels. She explained how roses were cared for at high altitude. She pointed to where she drove backwards, and where she fell in love. She pointed out the birds who were coming and going. We would lay on the grass together and watch the clouds and find the stories to tell as they blew over us. We adventured into canyons of rocks (very small to me now) and hid from pirates, and had tea parties next to frozen lily ponds, eating Hamantaschen she had made for us, rich with prunes and just this side of sweet, and drinking tea or chocolate from a thermos. Observance of the world around us filled our hours.

So, you can see, I hope, why I always think of her when I write, especially because she always told me to write something I knew about. Therefore, it was always important to pay attention to my life. She far preferred honesty to a tall tale. She spoke to me as a human being from my earliest memories, not as a child who could not comprehend and needed a fairy tale. What a blessing! She was the only one who put the booklet with my earliest published poetry on her coffee table and pointed to it every time a friend visited, giggling because I’d taken her advice and written what I knew about - awkward manners and bike rides.

Lately, I come back to honesty more and more. Am I being honest with these words or am I telling a tall tale? That often forces me back to the point where I started to drift. I am, perhaps only now, learning how much I value this one piece of advice. She loved me enough to tell me to be honest. This is the most priceless writer’s pearl, really the life pearl, I have ever received. It leads me to polish the abrasion of lies of all sorts, white and worse, in hopes of becoming an honest pearl. It is uncomfortable sometimes, even painful, but it always ends up being a relief.

Queen Esther by Edwin Long

What does this have to do with Purim and me? Just to recap: Queen Esther begins her biblical adventure hiding away the truth of herself, that she is Jewish, from her husband, King of Persia, and the world that has made her queen. It is only when the threat of death hangs over her people, and particularly her beloved uncle, the one who believed in her, Mordechai, does she finally accept that she is who she is, and must reveal it to all. By offering this act of honesty, she saves her people and brings down Haman, the aspiring genocidal murderer. He only remains in history as a cookie shaped like his hat. It is a sweet, but not too sweet, reminder to pay attention and tell the truth. Esther is one of the few female stars of the Abrahamic faiths that remains unchallenged in her gift: coming forward with trust in honesty.

Now, my understanding is, and it is entirely degrees removed from experience, that adults celebrate Purim much like adults celebrate Mardi Gras, or Carnevale. That the intention is a release of sorts. Sweet like Valentine's Day trying to get to the truth of love and sentimentality, originally a month long celebration for the Goddess Februtis, the cleanser, who had come into work out a lover's war between twins, Romulus and Remus with an all out erotic ball. We all need a moment in the year when we don't atone, but rather let off steam and stop trying to cover up our crazy. Mamaw would have loved this interpretation and giggled about it, retelling it and making people between us uncomfortable and embarrassed.

.In this month, at this time of the year we celebrate with the truth of who we have become by our decisions, by the attention we paid along the way, and our willingness to share what we discover. This is our freedom moment, a chance to be a pearl, a star.

I Was Raped

                I was raped on a high school field trip. I was not drunk or drugged. I simply chose the wrong door. I went into a room to chaperon a friend and her boyfriend, and flirt and spend time with some guys I thought I knew and liked. As soon as the door opened my heart sank and I wanted to run. It was dark and they’d rearranged the beds. They grabbed me by the hands and immediately started undressing me and no matter how I tried to reason with them, they insisted that I wanted it and would enjoy it. I don’t know how long it lasted but I remember nearly every moment of it. It was my body being played with like a toy and they knew all the buttons to push. My poor friend was also being pushed beyond her limits by her boyfriend and there was nothing I could do to help her. I was pinned down and raped as I cried, “No!”  I whispered into his ear, “You are raping me.” He laughed.

                Not a day goes by in my life that it doesn’t haunt me.  Decades have passed. Therapy sessions spent.  I’m still working on forgiveness, working on taking care of my tender self that was stolen that day.  I’ll never know what possessed me to knock on that door. I’ll never be able to trust myself completely. It is what it is.

                This happened a few years before the idea of “date rape” was made into television specials. So, I didn’t know I had an outlet. The teachers preferred the boys, and it was clear would not accept my experience as real.  I began to realize that there were lies all around me about my value. There was no one to talk to about it when I was afraid I was pregnant.  The rest of my senior year is a blur. I didn’t know what the rumors were. My story changed a half dozen times depending on how I felt that day.  I put on weight and hid away as much as a school leader could. 

Wading, Oil Pastels on Gray Paper, 8"x 10"
2013 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

                The boys were not bad or evil boys. They were creeps and were raised to be that way by a society that congratulates them for this kind of conquering. They’ve gone on to create good stable lives for themselves, and may even have the opportunity to make a difference. But, they really never got it. They never got what horrors they’d done to my mind, to my self-confidence, to my ability to make choices with anything other than impulsiveness because for me every door has the potential of disaster no matter how much I like whatever is behind it. How can I trust myself? How can I knock, knowing that who and whatever answers might wound me for life?

                I encourage you to watch this video and give it some thought….

The Ones I Like...

