Collage

adjusting the lens

This is the collage I made. It’s not great, but I don’t hate it, either.

Art has been spilling out of me like tea in an overturned cup.

Writing, on the other hand, has been difficult. Most of the essays I start (and abandon) deal with the rage and grief I feel, which isn’t cathartic the way I think it may be for others. Words are the language of thoughts, and it’s scary in there right now. It isn’t that I think those feelings aren’t appropriate, and acceptable, it’s finding the line between acknowledgement and wallowing. Which is tricky. Art comes from somewhere else. Somewhere underneath the words. It’s soothing and quiet, like an cold towel on your forehead when you have a fever.

I saw an art project online. Making a collage about your own history. Specifically, childhood.

Those of you who’ve read my essays may remember that my childhood was not something I want to relive. If reincarnation were a thing I’d be hopping mad. And full of dread. Under no circumstances would I want to do this again. My life is largely good now. My first 20 years? Miserable. No thank you. Those foundational years leave painful marks. No reward would be worth experiencing that kind of fear and powerlessness again.

So I saw the collage and thought: nope. Hard pass. Then—for some reason—I entertained the idea for two seconds. I thought: why do I always focus in the negative in my history?

Because it was bloody awful! Because it scarred me! Because it left wounds that I still struggle with.

And it did.

But. There was also good. There was. It’s a fact.

You know the way bad experiences are louder than good ones? They grab your attention. Put you in a death grip. Or maybe that’s just me. When I’m in the midst of a harmful environment, joy and comfort don’t come easily. I have to go out of my way to find them.

Like now, with news relentlessly spewing painful stories I feel powerless to stop. But when I close my laptop and go outside, I see clouds, lizards, chickens, trees. And I can breathe again.

I thought: what if I made a collage focusing on the bright spots that kept me afloat when I was young? A reminder of the beauty in the world as well as my own resilience?

Because I remember this, too:

I walked everywhere. Vast distances for a little girl. We were largely unsupervised. There was a neighborhood. Sidewalks. I walked from one town to the next and even the one after that. All by myself, and in silence. Sometimes I sang. Just like now, walking helped me purge anxiety. It’s as if the stress vibrating in my cells dropped into the earth through my feet, and the earth was strong enough, generous enough, to absorb it.

Mr Gossage’s horse. A white horse lived across the street from my grandparents’ house. She was gentle and I’d amble over to her corral and pet her velvety nose. I loved that horse.

We lived with my grandparents for 3 years. Their house was tucked in the woods. There were tall trees and salamanders, shiny and soft who squiggled though the mulchy leaves in a shallow well in their yard.

There was a neighbor I befriended who let me sit at her kitchen table and talk. Every time, she poured each of us a glass of iced tea. I don’t remember her name but I remember her kindness.

There was TV. Kwai Chang Caine walking the earth, with his serene compassion helping everyone who needed it.

The Incredible Hulk who had two sides—one, a thoughtful, measured scientist, the other an out-of-control creature—who also helped others, but at the end of each episode was always alone.

The Bionic Woman, Jaime Sommers, was the rare female superhero who was a funny, caring middle school teacher and, secretly, a kick-ass government agent.

There was the time a field trip was canceled and my high school art teacher took me downtown to visit art museums with her. Just the two of us. She walked fast and was surprised and delighted that I could keep up with her. I asked her what it was like to be so beautiful. (She was a former model.) She answered openly and honestly.

I babysat for the nicest family. Once a week, the parents had a date night. They had two children. An infant, Denise, who was always asleep in her crib by the time I got there. The son, Robbie, and I watched TV all night. His parents put great snacks for us in the fridge. Milkshakes. Cookies. Once, Robbie jumped up and hugged me because it was snowing and he was so happy.

I used my babysitting money to buy an inexpensive sketchbook. I sat on the floor at home, drawing, in my own little world.

A friend gave me a grocery bag full of paperback books and that summer, I read them all.

I got to know the local librarian and called to ask questions like: what colors are in a rainbow?

I used to ride my bike down the hill with my hands in the air.

When my parents divorced, my father moved into a condo that had a pool. He’d toss a quarter into the water and tell us (my 3 siblings and me) that whoever could retrieve it could have it. I was determined to do this. I still can’t swim, but I jumped into the water, held my breath and paddled my way to the bottom of the pool and grabbed that quarter. It felt triumphant.

Despite my surroundings, I was still me. There was a spark they could not extinguish.

I gave those memories space to bubble up.

But one detail leads to another, and much of the good is stickily attached to the bad. My mother ended the babysitting gig I loved because she decided the family was “weird.” She forbade me to go to the neighbor’s house because she decided it wasn’t normal that an adult would want to talk to a child. My father stopped taking us home on weekends.

Landmines planted every few feet.

I had to sift carefully, but there were happinesses there. I wouldn’t have survived otherwise.

Martha Beck talks about reframing stories. We choose the focus. We decide what it means.

So much was outside my control, but it’s clear that I looked for light wherever I could find it. I kept reaching.

I learned how to build a life raft.

And because you’ve made it this far, I’ll bet you do, too.