Did I mention I was published??

So. Thank you for the kindness shown on my last post. I don’t have words to tell you what your words mean to me. Or how much comfort they bring as I muddle my way through this.

Thank you and much love. xx

In the interests of this place not being all about my sadness I have some quite exciting news…I have been published.

Start the squealing and jazz hands. I received the actual copy of the book {an actual book with my art in!!!} just before our holiday and then later events took some of the shine off, but oh my gosh. One of the pictures selected was my class I did for 21 Secrets. Just exciting.

It is a book filled with contributions and interviews from other art journallers, as well as a few ideas for how to get started. Ironic if you think about my own situation…maybe I should dig it out for more than looking at the photos and MY NAME!! ;)

Here is the book…you can find out more about it here.

And here are my pages….oh my gosh!!

Geeky thrilling.

And a recent discovery that thrilled me no end as well is that I was mentioned in the introduction!!!!

Again…more advice I should remember and actually live.

So not all about the sadness…and that is good to remember as well.

The teal of my tale

I am hesitant to experience what Brené Brown calls a vulnerability hangover, but equally if I don’t have somewhere to share I will explode and this is so very much part of my tale and this is my space. So I am sharing my current experience of miscarriage and I also know the power of sharing our stories and literally how reading another’s experience in the middle of the night can ease some of the pain and aloneness. 

I know everyone experiences things differently and some don’t struggle with a miscarriage like I have but I am struggling. In the very depths of my soul. 

I will start backwards though because yesterday was three months since I delivered my 7 week bean I have named Constance on the side of the road in the middle of our family holiday. It was a day of reflection forced upon me because over the weekend some who I care most about in the world indicated that I was not sad over losing Constance but sad over my life in general. Intimating ever so carefully and what felt not understood that I was grief crazy and not in my right mind. 

Sparked by my husband declaring he did not want us to try for another baby. He felt that his age and our lifestyle would not benefit from a new baby. I disagree from the most primal heartfelt place in me. But it was framed over the weekend that my husband held the practical rational point of view, while I was heartbroken and grief filled and presumably in that assumption lacking reasonableness and practical rationality. Maybe. But when did emotions become wrong or lesser against logic?

In any event this is a discussion that will continue to be had by my husband and I because I am not ready to concede that life that I glimpsed. Rightly or wrongly this is where I am. 

I do however concede that my husband’s decision has made me realise that I had delayed feeling all my grief over Constance with the thought that I would be blessed with a new baby. When my husband told me that was not what he wanted I have felt the feelings of grief all over again. So strong. 

I have felt every part of this pain. I have faced it. I have journaled in a special book I bought on the day of my miscarriage where I have written to God, my baby and even to myself. I have sat and just cried. I have sat and felt sad and heartbroken and broken and empty. I have sat and listened to whispers. That is how I learnt my baby’s name and even that she was a girl. I have consciously felt my grief. Touched it. 

Though on the weekend I was made to feel that I had had enough time. This was not over a lost baby and I felt like I was been made to move on. But I was not even at the three month mark. And I say to them and to you and to myself that at three months we are still allowed to be deeply sad and broken and numb. We are allowed to have good days and bad days. We are allowed to cry. We are allowed to want another one. And I know for sure that grief is not rational and practical and we are damn sure allowed to not be rational and practical and that is good. That is okay. And I am not the only one. Neither are you if you are reading this in the middle of the night with tears running down your cheeks wondering if you are crazy. You aren’t. Neither am I. 

Mothering is not a rational practical journey. So I don’t think the deciding factor on a baby should be only rational or practical either. And the also don’t think our grief over lost babies is rational or practical. The biggest loss I feel is the lost dreams I had for her. I had worked out where her 3 month portrait photo would go next to her brother and sister’s. I had glimpsed my future of breast feeding, wondering what sort of sleeper she would be, wondering what it would be like after the big gap. Excited at what I knew now and looking forward to cherishing the heck out of her. I didn’t just lose a 7 week old foetus, I lost all those dreams and thoughts and wishes because you don’t just start loving your baby when they are born, you love them in your belly if you are lucky and blessed enough to conceive. 

