A Bit of Paint, a Bit of Rest

playing fast + free in the art journal

a painting in progress

A Love Letter From the King to His Daughters -- prints for sale

It's been a bit of a hodge-podge week in the art studio (a.k.a. a table tucked into the corner of our basement).  I've done a bit of work here and there, and also a good amount of resting.  Sometimes that resting looked like snuggling in an armchair under a warm blanket (it's been a bit chilly!), watching art videos and reading for a handful of minutes.  At other times the resting has looked like pressing my heart and hands into paint and bleeding color out over the pages of my art journal.  Today, that resting will look like getting a massage (yummm can't wait!). 

Also, I and some other amazing creative women are working hard to birth an exciting new VERY BIG THING (that's how it's formatted in my brain -- all caps! extra exclamation points are also often necessary).  I'll be announcing it very soon here (next week!!!) (see what I mean about the exclamation points?), but for now here's another little teaser . . . 

I can't wait to fill you in!!

What sort of creative things have you been up to lately?  And when you rest, what does that look like for you?

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30 Things I'd Like You to Know

 

I am not particularly wise or intelligent or good.  But I have lived, thirty years of wounds and beauty.  Here are some things that I have learned along the way, things that I think every person should hear at least once in this quick flicker of life.  Take what you need and leave the rest.

1. You are not too much.
2. It’s okay to hurt, and to be honest about that hurt.
3. Tell your story.  Please, tell it.  It is valuable and profound.  There is something sacred about the sharing of stories, both for the one telling the story and the one receiving it.
4. There is beauty in pain.  It doesn’t take away the pain, but it’s something.  Look for it, the next time you’re there.
5. You are never too old to ___________.
6. Housecleaning can wait.  It’s better to have a full sink because of a full life than the empty versions of both.
7. You are necessary.  You are valuable.  You are a gift to this world. . . . 

Today (okay, on Friday, but I didn't get a chance to make a post for it then) I'm writing over at Sarah McCarten's blog!

Click here to read the rest of this article. 

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On Silence, Fear, and Saying My Daughter's Name

Yesterday, I went to a support group.  One that I helped create, for women affected by the death of a baby before, during, and after birth.

I have to confess -- I was so nervous.  Nervous that I would be a disappointment, a let down.  Nervous that I would not find the courage or space to speak.  Nervous that I would not be liked, that I would find myself an outsider in this tender place where belonging feels essential.

Of course, I needn't have worried.  As one of the other founders pointed out, there is something about babyloss that turns strangers into sisters.  Sitting yesterday with those kindred women, sharing and receiving our stories -- it felt like coming home. 

But something struck me, as I listened.  I had not yet spoken, and could feel a familiar tension building in me.  Would I speak?  Would I tell the painful and ongoing story of Eve's death and my missing of her without editing myself? 

I realized as I sat and my heart cupped its hands to catch the words and tears that fell from each woman's soul -- I don't speak of my daughter, my sweet Eve who lived but never breathed.

I don't speak of my one and only daughter who lived and died and broke my soul open and changed my life.  

I write of her, and of my grief, but to say her name with my real voice in the physical world?  I seem incapable of speaking her name with a voice that does not tremble.

And the truth of that breaks my own heart. 

Why is it that when I try to speak of her, the words feel thick, as if my tongue moves through mud?  Why can I not say her name clear and strong with the courage that her death forced me to learn?

I realize that I am silencing myself not only here on the blog, but in life.

And I realize further -- I have always, always done this.

Because in my family, individual opinion and truth were not tolerated.  To speak your mind was to be punished, your soul crushed.  Because in my growing-up schools (and I am not alone in this, I'm sure), to be different was to mark yourself a pariah. 

So I learned to silence myself.  Because to be silent and not-punished, not-pariahed, was easier than speaking my mind and bringing the rage of those who should have known better down on my body.

And I never unlearned this, not when I left the unsafety of my hometown for college, and then grad school, where opinion was encouraged.  I never learned how to know my own thoughts, and how to express them.

Until this blog.  Until I discovered art.  Until my daughter died.

I have come a long way.  I realized this in church yesterday, breastfeeding my son as I listened to the preaching and the singing.  I realized that ten years ago I did not know how to feel, how to think for myself.  And writing like this, so raw and real?  It would not have been possible then.

