Here I am circa 1990 or ‘91 wearing my painting pants and holding my cat Daisy. Those pants a few years later would be immortalized when my boyfriend at the time rescued them from the trash and had a 12” x 12” square of them framed in an elaborate gold frame as a gift for me. Friends always said the painting pants looked like art themselves.
This is a photo of me that one of my dearest friends posted on her social media page (which I later saw) after I had strokes in January 2022. It was scary for all of us, and that makes me so sad but also grateful that there are a few who care about me that much. This is the photo, of all photos of me there have been. She chose this one. Maybe because this one clearly says “artist”. That is how most people think of me. But these days I’m not sure how to think of myself. After the strokes, my first thing was to move my right hand and see if the ability to draw was still there. It was, thankfully, even though it is not how it used to be. Not quite precise and more easily tired. Painting was another thing that called, as it was something I’d done for decades and suppose Artist is the main title I can claim, above all others. So painted I did, and many circles. They are here in their own gallery on my website, all from 2022. Did I paint because I wanted to or because it was what I knew best?
Who are we, really? Are we what we do? What happens if our abilities change, or our desire for them diminishes… what then are we? The technical skills are still there after decades of doing it, and the little callous at the top of my right middle finger from holding pencils and brushes which I was so proud to get in my mid teenage years as a symbol of the dedication to my craft. Suppose I’m seeking, as I feel so very, very different and some people who know me don’t want to see me identifying with being a stroke survivor, and all of them want to see me happy.
But that’s the thing. I AM a stroke survivor and there is no weakness in saying that, especially because I’m saying it not from a place of victimhood, but from a place of strength, power, and resilience. When I led my first flute workshop at a local assisted living facility last year, walked in with my cane, spoke slowly and simply, told the residents I was a stroke survivor and then proceeded to lead the presentation from a powerful stance with the intention of empowering them as well, if they were open to it, it made a difference. People came up to me afterward to thank me. One lady walked with her walker and asked if she could hug me. She said I helped her and gave her hope because she had had a stroke too and she was teary and said she was scared and I knew EXACTLY how she was feeling and yet told her to have hope and that we can still heal. This is why I tell people I am a stroke survivor. It helps others to see if I can do what I am doing and that I haven’t given up, they don’t have to give up either. I’m a stroke survivor and watch what I can do, wobbly as I am, visibly diminished from the abilities I used to have, still going every single day as best as I can. The flute program was just one example. I’m a flute player. I’m an artist. I’m a stroke survivor who continues to move through what I’m feeling, believing somehow (hoping, sometimes barely by a thread) that my life might make a difference somehow in this crazy messed up world.
So as I struggle to figure out who I am now and who I am becoming as I continue to heal and change day to day… sure, I am an artist… sure, I am a flute player… sure, I am still a shamanic practitioner… but the catchall label that seems to fit best is stroke survivor, because everything else gets filtered through that. And there it is, and here I am. Hello, who are you? I am a stroke survivor.