On the side of the road, telling my children to stay in the car, four hours after my labour pains had begun, one day after been told there was no heartbeat anymore, two days after I first started spotting, I delivered a baby and lost dreams and so much potential. It wasn’t tidy. It was hard and traumatic and surreal. I am beyond grateful my beautiful husband was there to support me and hold me up and love me. I know what I have and am lucky to have when I look at my beautiful children. But knowing that does not take away from what I have also lost.

It was real, and three months does not make it any less so. Even with the thought of a need for a new baby to bless our family. Because I will still be the mother of an angel. That can’t change. I know because I have wished and prayed for that very thing and it is still the same. 

So. The start of my story or what I will share for today because it is enough. And it is a start because it is a journey. And not all of it can be tied up in a bow, sometimes it is just messy, and may skip around and make no sense, but I will share and express my story here. A blog that started off about how to define my joy. Ironic that it will be this space where I hopefully find it again as well. Where I will define a new joy.

I am sorry to those who are only here for the art and creativity. But that will be here too. This influences a lot of my art at the moment. I have become obsessed with spirit vessels and plaster angels and wings which I will share here. And emptiness. That too.

But this will be here too. For those who are looking for threads in the middle of the night. To try to weave together so they can hold themselves together in the light for those that need them. And because I need this for me too. In a purely selfish way. 

I see you. I see me. And we are doing okay. I have never subscribed to rational and practical and I won’t start now or try to define my grief journey through that lens either. I love those people that want me to be in a different place, and I know they only want to help and are trying to do what they think would be best. Sometimes though we need to trust our own whispers in the darkness. 

Week one of my 52 week project

These are in my sketchbook from week one…some are still awaiting colour and are not finished so I wasn’t going to post them but actually…that is the point. And if I set rules that things need to be finished I will never post so I am just going to post the pages and not comment on their finishedness. 

They are in my sketchbook after all!!

Friday forging

I did week two and it seemed all over the place. One that the messages will take a while to process…some of them anyway. :)

And in between there was a hospital visit and Easter and the completion of my RCIA journey so I am now a proper Catholic in the most beautiful and intimate of celebrations at the Easter vigil service on Saturday night. 

And then this week. Where I am now Programme Director of an After School Programme which is crazy insane and a huge jump from where I am trained and where I was looking but I am excited and terrified in equal doses and it feels good. Very good. 

I have been thinking about art workshops for children and when I saw this come up I had a calling to explore the possibility and I did. I was successful…and then wondered what on earth I was doing but the experience will be invaluable and in the terror I am feeling very alive as well. So hopefully this goes well. I start in a couple of weeks and have started planning…actually looking at the messages on this last page it perfectly reflects what I just said…some weeks you don’t have to try too hard to process!!

Friday Forging

This morning I started again…yet again. I decided to begin with what I know works because I don’t have any answers or know where else to start. 

So with morning pages which I have not done for a very long time…hmmm…wondering why I feel so lost and wandering is becoming somewhat clearer when I am not using the tools I know work for me and which I possess in my toolbox already. 

I bought a new book for my morning pages yesterday…I didn’t need one, I have a few half started ones but I just couldn’t get started in them. So with awareness that while waiting for a “perfect book” to start is another procrastination sign and while I know I am being mindful about my mindless spending…I bought one anyway. And this morning I started…again. Some cracker truths came up that knocked me in the gut and reminded me why it is such a valuable practice and why I need it. 

And while I was back to utilising my existing tools I decided to pull out my weekly reflection journal and do a found word collage. It is very wordy and I haven’t reflected on it yet but I really liked that pairing of “Friday Forging”.  The idea of creating with a bit of hammering and beating and reflecting on my week, and what I want to come. Taking my weekly reflections to a bit of a different place but the same idea…we will see. That is my intention for right now. 

