Hello dear friend,

At this dark moon night, I’ve finished my painting and my writing to go with it, and wanted to share it with you.  Thank you so for witnessing me.  I feel your kind thoughts, and always appreciate your comments.

Much love,

Cat

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(c)2016, Cat Charissage.  Acrylic on canvas

Following the violet light from the wound

The topic wasn’t grabbing me.

I’d gathered with other women one afternoon to paint on the topic of “Fearlessness!”

Wasn’t grabbing me.

Then . . . I listened to the niggly thoughts and barely felt awareness

that had spread like miasma through my days:

“Maybe it doesn’t matter, any of it.

Maybe I really don’t have anything of real value to offer or teach.

Besides, why would anyone want to hear it anyway from an achy old woman  who never lived up to her potential to do anything important?”  

(Okay, okay, I know I’m not THAT old.  But it’s only a matter of time, you know . . .)

“Maybe there’s nothing to learn, nothing to offer from a life of low level unrelenting struggle — psychological woundings, vicarious trauma, chronic pain.”

Well, anytime fear comes round, I’ve found that shame isn’t too far behind.  

“After all, things must be  somebody’s fault, right?”  (Wrong, but. . . )

And it’s most convenient and least societally disruptive to blame myself;

“I’m courageous, I can take the truth,” says the martyr within.

In my life self-blame has been so effectively fueled by the underside of

empowerment strategies,

new age healing commandments, and

just enough societal privilege to make me think I’m in control of my life.  

Self-blame fueled by half-truths, quarter-truths, and outright lies.

By this time I didn’t want to paint anything.  

I didn’t want to do anything

except maybe get a Dairy Queen Blizzard

to freeze out this afternoon that wasn’t going anywhere fast.

I picked up the paintbrush anyway. (“Whatever. . . “)

I painted a portal through which something fearless could emerge.  (“Yeah, right.”)

Around the portal I painted my life, my specific conditions of existence.  

I painted my church, my family, suburbia — the quicksand that had almost drowned me.

I painted my searching for wisdom, my openings to a larger world,

my finding love and colleagues broken and complex in a broken and complex world.

I painted my second adult life, dis-ease and disease,

my circles, my art, my Golden Cup.

I painted space for surprises, too.  

Then two women emerged.  

One, me, wondering.

The other. . . I don’t know.

Just there; I’m not alone.

And the wound . . . broken heart broken open giving heart.

The woman wondered,

and listened,

and saw by the light from the wound.

Encouragement — to give heart

Freeing what can be freed

Soothing what can be healed, with truth.

Forsooth!

 

The methodology of making lemonade:

What can be added to the lemons, the always sour lemons,

to bring refreshment,

and joy,

to quench thirst?

Oh, we are so thirsty!

What sweetness is needed?

Beauty, kindness, truth, compassion.

What if?

What if what’s already been done, what is now being done,

is enough, is plenty?

What if THIS changes lives:

beauty, kindness, truth, compassion?

Beauty, kindness, truth, compassion.

What if

THIS

is fearless?

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