God has set me down into so much freedom.

Freedom that I still tremble to use.

Why do I not say Eve's name?  Why do I hold back when strangers ask if my son is our first child, or when friends ask if I can see her in him?

For that matter, why do I not knot my hair up into the dreadlocks that my soul is crying for, symbols of the freedom and feminism that God is teaching me?  Why do I not ink my daughter's memory into my skin in the form of a flock of tiny birds winging their way across my shoulder?  Why did it take me so long to start whispering my dream of a local babyloss support group into being?

Why indeed.

Let me tell you something that I know to be true, friends, even though I do not live it as bravely as I would like -- it is so, so important for you to tell your messy, true, sacred story.  For me to tell mine.  Because our culture, it does not value the mess.  It tries to shut the uncomfortable away.  To paint life all roses.

But you and I both know that there's no such thing as a rosebush without thorns.

And so the world needs our stories, because there are not many willing to tell the truth that sometimes life is horribly painful and ugly.  Who are willing to say that it's okay to limp and stumble and fall and get up and fall again.  Because there are hurting people who need to know that it's okay to have dirt on your knees more days than not.  Because there are people who feel all alone in their tears and need to know that they're not the only ones who have cried, who cry still. 

So tell your story.  Please, tell it.

And as for me . . . I will speak my story, too.  Not only here, but with breath and sound.  I will say my daughter's name where I have been lying, even if my voice trembles.  Because there are people who need to know that it's okay to speak of the dead, to speak of hurt and of impossible hope and healing.  And I am the first of those.

When I speak, I speak to my own parched soul, cracked and sunburned from an overabundance of silence. 

I will tell the truth, and all of it.

Will you?  Why, or why not?

"In a time of universal deceit - telling the truth is a revolutionary act."

~ George Orwell

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When a Writer is Lost For Words

I don't know what to say.

Your over-the-top, grace-full, raining-down-love response to last week's post has left me speechless.

What to say when you bare your not-enough-ness, words raw and strained, and the ones who read those words cup them gently close as with a broken winged bird and whisper love?

And so I will say the only thing I can, which of course cannot convey the way tears of gratitude coursed down my face as I read your notes of encouragement and "me, too" and offers to come and clean our grimy house (!!!) --

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

I said to a fellow grief blogger just a little while ago that writing here has saved my life twice over -- first with my eating disorder, and then with the continuing grief over Eve's death.  But that's not quite accurate.  Because really, blogging saves my life every time I sit down before the blank page and spill my innards out.  Every time I speak my truth, no matter its heft, my heart grows stronger and my steps straighter and my faith deeper.

And a lot of that is because of you, because of this community of friends who lift up and lift up and lift up when my spirit has gone weak.

Thank you for not turning away.  Thank you for entering in.

I cannot say it enough.  Your embracing of my words, my story, my life unfurling in this small corner of the world . . . it means everything.

Thank you.

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I'm honored to be participating in Sarah McCarten's 30 Things project today.  Follow me over to read the 30 things I'd like you to know . . .

In the Art Studio: Big Things are Happening . . .

Big things are happening in the art studio (where "art studio" means my art table shoved into a corner of our basement) . . .

I can't wait to share more with you.  Details are coming June 1(ish)!

linking up with: 

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When Grief's Legacy is Fear

 Exactly one year and six months ago (yesterday), my husband and I said hello and then goodbye to our daughter, Eve.  When the doctor told us that she’d died inside of me, I didn’t see how I was going to survive her birth, much less the days and weeks and months of life-without-her that lay ahead.

In fact, I hoped that I wouldn’t survive.

In the day’s wait that lay between me and the induction that would bring Eve’s body into this world, whenever my benumbed mind managed to grasp at any shred of hope, it was that I would not survive to face her birth, her dead body, and whatever sort of life we could manage to patchwork together in the wake of such devastation.

I wanted to die.  And continued to want to die for some time thereafter.

But I didn’t.  Instead, I lived . . .

Today I am writing over at Still Standing Magazine!

Click here to read the rest of this article.

In Which I Stop Silencing Myself and Tell You the Truth

I don't know how to write this.  It's been too long since I've leaked crimson soul into the world through these words, and I've forgotten how.

