Monologue of Grief

Monologue of Grief #1

Dear Pepsi,

Your death has propelled, reduced and amplified me all at the same time. When we received your cancer diagnosis I knew my only salvation was to write through the unfolding of loosing you. Writing and painting are my way of understanding and clarifying the world. For years you laid at my feet while I wrote, or curled up on a chair my studio as I painted. I took intermient breaks to hug and kiss you, stroking your fur with oil bar and pastel covered fingers. I was never really talking to myself as long as you were with me. These days I still turn my head slightly to the left expecting you to be in your chair. Your absent presence haunts me. I miss you achingly. I barely hold tears back, even in public. Yesterday the cashier at Trader Joe's asked how I was and I replied truthfully - not very good and told her about you. As I prepared to pay I pointed to a bouquet of flowers in my cart and said those aren't mine. She looked at me and said yes they are and I hope it helps you to feel better. It did help momentarily; however, I continue to be that person with swollen red eyes who cries at the drop a hat, anywhere and anytime. 

 Bouquet of flowers from the Trader Joe's cashier

I have pretty much retreated to the house, writing and painting, walking Pearl and Pandy, with my outings limited to grocery shopping or an occasional trip to the beach.  Most days are full of solitude other than phone chats with Dad, Papa, Rena, and a few friends. Today is winter solstice, the shortest day of the year when darkness descends in the afternoon. It was actually quite mild, nearly 40 degrees, sunny and no wind. I walked Pearl and Pandy through the neighborhood to the your favorite little park. As they ran around the perimeter of the park off leash I saw flashes of you and it gripped my heart. When will this get easier? Your Papa said the grief will pass but I'm not sure this kind of longing will ever cease. He said my letters to you make him feel as if I am in the world but not of it, and through my grief I have elevated my writing to another level, connecting pieces of humanity to something beyond your death and physical absence. Because your spirit is still here, dragging me along whether I want to keep moving or not. I dive into writing because of my profound sadness. I start off with some sense of what I what I want to express, but truth be told it is in the process of writing that I discover and clarify. I started an abstract painting last night and left it after 20 minutes, certain I would abandon it. This morning I walked into the studio still in my nightgown and stared at it for a few minutes. I thought about ripping it up. How the hell do I paint grief? I printed out pictures of you last night thinking I would use them to create paintings. Something drew me to the abstract I almost discarded. Were you pushing me back in? Insisting there was something for me work with, to learn about myself? You are stubborn and always get your way. I picked up the oil bars and went to work. 

Pearl and Pepsi hanging out while Mom writes

The creative process is magical. It is emotive and unexplainable but let me try to articulate what you watched me do for the past 10 years. My fingers feel electric and float over the colors until they find the right one. I am required to surrender to a force inside me, and though terrifying and unknown, I have to trust it will lead me where I need to go. Writing is no different really, all the magic is in the process. I moved through the colors, staying in the abstract to express the grief and sadness I feel so submerged in. I am also thinking. Grief is chaotic, bursting, gnawing, bold, and fine-tuned. I thought about how one dimensional I am, consumed by loss and pain. And anger. You are everywhere in me and outside of me. I am a monologue of grief from one end to the other. I feel you, hear you saying Stay in the work, it's where you belong, don't give up before you are done - I didn't. Oh Pepsi, it's when I am writing and painting that I feel closest to you. In the world but not of the world. Papa is not the only person to tell me this - Rena has and many others over the years. I straddle two worlds, one part of me firmly planted in the practical while the other is immersed in the imaginative, exploring a vast and curious universe. It wasn't possible to forsake one for the other, not for me anyway. I had kids and responsibilities beyond my artistic yearnings. You weren't really around for the worst part of my divided life but take my word for it, you didn't miss much. You came along when I was realizing dreams and building new possibilities. We started new chapters together. You had the best of me. Or perhaps you helped me be my best.

Flying across country 

Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine holding and kissing you. I watch videos of you everyday - at the beach, playing with Pearl, being two toy Peps with the rope toy and the blue rubber ball, barking for me to chase you. I am in a monologue of grief, therefore I will continue to paint and write my way through it. There is a cascade of loss between you, my mom, and Frank. Once you were diagnosed with cancer I knew you were going to die so I thought I was more prepared for what you being gone would feel like. Clearly I was wrong. Through the writing and painting I reach across a great divide of the physical and spiritual to connect with you. I came to accept the loneliness of being an artist long ago, the hours logged in solitude wresting with words, colors and form. The trade off for rapture is worth it. However, being lonely for you is another thing baby girl. There is no cushion for this grief, just a determination to move one foot in front of the other and hope your Papa is right, that at some point the grief will subside enough that I am not constantly tied in knots or on the verge of tears. Right now that is hard to imagine. But that is what art is for, right Peps? Move us into and beyond ourselves so our personal expands to mean more and touch others. 

Our hearts up there, floating

Love you Peps, now and always.

Mom