Collage as spiritual practice

Over a 6 year period, 

at the beginning of the last decade,

my life as a single working mother of 2 sons 

and as essentially an only child 

caring for a mother with Alzheimer's dementia was, 

as might be expected, 

chaotic;

 except for an hour each Sunday afternoon.

That hour was sacred time.

Surrounded by vintage photographs, scraps of paper

and magazines rescued from Goodwill for .25 a piece,

I would 'process' my week;

praying about situations at work,
in my own life

and the world in general.

I would then work on a collage 

and somehow, 

during the cutting, pasting, writing and

moving images around on the page to create the look I wanted,

my thoughts would be offered up 

and released.

As I was "Swedish death cleaning" the house recently,

I came across the notebooks in which they've been stored.

I spent a few hours, revisiting them and

was surprised by how many of them still felt relevant.

I've got the Blue Girl livin in a Red state blues

She was up to her ass in realities.

Frankly, she preferred a good fantasy.

She knew life would be better
if she could eat cupcakes for breakfast.

She put her needs on a shelf
then forgot where she put them.

She saw clearly what the youngest couldn't;

the future - and it looked grim.

He'd lost his innocence years ago.

His government was wrong.

Terribly, dangerously wrong.

He was an odd duck.

But his gaze pierced her soul with longing.

 

She had lived in her head

for as long as she could remember.

 It took years to stop measuring her steps,

confident in her own dance.

 Wasn't awareness of magical thinking enough?

Did she have to give it up?

Destined to spend much of her life searching

for comfort money can't buy.

 He loved that she truly knew him.

Except when he hated her for it.

She knew that too.

 She'd always heard a hum;

it was her history.

It would never go away.

 Left unspoken,

it was driving a wedge between them.

 She was quick to recognize a downside to this 'servant' thing.

 She chose hope

with eyes wide open to the realities of the world.

 Something beautiful had emerged from the coldness of her childhood.

It was miraculous.

 He had popped into her life when she was resigned to being alone,

awakening old feelings and dreams.

He was a weasel.

Discarded: she knew how it felt.

SO many feelings came flooding back;

along with the 'itch' to re-start the practice.

Sometimes, words weren't even needed.

 Sainthood held no appeal.

A halo was just one more thing to keep clean.

 Surrounded by strange and unique creatures,

she ran the race set before her.

 She thought climbing out of where they imprisoned her

would set her free.

It had only been the beginning.

 She was a sip in a world of big gulps.

~~~~~~~~

Finding your voice takes a lifetime.

So does finding your medium and discipline.

For all the 'disposing' I've done lately,

these feel worth hanging on to.

At least for a while longer.