Or maybe I am just afraid.

So I take a deep breath and start spilling.  I'll try not to pause, because that's when the fear slips in and the truth gets buried.

Because the truth is -- I've lost my voice.  Not my physical voice, but the one that matters far more.  I've been silenced.

Or really, I've silenced myself.

I don't know when I started editing myself.  I think maybe it was when my son was born.  I think maybe I stopped telling the truth -- the whole of it, anyway -- out of fear of judgement.

Because the amazing support and love I found in the online community of grievers after Eve died has been amazing.  But things can go wrong fast online, without the benefit of inflection and facial expression to fully convey the meaning of words.  And I was afraid to offend those who had shown me so much support by saying that life with a newborn is hard.

I was afraid that people would think that I was ungrateful, that I did not count every single breath of his a gift.  I was afraid that those who are still waiting for their rainbow babies and those who are still waiting for a baby, period, would look hard at me and judge that I had too fast forgotten what it feels like to have empty arms when you so long for them to be filled.

I will never forget that emptiness.  Never.  Sometimes, when the grief feels too heavy, I wish I could.

But even though I know the nauseating betrayal of having your baby who you were supposed to be able to dress in purple tutus and finger her ringlet hair instead die your very own body -- that does not mean I do not struggle.

There, I said it -- I have struggled since my son was born.  I struggle still.

Did you know that he was hospitalized at six days old because his weight was dwindling away too fast and he couldn't stay awake to eat, and when the PICU doctor slipped a needle between his vertebrae to test for meningitis he did not cry or flinch or blink even a little?  I did not tell you because I was afraid of what you might think, how you might judge.

I did not tell you that when my sn was a few months old, a dog launched itself over its fence and raced toward us as we neared the end of a walk with him in the stroller.  The dog did not greet me, but instead silently fell in step behind me and followed, menacingly, until it had deemed we left its territory.  Since then, I have hardly dared to go out for walks again, and only do armed with pepper spray, and each venture out is an exercise in managing terror.

I did not tell you that I am feeling overwhelmed.  My son hardly sleeps these days, and so I sleep even less.  My breastmilk supply is tenuous.  I have overcommitted myself in a variety of ways.  Our house is no longer beautifully messy but is quickly descending into chaos.  My husband suffers from chronic pain and so while he does his best to give me self-care time, the reality is that he is unable to offer as much as he would like. 

I did not tell you that I have not been taking good care of my emotional and mental health.  I did not tell you that I succumb to the pressure of a family member who wrote to me that I should "get over it," that I should "move on."  I started to believe this lie myself, and stopped writing about my daughter, my grief.  And because writing (and art) is self-care, this has led to a rise in disordered eating behavior and depression.

I did not tell you that it's been hard to breathe, literally.  That it's been hard since December, and has gotten worse.  Yesterday instead of enjoying the massage I had scheduled, I spent the morning at the hospital instead having my heart watched and my chest x-rayed.  I learned that I seem to have a very healthy heart, and that it's anxiety that is snagging at my breath.

I did not tell you that I haven't called my therapist yet for help with the anxiety, that I'm feeling stubborn.  I don't want anxiety.  My mother was constricted by it for decades, and I don't want that for me, for my family.  So naturally I avoid seeking help (don't worry, I did finally ring my therapist up yesterday). 

I did not tell you that May has been hard (again).  There are so many reminders this month -- regular and Bereaved Mother's Days, the first anniversary of Still Standing Magazine opening, the second unbirthday that Eve is not here to celebrate (she would have been one and a half this Monday), the third anniversary of discovering I was pregnant with her.

I did not tell you that I find it hard to speak at all.  I am something of an introvert and stay on the quiet side when out and about, but this is different.  I cannot speak when I am at church or at the breastfeeding group or our women's Bible study, because I am afraid that if I open my mouth all the tears I have been storing up will pour out and drown us all. 

I did not tell you that my faith has been rocked to the core by all this struggle.  I have lost sight of who I am, and of who God is.  I feel like a sail torn loose from its moorings during a windstorm, and I don't know what kind of torn up I will be before I can find a resting place.

I did not tell you these things because I was afraid.  Afraid that someone would be offended, that someone would think that because life has been challenging or sleepless or scary I don't appreciate the immeasurable gift of my son breathing in my arms.

