Last year, I was compelled to let the wind blow through me, so I focused heavily on travel. But I knew I was running from an elongated and persistent shadow.
I’m almost through the first three years of being diagnosed with Scleroderma, and my Rheumatologist tells me that if my version of the disease is going to become fatal, then usually, that will happen in the first three years. I don’t divulge this to many, and I don’t allow myself to linger too long on it or ponder future mobility for fear of mild panic or worse.
I seek growth and plan for the future. Honing my skills helps me stay calm and is therapeutic. During my days, I study painting locally and fiction writing online in New York City, and then I practise. I meal plan and nurture my family through cooking and attending cooking schools, much to their delight. And, of course, there is that little building project at the island house that keeps giving.
I lure myself to sleep by blending the oil paint in my mind and enter the most creative of meditations. I’m still at work, but I soften the texture of the paint until it’s smooth and merge the colour rhythmically with a fluffy mop brush, dragging and dropping the excess backwards and forwards until there is no obvious beginning or end.
When I paint, it’s as if I’ve walked into a room filled with sunshine, the warmth on my skin. I’m in awe of every minute, each colour, each mistake and accident, and each carefully executed stroke. My world stills, and I think to myself, how lucky am I?
I’ve been given this space and moment in time in which to love, to live, to fill my consciousness with the pursuit of awe, and hopefully help others in the process.