I'm a very prolific artist, if nothing else, but since I'm working with the idea of patience, it dawned on me that I might like to admit that of all the work I did in 2012, I really only truly like a couple handfuls of the pieces, and I'm not sure why or how they happened. I feel like in 2013 I'd like to settle down a little bit into what I like, and make more of it, so I'm sharing the standard with as much courage as I can muster. I don't expect anyone else to share my opinion at all, to be honest. I only would like to aim for what I want to aim for and find a way to harness my prolific skills towards something that matters to me. So, in no order at all, here are the ones I like and will start aiming for:

Cabeceo, Oil Pastels on Black Paper, 24" x 28" ,
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnons

Opens the Door, Oil Pastels on Archival Paper, 11" x 14",
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Lauren, 8 1/2" x 11" Oil Pastel sketch,
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Frequency, Oil Pastel sketch,
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Moonlight, Oil Pastel Sketch, 7" x 4",
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Ups and Downs, Oil Pastels on Archival Paper, 11" x 14"
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Cattle, Oil Pastels on Black Paper, 8" x 10"
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

'Round, Oil Pastel Sketch, 8 1/2" x 11"
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Hanged One, Oil Pastel on Black Paper, 8" x 10",
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

What if, Oil Pastel Sketch, 8" x 10"
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson


An odd little collection to consider.

Such a Little Thing

Oh my, the reliance we have on our brains! One moment I was kissing my husband, "Hello!" and the next I was being carried down to a flashing ambulance. I see flashes of things happening in between, but no real sense of the timely quality of those moments. My brain was working ever so hard to make sense of things that cannot be made sense of - a seizure of electric current that has been captured by my system and blown to epic proportions inside my sweet little brain all because I have no patience. I have no patience, I know it. I know it and I want it and I have no idea how to gain it except via little calamities like a brain seizure.

"I have never been a patient person..."

Here are the waning days of an all too memorable year when I let them saw open my skull and cleanse the space between my ears. Recovery from such a thing is not so terrible. One cannot feel the brain sewing itself back together again, and, as the thinking continues, one can easily be fooled the work is done if one is not honed with patience. If one is not inclined to relax and let go of control even a bit to the benefits of anti-convulsive medications, then it could look like a leap of courage to go forth drug-free. It appears that it is just impatience and resistance in a new form. Without the medications I had a full brain seizure, lost minutes, spent hours regaining them in the ER at Avista Hospital in Louisville, CO. (The staff gets A+ for their sense of humor and thoroughness in getting the veins poked and the CAT scans done.)

I don't like the anti-seizure medications because they upset my tummy. So to offset that side effect, I take other medications. They also make me itch. So I take even more medications just to take this sort of reasonable drug that keeps me from having explosions going off in my head. It all makes me tired, and I don't like that either. I really must nap every day. Imagine that. Napping. Like a brain that has been invaded with gamma rays needs rest. Huh.

Never have I been in such a hurry to be alive as I have in 2012, and it is slow-going instead. Now, I've been forbidden to drive again (and anyone in the Denver Metro area should be counting that as a blessing really), and so I can't go any place on my own. I am a wanderer by nature and, believe me, I have covered the tracks around here with my walking. There is really no place new to go by foot. My kids will not be able to stay with me on school nights, until this driving rule changes, because there is no one to get them to their morning destinations. Everything seems to be upside down to where I would prefer it to be thanks to this impatient habit of mine to go directly for what I want against the wisdom of others. I can see now that I'm going to have to take a much more sinuous route towards my goals of independence.

In 2013 I'm going to work on patience. That's the umbrella goal under which all other aims shall be taken. Patience will help me to appreciate things that I think I appreciate, but obviously throw to the wind when I put down patience in favor of boldness. How lucky am I that my husband was home to catch me when I fell over convulsing without conscience? How lucky am I that my daughter walked me to the front of the apartment letting me argue about where we were, and LAUGHED with me about it later? How lucky am I that my wasband will take the children during the school week until I can drive again?  How lucky am I that my dog is not a needy dog and put up with scraps until I could pull myself together to get some food prepared? The list goes on and on. Patience feeds my good fortune with this kind of gratitude when bravado tried to steal it away forever.

Lio in 2012, Oil Pastels on Encausticbord, 11"x 14"
 2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Bea in 2012, Oil Pastels on Encausticbord, 11" x 14"
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

With patience in 2013, I will rest. I will focus on things I rarely have given time - like just my body and mind and soul. My accomplishments from patience will be hidden like the warp of a textile without which the cloth would not exist. With patience I will seek the basis of me once more that, perhaps in a year, I will be ready to once again dismiss the medications that keep me stable because I will have given the invisible time to heal. I write all of this with blushing demure because I know it is all against my nature. I may as well be training for some amazing feat, but no, not at all. I will be training for patience. Patience. Patience.

Free

Mid-day, as the sun is high above,

When things should be obvious,

I am ever and always standing in a fog

On the narrowest of bridges, less than

The width of my foot and over an expanding

Canyon I am sure  there, where I’ve come from,

There are triumphant steps made certainly,

But also vast numbers of stumbles saved by the hooks

I’ve accepted in my heart when seemingly

No other way remained for standing. See how

They hold me up on this careful crossing? Later

I realized how slowly I have to move to

Keep the pain

Minimized as the illusion of safety nets

Reach up to whip me into line

On the tight, tight rope

While I dream of emancipation on the

Other side of this abyss even as Freedom

Emerges from the fog on a banner of promise

Suspended somehow, and leading me to

Believe that hope lies

Not on the other end of this bridge

But in the grace of letting

Hooks rip out as I fall into me.

2012 © Amanda Morris Johnson