Robert Rauschenberg

I have been thinking about my own existence with greater frequency over the last few weeks. Thinking about those who have already gone and those left to go; I obviously included in the latter have the privilege of reflection. And then today I read that Robert Rauschenberg died. Rauschenberg is an artist I fell in love with years ago, more so his paintings than his sculpture. I remember when I first saw a Rauschenberg painting, I had gone to the East gallery to visit ‘Lavender Fields’, only this time I wondered further. My heart drops when I connect with a work of art, like the feeling one gets on the first hill of a roller coaster. This was the feeling I got that day as I stood in front of his work, asking myself, “Who is this man, and how does he know how I see the world?”.

I have found myself in foreign territory. As if I floated to its shore off some far sea. The land is harsh and unforgiving, the skies stay dark at day. The air is thick and breaths are shallow, the sand is damp and cold underfoot. I do not see the sun. I know its presence hangs above, yet visible it is not.

A metaphor for where I am, or perhaps for where I am going. I feel alone. As if I’ve lost my compass and the tour director has gone home for the day.

Distance
in feet or inches
in depth of space
or separation of time
distance to be counted
or to be counted upon
distance in the physical
between you and I
steps to be taken
distance to be reached
distance to be spoken

The deeper the wound the slower to heal, or so it goes something like this. But some wounds heal whilst keeping the injury deep inside. Like a stabbing may leave a knife tip behind, wounds may leave behind grief or pain, words spoken and words unspoken.

I wonder now, who I’ve wounded, what wounds have healed, what wounds have I inflicted leaving something behind?

I wonder of my own wounds, have I enough thread and needle to close them once and for all?

I hate mother’s day. I have fond memories of waking up early with dad to make mom breakfast in bed. Every year a handmade card, until I took a job at a local florist shop and made my mother a wrist corsage each year, seven tiny purple roses, one for each child.

Mother’s day is a grief that can’t be spoken, it’s a pain goes on and on.

These are not entirely my words, some credit should go to Victor Hugo; yet when I feel the grief of infertility I hear his words… a grief that can’t be spoken… how very true. I am not allowed to dislike pregnant women. I am not allowed to show disappointment when my sister, who marries in January, conceives in April. A healthy young woman, once willing to carry my child, now having children of her own, spending her days casually as I struggle to get up in the morning and face the days work that lie ahead.

My sisters have formed a kinship, my childlessness excludes me from this, and this makes me so very sad (difficult to type through tears). I have lost my sisters to motherhood, I have lost my heart to grief, I have lost my soul as it were only a lie, I have lost my hope with each breath took. I have lost my will with each new disappointment.

I have lost.

I found a house. An 1897 colonial. Original architecture around the windows is still intact and original wood floors remain in several of the rooms. Sadly, the bathroom and kitchen have been gutted and 'modernized'. The home has one-third of the square footage of my current home, I would need to give up 75% of my possessions and let go of my own personal space. However, on the upside, the home is 130K less than my current home. I'm excited, yet trying not to become overly excited at the prospect in the event it does not work out. I have conflicting emotions. The stress and headache of moving again, the time and energy expended in packing and purging. What to keep? What not to keep? So many thoughts.

I went to bed at 4am, back up at 9. I have been on my feet for more that fourteen hours, I thought my legs might give out on me. I am physically exhausted,but it is a good tired. The kind of tired that comes from a hard days work in which you see the end product - for my efforts and those of family and friends who came to help, our reward, laughter and smiles. At one point during the evening Perrie said, "I am loved". Yes she is.