And this…52 weeks of sketching. It was a spontaneous idea and I have decided to run with it. It scares me because of the commitment when I am not sure how I am but sometimes we need to run with these crazy ideas. To at least start and see where we end up. I like the idea of sketching too….no pressure, less than drawing, raw, able to be unfinished, exploring and meandering. Seeing where they go. I need this to start creating again. I need to create again. Need to. But I don’t know how to start and so my sketchbook will be where I begin. 

So I pulled out my sketchbook and did a quick logo and I am ready for the weekend. To sketch and to see where that goes. To start. Yet a bloody again. Not knowing what lays ahead or what the right path is…or even where the path is but knowing that sometimes you just need to do it and start. 

Still standing

Goodness is anyone still here?!  

No need to answer that!!! :)

Since I was last here I got married after a two week engagement…which was a whole lot of crazy and even more magic. I have never felt so well held by my friends and am eternally grateful! So now I am no longer Natasha White but Natasha Watson!

Our parents had become resigned after over a decade together that there would be no wedding but just when we had no money we decide to have a wedding…perfect timing because with more time and money I would have spent more and the day was gloriously perfect how it was. 

It has taken me a while to get used to the name change after living 37 years as one name, but it was important to my husband, more important than I realised and it is becoming more normal!! 

When my closest friend/wedding planner asked me at the start what my perfect wedding looked like, I replied a combination of Downton Abbey and the wedding in Mamma Mia. I wanted a sense of occasion and an event, but also the celebration of love in Mamma Mia. And my wedding planner delivered and then some! The day was just magical and I wouldn’t change anything. 

As well as that little miracle performed by God I found out I was pregnant in January with what would have been a wedding baby. Once the shock wore off we were very excited but unfortunately while we were on our big Summer South Island adventure I lost our little bean. Which is the most devastating experience I have had. On so many levels. The loss of potential and expected dreams and memories. I am grateful that we were together during the loss and that we left her in a beautiful spot in the end. 

 Also that at the moment I felt like my heart was breaking to never be repaired that I had the presence of mind to take a photo as we hopped back into the car. 

And so I come back to this space not the same person, and with a new name. I am not sure what this space even looks like now but I picked up some paint a couple of days ago and it was a start. 

A bit like this post. As I figure out what I am doing and what anything means and where on earth is my next step. This step is right here. And I am climbing back on. 

Again. 

Holding the parts of my life

The poem from the yesterday {when I began writing this post} the other day was my way back to this space.  I read it just a little while ago and it gave me words to even begin to describe where I have been.

I have been flat for such a long while. But pretending otherwise, because if you fake it you make it, and all of that. You are what you think so I was all on top of everything and holding it altogether and actually inside I wasn’t so much.

But I didn’t think I was depressed. Because I wasn’t crying all the time, and I wasn’t really sad, I was just kind of joyless. Ironic given the name of the blog!! :)

But I was holding it together, to one extent or another, not many people would have realised quite how out of whack I was…because even I didn’t. So..life happened.

Things got a bit demanding on the Board and took so much energy and time to work through the processes we needed to go through unexpectedly as a school, my Beloved was made redundant, both of us looking for work to pay mortgages and all that other unfun stuff but to no avail.

Feeling completely useless and not of service or value to anyone because I was not/am not getting employed in paid work. Losing all creativity (perhaps the scariest thing of all because it just is, really scary, still). Not sleeping except for a couple of hours for weeks. Suffering panic attacks…4 or 5 a day at one stage. Having a difficult relationship with my family of origin and that going to a place that is completely foreign to me, and I was in a place. A place where I had nothing left, just really flat.  Not really sad, though I had tears as well, but I felt more lost and completely overwhelmed than sad.

I was also completely empty.

So I put a brave face on it, but I only had enough for the most immediate of needs, which was not here, and besides with my dearth of creativity, I had nothing to share anyway.

A friend came over and opened a well of tears while she was here but I still felt I could manage this.  I had not yet succumbed to needing drugs again.  I was aware, I was taking self-care steps, I was not weak enough to need drugs.

