I sense pressure to move on past grief.
Out this picture comes last night, after work. And after a precious and unexpected 2 hour walk with my son from sunset into moonlight.
Oil pastels, 3 shades of blue, over the top of text in about 9 shades of blue pencil and torn-out magazine pages.
Permission to feel whatever I feel.
Freedom to observe it within myself. Trust that I can contain it within myself without needing to express it to someone who I don’t trust or who isn’t willing to hear right now.
Freedom from seeking to be understood by all others.
The understanding I want is within me. The safest and surest way to be fully heard, fully accepted, fully understood is by bearing gentle witness to the storms of my heart.
Overflowing with tenderness.
Oh, a little cat has appeared again in the left hand side of the picture, gazing at the window. Tears as I notice that. Tenderness. Sorrow. Permission to grieve whenever it arises, relief, unlimited capacity to be present to what is alive now. Flowing through me, now. And now. And now. Layer upon layer. Like sadness. Blue cannot be contained to a single shade. What appeared to be blue was richly and diversely true, layer upon layer, no two shades precisely the same yet all in someway belonging to the broad category we call blue.
An invitation to lower my inner resistance to feelings, compassion for the pain of containing them at work around people I don’t trust to have the capacity to hold them and in a place where only certain feelings seem to have a place …
Oh, and the joy of our new little kitten, playing heartily beside me as I work, pouncing on pastels, swiping my sleeve and scuffling up paper.