I'm sorry that I trusted you so little, friends.  For not giving you the benefit of the doubt you have more than earned.  You who have shown me so much grace.

I did not know how to write this, but I wrote it anyway, sloppy and unsure and wholly cathartic.   And now I do not know how to end this mess of hard truth.

So I will say thank you.  Thank you for the grace, thank you for entering this space with me where I dare (when I'm not silencing myself) to unveil the ugliness of this life's pain, where I dare to hope that the telling of my ungainly tale can transform it to an unlikely creature of beauty.

I will not let my voice be silenced again.  To speak is to heal and to stifle truth is to swallow down poison.

I hope I do not need to learn this lesson more than once.

(And also -- can you pray for me, please?  I know many of you do, without my asking even, and I am so very grateful for it.  So may I call upon you warriors who have more faith than I do at the moment to pray for healing, for free breathing, and for whatever thing it is that I need and don't know?  Thank you, friends.  Thank you.)

Taking a Break From Memorial Drawings

If you follow me on Facebook, you may have seen the new Not Forgotten memorial drawings for babies gone too soon that I've posted as I finish them.  It has been a humbling and vulnerable and beautiful experience to create this sweet imaginings that ease babylost mamas' hearts just a little.  Thank you to everyone who has allowed me to draw your sweet child.

But . . . I need to take a break from the drawings, at least for a little while.  First of all, because of time -- I just don't have any.  I have guest posts and Still Standing articles that need writing, other artwork that's calling my name, and a Very Big Project (which I'll be announcing soon) that are using up the scant free time I have outside of mama-ing.  I am struggling to meet my Not Forgotten deadline, and that's not okay.

More than that, though, I am feeling a bit used up.  I am not able to pour the amount of energy and love into these drawings that the babies that they represent (and their parents) deserve.  This is a sacred project, and if there's only stress than something's not working right.  It's time to rest.

So I am stepping away from them, for the time being at least.  I may do some more here and there, but they will be free and won't come with a heavy-feeling deadline.

I will, however, be continuing on with my mixed media artwork.  Art is self-care for me, so that won't be going away any time soon.  I just won't be doing any custom work or commissioned pieces.  

To the mamas who allowed me to draw your sweet baby (or babies) -- thank you.  Thank you.  From the bottom of my heart, thank you.  It has truly been an honor.

If you'd like me to let you know when memorial drawings are available once again, sign up for my newsletter (here or below).  You will receive special writing by me that appears nowhere else, art updates, special coupons and freebies, and never any spam.

Sign up for the Beauty From Ashes newsletter! 

Mother's Day, Again

It's nearly Mother's Day again.

I had planned to write a militant and angst-ridden post about how I was boycotting Mother's Day.  About how it's hard for those of us who have had to pass our child into death's arms, and that it's still hard even if we are blessed with living children.

I was going to rant about how Hallmark hijacked what was meant as a day of healing and peace for mothers whose soldier sons were victims of war.  About how it's unfair that this saccharine and commercially-driven day tries to force us to experience a belly full of warm fuzzies, and guilts us if we don't.  If we can't.  

But I am tired.

And while all of those things are still true for me, I'm not sure I have the energy to hoist a banner against Mother's Day and charge into the fray.

I feel deeply the cutting pain of questioned motherhood that too many women must endure.  Anything that pours salt into the already raw wound of babyloss or infertility or failed adoption makes me intensely angry.  It makes me want to do battle on the behalf of these fragile women nursing their too-invisible wounds. 

But sometimes . . . sometimes I just don't have fight enough in me.

Sometimes I just want to rest on each day's myriad of sweet gifts and just be here now.  With my amazing husband and sweet son, breathing deep and soaking in every. single. moment.

So I will.  So I am.

And although I'm not sure I will be raising my militant flag this year, I would like to say offer these few words to those whose heartache throbs a little deeper this time of the year --

Mother's Day hurts when your mother has hurt you.

Mother's Day hurts when your own motherhood hurts you.

Mother's Day hurts when your mother is missing.

Mother's Day hurts when your child is missing. 

If Mother's Day hurts you, please know: it is okay that it hurts.  It does not mean that you are broken, only that you are alive and healing from a deep wound.  You are not alone. 

