And now we can Breathe...

P. had a massive second stroke, but miraculously there appears to be little, if any cognitive damage. And his personality is there. He can speak, albeit with difficulty, since he has no feeling in the entire left side of his body, including the left side of his tongue!

But his sister was here again and she was relieved beyond words to see that her brother was there behind the swelling and the frustration. In fact, with no alcohol there, he was more himself than he's been.

I will not dwell there, because I realize that, even without last names, it could be a bit too much that I am revealing in here. I may have to go back and change some first names. Folks who know me, who know her? They may not know other things. The virtual world. So if you notice my moving to initials in here, understand why I've done that. I can talk about myself, but perhaps not about others.

All of this has brought August galloping into the fore and I have absolutely no shame in admitting that this is harder this year than others. I have not yet seen him... I know what the swelling from liver damage looks like. And he is in the same intensive care unit my brother was in, so I am not sure how well I will cope. I will look at that tomorrow.

Thank you Erika and Kookie (YES, I know that's not your name, but I feel bratty) for checking in. It may not be until next week that I find my creative writing voice. I'm working on a piece for Stanford and that's not coming easily.

I DID, however start and finish a painting. I have no camera, so I can't put a picture in here. I simply call it "Four Seasons, New England." It began as a mistake. For some reason, I just like that thought. I was painting some handmade paper that has many holes in it, in preparation for collaging onto a New Mexico painting I'm working on. To do this, I'd put that paper onto some heavy weight tissue paper. When I lifted the handmade paper, the backing was beautiful to my eye. It looked like a deep New England woods--tertiary, overgrown, lush, and dark. With hints of Fall and spring in there.

Suddenly and image sprang to mind of bare trunks against snow. A poem I once began about being a New Englander, a child of granite and cold water, but lush, warm summers. Passion below the surface. I thought of a painting of ALL the seasons in a jumble together, like my soul.

I took a long skinny paper and then made another tissue. I painted Autumn forest onto the holey paper and there, beneath it was revealed deep summer into full autumn, with touches of spring. And I figured out how to lay them on my large layers, and I overlay pure white folded and torn tissues and hints of winter emerged. I have not done something like this before, and I found an artistic voice revealed.

I have not had the courage to try my abstraction. The things that inspire me to create use tissue, water colors and acrylics, but I've felt that anything I did would be hollow copying. I was wrong. I do not know how "good" the painting is. I know only that while I did it I grew calm. I felt peace. I felt joy.

... I could breathe as I have not in two weeks.

So it seems likely that it's "goodness" is wholly irrelevant. That's all for now.