And then one Saturday we went for a drive to the beach and I saw this view of the ocean (in the photo I took above and it was the most beautiful moment of grace that I didn’t have the capacity to hold it and I broke down and realised I did in fact need drugs. So over the rest of the day I came to the realisation that I couldn’t do it anymore and in fact I needed to go on drugs. Again.

And I snapped a couple of self portraits on that day of breakthorough. As well as some shots of scattering sea gulls that felt a lot like the mixed up detrius of my mind.

So I made an appointment and went to my most fabulous doctor, and got sleeping tablets, and anti-anxiety tablets, and antidepressants and I evened out…eventually.

I still had no joy. But I was not crying and my panic attacks were only a few a week. No creativity though I did try.

I thought I may art journal my way back but I couldn’t even finish this page and didn’t get any further.

At the doctors 6 weeks ago she asked how I was doing and I shrugged, and said okay, better than I was, and to my surprise she said she was going to double my dose of antidepressants because she thought I was still under medicated and my usual joy and spark still wasn’t back. So she did.

And the most amazing thing happened.

I felt lighter and actually happy for the first time in over a year maybe. Actually truly happy with no thought at the back of my head about what a faker I was. I made these photos when I was playing.

And I am there now. Feeling lighter. But still no creative urge so that scares me.

But I am here.

Trying to find my way back and trying to figure out what that means for me.

Toward the Solstice

 Toward the Solstice

by Adrienne Rich

The thirtieth of November.
Snow is starting to fall.
A peculiar silence is spreading
over the fields, the maple grove.
It is the thirtieth of May,
rain pours on ancient bushes, runs
down the youngest blade of grass.
I am trying to hold in one steady glance
all the parts of my life.
A spring torrent races
on this old slanting roof,
the slanted field below
thickens with winter’s first whiteness.
Thistles dried to sticks in last year’s wind
stand nakedly in the green,
stand sullenly in the slowly whitening field.

My brain glows
more violently, more avidly
the quieter, the thicker
the quilt of crystals settles,
the louder, more relentlessly
the torrent beats itself out
on the old boards and shingles.
It is the thirtieth of May,
the thirtieth of November,
a beginning or an end,
we are moving into the solstice
and there is so much here
I still do not understand.
If I could make sense of how
my life is still tangled
with dead weeds, thistles,
enormous burdocks, burdens
slowly shifting under
this first fall of snow,
beaten by this early, racking rain
calling all new life to declare itself strong
or die,

if I could know
in what language to address
the spirits that claim a place
beneath these low and simple ceilings,
tenants that neither speak nor stir
yet dwell in mute insistence
till I can feel utterly ghosted in this house.

If history is a spider-thread
spun over and over though brushed away
it seems I might some twilight
or dawn in the hushed country light
discern its grayness stretching
from molding or doorframe, out
into the empty dooryard
and following it climb
the path into the pinewoods,
tracing from tree to tree
in the failing light, in the slowly
lucidifying day
its constant, purposive trail,
til I reach whatever cellar hole
filling with snowflakes or lichen,
whatever fallen shack
or unremembered clearing
I am meant to have found
and there, under the first or last
star, trusting to instinct
the words would come to mind
I have failed or forgotten to say
year after year, winter
after summer, the right rune
to ease the hold of the past
upon the rest of my life
and ease my hold on the past.

If some rite of separation
is still unaccomplished
between myself and the long-gone
tenants of this house,
between myself and my childhood,
and the childhood of my children,
it is I who have neglected
to perform the needed acts,
set water in corners, light and eucalyptus
in front of mirrors,
or merely pause and listen
to my own pulse vibrating
lightly as falling snow,
relentlessly as the rainstorm,
and hear what it has been saying.
It seems I am still waiting
for them to make some clear demand
some articulate sound or gesture,
for release to come from anywhere
but from inside myself.

A decade of cutting away
dead flesh, cauterizing
old scars ripped open over and over
and still it is not enough.
A decade of performing
the loving humdrum acts
of attention to this house
transplanting lilac suckers,
washing panes, scrubbing
wood-smoke from splitting paint,
sweeping stairs, brushing the thread
of the spider aside,
and so much yet undone,
a woman’s work, the solstice nearing,
and my hand still suspended
as if above a letter
I long and dread to close.