May your weekend be surprisingly peaceful and joyous, my friends.  You are precious and beautiful and so very valuable.  And do remember -- you are a mother if your heart says you are, no matter how many children you have to clasp close this year.

Thank You (Yes, You): A Love Letter

There are words that have been on my heart.  That I have been wanting to share with you.  Words that I don't quite know how to frame, so I will just dive in and let the breathe and be and be what they will.

Thank you.  Thank you (yes, you). 

Thank you for your love, for your caring.  For coming to this space and reading my story and letting it mingle in with yours.  We are painting a masterpiece with our lives, you and I and all of us.

Thank you for not turning away when things get uncomfortable or ugly or awkward or strange.

Thank you for letting me be me. 

Thank you for celebrating with me, and for mourning with me.  Thank you for recognizing how the two can coexist in the same moment.

Thank you for reaching out with words or a little token or the unspeakably profound gift of your listening heart when I have desperately needed to be reminded that there is goodness and hope in this world, enough to overcome the darkness. 

Thank you for entertaining my dreams, and my doubts.

Thank you for your grace, for letting me be flawed and ugly and wholly sinful at times.  Thank you for showing me the love of God. 

Thank you for not shying away from the hard questions and hard truths.

Thank you for asking, "How are you?" -- and meaning it.

Thank you for encouraging me as I draw and paint and fumble at the canvas, for helping me to press on at my art table when fear or perfectionism gather in.

Thank you for giving my art a home, for supporting my heart and my family in this sacred way.

Thank you for loving me, friends, even though I am awkward and emotionally gangly and always feel a little tongue-tied.   Thank you for coffee dates and laughter and walks and truth-telling.

Thank you for community formed in this unlikely online space.  Thank you for Facebook and Skype and Instagram and Twitter turned into holy places of God's healing.  

Thank you for sharing your story with me, and with others.  It is powerful and healing.  Don't ever stop telling it.

Thank you for still asking, one and a half years later this month, about Eve, about what it's like to have one child here and one not.  Thank you for not letting fear or discomfort stop you from saying her name, as I too often do.

Thank you for giving me space to speak, and space to be silent. 

Thank you for the many things I am forgetting to thank you for.  Thank you and thank you and thank you.

You are a gift.

International Bereaved Mother's Day 2013

Apparently it is May.  How did that happen?!  That means that Mother's Day is right around the corner, making this Sunday, May 5, International Bereaved Mother's Day.  Last year I wrote one of my site's most popular posts about what to say to a bereaved mama on what can be the most painful holiday of the year for her.  This year I'd like to share that post again.  And if you're looking for a way to commemorate International Bereaved Mother's Day, why not join me and the rest of the Still Standing community and tell us how you're still standing after babyloss or infertility?

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Yesterday, after posting about International Bereaved Mother's Day on Facebook, a friend came back with a really excellent question.

She asked, "I'm just wondering what to SAY to a Bereaved Mother on her day?  Happy Mother's Day clearly doesn't apply. Do I say I'm sorry or I'm thinking about you? Can I ask how she's feeling? Does she want to talk about it?"

Great questions, right?  They really made me think.

Then I realized that there are probably a lot of friends and family of bereaved parents out there wondering the same thing.  And so this blog post was born.

Obviously I cannot speak for all bereaved mothers and how they would like to be approached on difficult days like Mother's Day.  But given my daughter's stillbirth and the fact that I have come to know many women in the babyloss community, I like to think that my insight on this matter is fairly keen.  So here are my do's and don't's on how to relate to your bereaved friend on Mother's Day or International Bereaved Mother's Day.

