Broken Things

So why is it difficult to be an artist?

Because artists break things. Breaking the status quo,
the established rules, the way things usually are.  - Seth Godin

Photo of our, Ruby

Taken by me.

This morning, I woke up with sadness sitting on my chest.  It was trying to suck my breath away.  Struggling against it required too much energy.  I let it have its way with me.  It stole my breath and filled me with the dust of broken dreams.

My mind began to kaleidoscope in the gray shades of despair. 

Yesterday, I sat to wait for my husband in a coffee shop.  I didn't buy a thing.  I picked up the Wall Street Journal instead.  The quality of the writing was superb.  The words started to feed me until I began aware of how powerfully biased they were.  I wanted impartial.  I didn't want them to try and win me over.  I wanted facts, embellished only by the truth by wordsmiths with lofty ideals.  I also want that from life.  So far I'm still waiting to get it.

As I lay awake, starring at the ceiling, my mind plays the sound bites it read in the Wall Street Journal. 
"US Postal Service to eliminate 35,000 jobs". 
Bank of America restructuring eliminating 30,000 jobs.
Unemployment still rising."

I had an interview this last week.  That was an achievement.  Several days later, I got an e-mail.  They had chosen some one else for the job.  When I left the interview, the woman said it would probably be several weeks before they'd make a decision.  She'd already made up her mind about not hiring me. 

Part of me wants to feel defeated.  Part of me knows that I can't take it personally.  All of me feels tired, bone tired.

Yesterday, my husband pointed out the rising bubble in the floor in front of the kitchen sink.  This sink has had a leak under it for more than a year.  We tried to fix it.  We were all thumbs.  It was never fixed.  Mold covers the wall under the sink.  Now the water is obviously damaging the floor beneath us.   Poverty is  mold and leaks that can't be fixed.

My mind longs for escape.  My soul demands it.  I comfort myself with the fact that the greedy bank will get the house back, in much worst shape than it was.  Plumbers are too expensive.  Let the bank hire one.  A new roof . . .  too expensive, water damage under a shower. . . too expensive.  The house is as broken as I am. 

The memory of a recent fierce argument burns still.  He and I are both broken.  We came together broken and life continues to break us.  We are broken like this house.  It is our metaphor.  I want to believe that strength can come from broken places and things but some times they are just broken.  Not strong.  Broken.

Yet, in spite of everything, I start to pick up the pieces.  Truth, no matter how painful, is still truth.  It becomes a base camp.  I will operate from here.

A tiny, eager dog comes to visit.  In her mouth a rag.  She wants me to throw it.  Her tail wags furiously.  Her eyes beg, "Come play with me." 
I tell her to find my son.  She trots off.  Her tiny toe nails tippy-tapping across the tiles.  It is a happy sound.
She's back.  No one will play with her.  Her eyes say, "Please.  Please play with me."

I take the rag and toss it.  She is happy.  I smile just a little inside.  Hope lives still.   Sadness could not steal it.   A little dog with a rag shows it to me.  Broken half truths are sometimes all that you have.  It will be enough.  I will take the pieces and make them into words.  Words are painting my life with colors so vivid that at times I must look away.  Words break the status quo.  They rise up in protest full of promise.  They drip with hope between the shards of despair.  I have been here before and I have risen.  I will rise again.