PINS AND HAMMERS, A COMPARISON

by Lisa

Today I am the artist and the carpenter and the wrecking ball.

But not then, when I was a different thing altogether.  Then, I was still. And shrinking.

Some cells exist within bones just to carve away at other cells, superfluous bits or underused bits.  I remind myself that lack of movement, the good kind, the active-dancing-jumping-playing-learning kind, will take away from my core, just like osteoclasts rob the bones of the too-still.

Being too-still used to happen to me for years at a time.  My body moved and moved, my mind whirled, but my real life just spun in circles.  That version of stillness goes unseen by everyone but the person who’s become the human gyroscope: all energy, nowhere to go, hoping for another shove to keep going but unable to do the shoving.

When I chose to wear wheels instead of the unmoving pin at the bottom of the twirling top, I expected the people I loved to jump on for the ride, too.  Some did.  Some, I scooped up in my arms, not giving any option but to roll along.

Some refused.  They liked my pin.

What they did not understand was that the perfect circle in which I moved was allowing bits to fall away without my permission.  Reaching out of the whirl slowed the spin, but too far or too eager, and I might wobble to the ground.

Now, the ground has become familiar again.  It’s full of worms and bugs and life, like it was when I moved very close to it, curious fingers in the soil and hope in the seeds.  Sometimes, it scrapes my elbows bloody.

I feel my bones grow thicker as I swing my hammer and hang paintings on these walls: my paintings and hers, and someday all of ours, if we learn one another.  That thought makes my heart swell and sometimes my eyes spill over, too.  My tears become another testament to the artist-dreaming and wrecking and rebuilding.

Looking into the sun with tears in my eyelashes reminds me that there are colors for which I have no name.  My colors, welcome even when I admit that I’m blinded by them, fill my palette.

It’s heavy, hard work.  Some days, I don’t want to do it alone any more, but I’m not doing it just for myself.  That would be simple work.

There’s someone along for the ride, who also loves those worms and has a spectrum of her own to use as she wishes.  Her wheels need to roll, always, fast and sure and not afraid of landing and breaking.  Her hammer already strikes with enough force to shake my whole beautiful world.

 

 

 

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