DO:

• Recognize that your friend is a mother.  Just because her child is dead doesn't make her any less of a mother, nor does it erase her child's life.  Recognition of that is life-giving.
• Acknowledge that Mother's Day is probably a strange or difficult day for her.  It is an especially upsetting day if she has no living children.
• Say her child's name.  Every bereaved mother wants you to talk about her child.  Remembering her child in a loving and honoring way is an immense gift.  You cannot hurt a bereaved mother by bringing up her child in this manner.  It's not like she has forgotten her child.  Don't be afraid of reopening a wound, because the wound left by her child's death will never close.
• Say, "I'm so sorry that your child isn't here with you today."  When in doubt of what to say to a bereaved mother, this always works.  It doesn't dismiss her pain or trivialize the loss, and it does give her and her grief that all-important recognition.
• Give her a big hug, and don't be alarmed if she cries.  Personally, I love hugs from my loved ones, especially when I'm hurting.  But often hugs can trigger tears.  Don't be afraid of those tears, though.  It is a gift to be a able to mourn your child with your loved ones.  
• Give her a card or a gift if you feel so inclined.  That would be very honoring of her motherhood and her child's life -- both of which are priceless gifts to the bereaved mother.
• Respect that she might not want to go out on Mother's Day. Being out and about on Mother's Day, seeing other mothers celebrating with their living children, is likely to be intensely painful.  I know that for myself, I have not yet decided if I will attend church on Mother's Day.  Respect her wishes, and support her by dropping a note or card into her mailbox.  
• Ask her how she's doing -- but only if you're prepared for an honest answer.  Our culture is afraid of pain.  When people say, "How are you?" they usually don't want to hear anything else but "good" or "okay."  But a bereaved mother is anything but "okay," especially on difficult days like Mother's Day.  So be sure that you want an honest reply when you ask -- otherwise, it's probably best to leave this one alone, so that the mother doesn't feel like she has to lie.

DON'T:

• Ignore her on Mother's Day.  If she is anything like me, she is grappling with intense identity issues.  To ignore her (and her motherhood) on this painful day is likely to be immensely hurtful.
• Dismiss her loss or her grief.  If a bereaved  mother chooses to say things like, "God needed my baby in Heaven," "Everything happens for a reason," or "It's God's will," that's up to her.  But it is not okay to say things like that to her.  These are flimsy explanations of her child's death -- and the harsh reality is that there is no explanation that will make her child's death okay.  Don't try to explain her pain away.  It won't work, because there is nothing logical about death and grief, and any such attempts are likely to be very hurtful.
• Tell her that she'll be "over it" by next year's Mother's Day.  The sad truth about child loss, whether that loss occurred before or after birth or well into adulthood, is that the mother will never "get over it."  A significant part of her died along with her child, and grief has changed her forever.  
• Assume that because she has living children, Mother's Day is not difficult.  As every parent knows, every child is unique and special in his or her own way.  As a result, no amount of living children can ever "make up" for a deceased child -- nor should they be expected to.  
• Place blame.  It is NEVER okay to tell a bereaved mother that it is her fault her child died.  That is up to the mother's doctors, who will tell her the truth.  To try to blame a bereaved  mother for her child's death is inappropriate all of the time, especially on difficult days.  (And yes, incredibly, I have had someone blame me for Eve's death, although it was not on Mother's Day.)

In summary, on Mother's Day a bereaved mother is desperately in need of recognition.  She needs to be known as a mother.  She became pregnant, and loved and cherished and bore a child.  The child's death does not change her love for that child, nor does it negate her motherhood.  So the name of the game in interacting with your bereaved friend on Mother's Day is recognition.  Tell her that she is a mother, and that you wish her child could be here with here, and you are golden.

Don't be afraid to talk about your bereaved friend's dead child or grief -- ever.  I know that many people are afraid of making an already difficult situation worse.  But if you honor her motherhood and grief, and remember and mention her child, there is no hurt being done -- quite the opposite in fact!  Even if she cries, this honoring and remembering are gifts that are more precious to your bereaved friend than you can fathom.

For the bereaved mothers -- what else would you like to hear/not hear on Mother's Day?
For the loved ones of bereaved parents -- what other questions about relating to your bereaved friends would you like answered?

In the Art Studio: Finished!

Although it's been something of a crazy week, I've still been finding a little time here and there to paint.  It is so refreshing when I do!  Here is a little of what I've been working on, including finished versions of in-progress pieces I've shared with you in previous weeks.  Fine art giclee prints (which are truly amazing in quality) are seeking a good home where they can inspire, uplift, and encourage (here).
And it's not too late to get them by Mother's Day if you upgrade to priority shipping!  Send me a message on Etsy if you'd like to discuss a unique gift for a special mama in your life.

What nourishing thing have you been treating yourself with this week?

linking up with:

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