Circling Back to the Circle

In my last post, I wrote about having so much creative inspiration and ideas and yet not knowing how to express them in my post-stroke body, which is healing slowly. There are moments (like when I wrote that post) where I get caught up in thought and trying to figure it out, trying to push it, trying to go back to the old me which no longer exists. Then I remember the Circle and how it feels to paint it when I have the energy to do so.

After the strokes, I can’t quite describe the state of mind I was in for many months, and still am a lot of the time now. It is more a state of being. BE-ing. I could, and still can sit for long periods of time looking out the window with not a thought in my head, nor a need to do. I hear birds, see the blue of the sky, the green of the leaves on the trees, and sit in perfect stillness - seeing, hearing, being. Perfect for times when rest is imperative. Quiet, stillness, peace is the state of being in my empty head. I say ‘empty’ not in a derogatory way, but in a good way. When I am here in this space, or this space is in me, there is no struggle and no suffering. Words don’t come and I am okay with it.

When I am in this state of BEing, talking feels like pushing. Words don’t quite come. When they do, they are slow. The fast-paced culture I live in feels like a different reality going at speed that I am currently unable to understand. When someone wants to talk with me, when I feel I can, there are often frequent pauses. I have to ask others to speak more slowly because I almost cannot understand them at the pace at which they normally speak. Even music that is fast is almost painful, as I cannot listen too quickly. I listen slowly. I walk slowly. All has been stilled, within and without.

This is the state of being I have been in most of the time after the strokes (especially right after), and when I began creating circles. The first circle was drawn in pencil. A friend led an online meeting for artists to create together, so I felt I would attend to see what might come. I had no desire to create, as everything I felt I might want to say already existed albeit perhaps not materially. Everything already is, so why do? I had been feeling this even before the strokes. In the online art meeting, I remembered the mandalas I created a few years ago and thought I would simply start by drawing a circle in pencil on paper. I found peace with a hard pencil that made soft gray marks and I used it to very slowly and blissfully create a gradient around the interior line of the circle. And it was complete, which surprised me, but I accepted it. That is what I did for half of that meeting before saying farewell to the artists, turning off my computer, and returning to rest.

I called that first circle a mandala. Only yesterday I learned that the word ‘mandala"‘ means circle in Sanskrit. The circles I create are empty in the center, and yet complete. In each moment we are here, we are not what came before and we are not yet what is to come… although what will come has already come because that is the circle of things. We just can’t see it yet and trying to see it, pushing to see what we cannot yet see will only cause suffering.

My state of being after the strokes has fluctuated, especially as I heal. Recovering is not linear and each day is different from the next. In my last post I was very attached to all I have done and want to do and it was causing me grief. That is natural, I think. I do have endless stories to tell, ideas to express, and mediums to explore and play with. And I DO want to DO. But this blank state of BEing that descends like a soft veil or emanates like the surface of a still pond is a gift from the strokes. It is a way to peace and to acceptance of myself as I am right in this moment. Right here. Now. I want to remember to reach for it when I begin to suffer by trying to see ahead of myself in the circle of my life.

Eyes Open, Eyes Closed

Years ago I painted the painting above which is titled "Healing Spirit" as a gift for a friend. At the time whenever I painted a face, the eyes were always open. I enjoyed painting eyes, choosing the color, giving them light and roundness and a feeling of peace. 

During one of my shows someone remarked that the open eyes in my paintings were startling, unnerving, a little unsettling. I began to hear this every so often. One day when I was painting a face with the eyes open, they started bothering me too. It felt like they were glaring at me, so I closed them with a few strokes of my paint brush. After that I only painted closed eyes. To me it felt just as peaceful, like a sort of sleep, but without the stare.

Recently I was asked why I paint all my faces with closed eyes, so I told the story of how it was mentioned to me years ago that some people were disturbed by seeing the open eyes. One of my friends said she preferred the open eyes. "Really?" I asked, in excitement. Sometimes we just need one person to understand and accept what it is that we do, so that we feel okay about doing it, not that artists do their art for anyone but themselves, although some do and that's all right. But I don't, and by closing the eyes, even though it felt right to me at the time, now it feels a bit like I was backing down from a stare, so to speak. That's not like me at all.

Now I'm painting open eyes again and it feels really good. Here's looking at ya. :)

Peace & Blessings,

Robyn