(1977)

The belated postcard post

This is a very very belated post about my postcards I made for Hanna’s Postcard swap.  I showed the start of the cards in this post.

I was trying to decide what to do with my pile of backgrounds.  I didn’t want to lost too much of that background because I liked it.  It reminded me of a grafiti wall, or raw street art kind of feel and I wanted to retain that feeling.  I was thinking of characters initially and one night I woke up remembering this photo I had take a little while before:

It is one of my favouritest walls and I did some research on what it was representing and it was bringing attention to shark finning which is one of the most detestable practices done at the moment I think. So barbaric and pointless and inhumane. Learning that in fact made me love the wall even more. And so at about 2:30 in the morning I decided to do shark inspired fish. I decided not to be too focused on shark making so to speak, but to just do a series of shark inspired fish that were a bit zany and fun and would fit onto the street arty kind of feel I wanted. Once I decided I then didn’t go back to look at this photo because I didn’t want to completely rip them off, just be inspired by them.

I drew some rough shapes with charcoal and filled them in with gesso. Once that was dry I began filling them in, with a mix of coloured pencils, acrylic gouache and paint pen.

This is what I ended up with:

I am so grateful I signed up. Not least because just after I did my work as the chairperson of my children’s school board exploded and became so incredibly difficult professionally and emotionally (thankfully it is drawing to an end now so expect some catch up posts…just a warning :)), but this allowed me some time to decompress and not lose complete touch with my creative work, and so still stay somewhat sane. It was one of my self care practices.

Also I got the 10 most wonderful postcards in return. I can’t even tell you the joy each one brought me. I know I mentioned (I think I did), that the last 2 times I did not get the full amount, which was fine, but a little disappointing, but this time, all ten arrived. And on perfect days. Where things had seemed incredibly overwhelming and hard, there was a ray of joy. I was so incredibly grateful.

I thought I had taken a photo of all of them, and it appears I haven’t. And the light is too terrible to do this now (thanks to a dark grey early setting winter sky), but I will post a photo of all the wonderful cards I received. Because they are too delightful and wonderful to not be shown off a bit! :D

Three weeks of happy…

This is the joyful part of been behind, I now get to go back over three weeks of my #100happyday posts and catch up on here.  There were days that I was not good about sharing on social media what I did, because it was hectic and I was distracted, but I did try and take a photo at least, or in some cases, think about it and decide what to shoot the next day because I had left it too late and the light was rubbish by the time I got to it!!

Day 22:

This was taken at my Aunt’s farm where we were collecting pinecones while others were busy with drenching calves and sheep. I used to hate the very idea of country living, gumboots and manure was not something I desired. But more and more I find peace in this existence, surrounded by the space it provides. It is idyllic, though I will be honest, that I do wonder if I love it so much because I also know that I go back home again. :)

My favourite photo could as easily have been this photo:

Or this one:

I love that they get to experience this. Also I want to note that Sebastian and I bet my Aunt and Victoria in pinecone collecting.

Day 23:

I love this. My aunt doing Victoria’s hair. It is becoming a ritual for them. When we went camping at Christmas, she did Victoria’s hair every day, when we go visit, she does Victoria’s hair. When we have family get togethers, Victoria goes with her hair brush to get her hair done. I love it. It also relieves me of hair style pressure, because she is over the messy bun which is my specialty. :)

Though this photo of them with my Grandad I am also partial to as well (cheating galore with picking my top photos clearly).

It was nice catching up with him on our way home even if it did involve a bigger detour than I had thought it did in my head. Little wonder my Beloved looked at me sideways when I asked if we could pop in our way home.

Day 24:

The children got their ribbons and medals from their St John’s competitions a couple of months or so ago. At the time there was a mistake with the addition so Sebastian thought he had missed out on the medal for first over all aggregate like his sister got for her section. But he found out that night about the mistake, and he had such pride in his accomplishments for himself. It was quite emotional for his mother!

Day 25:

This girl of mind reading my old books (and some of my favourites I could no longer find so bought secondhand). I am finding delight that she she finds joy in the same words I did. It is one of the highlights of right now for me. I kept my favouritest books like Charlotte’s Web, Pippi, and Anne of Green Gables and the Folk of the Faraway Tree etc, and after my failed urgings for Sebastian to try and read them, I was wondering if I should have kept them all these years. That she is loving them is a complete thrill for me.

Day 26:

My Kindle at the moment is a happy moment bringer. I was dubious about much I would like this, because there is nothing to me like the feel of a real book. Though I will always prefer real books there is something about having so many books immediately available to me, and also I just finished Divergent bypassing the Library’s ridiculous waiting list for this book.

Day 27:

My Beloved bought passionfruit home and I parked myself up and made a proper afternoon tea of them. It was a treat. :)

Day 28:

The week started with a lot of grey and that cold which reminds one that Winter is coming. When it cleared one was left a little more grateful for the sun than they had been when it was a sure bet.

Day 29:

Winter sports begin. Though I am honestly in two minds about giving up my Saturday mornings if I am honest. Particularly when it is rainy and muddy and cold, but the first games of the season are exciting. It was Victoria’s first ever game of netball and it was hilarious to watch. They were all happy to just be playing.

Day 30:

It was Mother’s Day and it was a lovely peaceful day where I was much loved, even if I was so tired and on edge I had not a whole lot left for these children I birthed. They all seemed to know I was in need of some spoiling and so my Beloved made me Eggs Benedict for breakfast and a gorgeous dinner. Victoria chose to get me a lavender plant (quickly agreed to by her brother because he had no ideas according to her :)), because it is my favourite plant. What I love most about it was the level of caring and throughtfulness of the gift, that she had really thought about it because I had not mentioned wanting one recently. I love a thoughtful gift more than any other kind.

This could also have been my happy day photo. This snippet of Victoria’s card. I have never been so horrified or laughed so much upon reading a card. Truly morbidly hilarious. And I have kept this on me and opened it up so many times since in the last week. It has been my portable happy.

Day 31:

This was a day. In so many ways. I didn’t stop really, until I noticed it was time to get dinner. I glanced outside and noticed the sun starting to go down and stepped outside to take a moment.

Looking back like this, this photo takes me right back to feeling as overwhelmed and unsure of myself as I felt that day. It was in this moment I stopped rushing and crossing things of my to-do list. I didn’t think of anyone else’s needs or everything I had to do for just a moment. And I told myself I was okay. This photo even now makes me well up with tears. Maybe because I am still in the thick of overwhelm but I am not feeling as unsure about myself anymore.

Day 32:

It was grey outside and I was feeling grey and so I lit one of these babies. They are my treasure and I don’t have a lot left so I am stingy with them, but their scent is what I imagine heaven will smell like. It smells of paradise for me, and this morning I lit one, for no reason, for no company was coming but just because I decided I wanted the treat of luxury.

Day 33:

In between running errands and appointments and meetings I had a spare half hour and as I was on my way to treat myself to a coffee, I decided to go check out the second hand books in here instead. I found a couple of treasure books for me, and one for Sebastian, and my half hour whizzed by.

Day 34:

Holy Mother of Goodness. My Beloved returned home from visiting his father (and work!! :)) with this gorgeously solid kauri sideboard. It is all kinds of perfect. It is handcrafted, and used to belong to his grandmother. On the inside cupboard there are even scribblings from his father when he was a tiny tot. It truly is a treasure. The children struggle to imagine their grandfather as someone who is capable of been that little and that naughty to scribble in a cupboard. I love it. As I write this I wonder if there is a family link to wanton scribblers because Victoria went through a stage where no cupboards, carpets, walls, dressers, beds, linen, drawers, shelves were safe from her scribbles.

Day 35:

Taking a moment at the end of another day that rushed by in a blur, though this one was not taken up with activity as much as it was rest and rest and more rest.  And then the beginnings of some reflection on the last couple of weeks.