Begin Again

Dearest Doodle Soupsters,

x marks the spot but i’ve been there before

so i stare into the blank,

daring myself to begin again …

Those are the first few lines of what I wrote on the black paper to which I attached a new drawing, shown above.

It’s annoying, isn’t it? How much moving forward requires us to look back …

I want to begin again, to create something new, to embrace uncertainty and I know how to do that, in art, in writing, in music, I do. But in life, outside of the page, day to day, moment to moment, it’s hard. It’s hard because I’m still feeling the ripples of the past, in the form of headaches, physical pain, ambient anxiety, this lingering pain that I don’t want to face. I face it anyway because I’m stubborn and determined and I know how much I’ve already endured deep down somewhere I remember all of it — I didn’t survive just to survive. I survived to live. To feel alive. To do what I want with my life. To live freely. To be myself. To share my soul, my art, my spirit, my spark. So I keep on trying and I’ll never stop trying …

A few years ago, I wrote a poem to go along with one of my paintings, “We are not alone.” It goes like this —

We are all human beings, flawed and still breathing. Our hearts go on beating.

We are not alone. There is always a special kind of light to turn toward: the path of a vine twisting and turning across a wired fence, the morning dew on a lone leaf that stretches its body onto the cement, or the song of a stranger that somehow speaks only to us.

I may feel alone from time to time but it is the familiar ache shared by person after person, time after time. It is loss and it is grief. It is the fear that no one can or will dare to know this pain by knowing me. And I don’t mean knowing the everyday faces we assume so that we can get on with daily chores and work and life. I am referring to our souls, the innermost layer of who we are, the keeper of every truth, every burden we’ve borne, every hurt, every bruise, every time we’ve been silent and every time we’ve tried to share the truth.

Is it that knowing we are not alone will remind us of every ache we’ve tried so hard to forget before it sets us free?

“We are not alone”

Acrylic on canvas. 8 x 10 inches. 2022.

Earlier this month, I wrote a new poem …

Where does it end and where does it begin?

The air, the surface of my skin, the bark of a tree?

The curve of a slope, mountain peak, I keep climbing, what is this path I’m following?

What am I trying to reach?

I think there’s something human, something sweet even, in reaching for the sake of it

I open my palms, scoop sand from the shore, froth of the ocean too …

I open my arms, wide and for a moment,

One at a time, that’s fine, I can let that be enough, I can try,

I find the courage to embrace all that is here, bittersweet and strange and mystifying and infuriating and real and wonderful, I let it all be true

I call out to everything and everyone, I’m here with you

We exist, right now, for a little while, a blip in time, a bubble burst from nothing? who knows why, who knows how, who knows how long, nobody knows, not really

And I’m trying, trying really hard to love this, and that, instead of just fear it, I’ll keep trying, I’ll keep trying

I can say that I don’t know how to do this, that I don’t know how to heal, how to keep facing hard truths head-on, how to live with this grief, how to feel … that wouldn’t it be nice if I could just put all that gookety gloppy guck of tangled, slimy, complicated, messy emotion into a bottle of paint and then just use up the bottle painting, and not have to think about it, not have to feel about it, not have to live with it? But maybe I’m missing the point …

Painting. Writing. Drawing. Singing. This is me. This is how I express myself, how I make sense of well, everything. These are my starting points. Each artwork, each song, each poem … I pour it out and then I reflect, I take a step back and press my face up close to the glass and look, really look, and then I step back again, and then I take a break, turn away, and then I return.

I realize over and over that this is me healing. I say that a lot here, don’t I? Over and over. And isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why it’s so hard to acknowledge that I am giving this my all? This being: life, healing, art, being a human, learning, my goals, my dreams, what I want to share and give, how I want to help people, make the world better, more alive, kinder, compassionate, curious, full of wonder, to kiss my wounds, find some sort of acceptance about how the world is while working my hardest to add even a tiny sliver more of good to the whole, to be here right now and appreciate what is already good about this place while letting myself grieve and be honest about what’s wrong, what hurts …

Because if I acknowledge that I’m already “doing it,” that I’m already doing my best, then I’ll realize that I can’t worry, track, check, my way out of grief or uncertainty or the risk that comes with anything and everything. Even deeper, this reminds me of how powerless and alone I felt. That I could do my best and still be trapped under layers and layers of …

I’m terrified. Okay! I am. And you know what? I can accept that. I can accept that. I am not my emotions. I am not how unsafe I feel all of the time. I am me and I get to choose what I do. And I’m doing what I can. And no, that doesn’t fix everything. It doesn’t take away what I wish it could. It doesn’t bring back what I wish it could. But trying to convince myself that I can outsmart my grief and my fear, my pain, my vulnerability, my PTSD, and my humanity … that’s not working. I can accept that. I can accept this, all of this, even though it hurts, even though I wish there was some way to change the truth.

In April, I wrote an edition of Chicken Doodle Soup called “Secret Messages.” In that edition, which I shared via email only and decided not to put out here publicly in my archived posts, I shared artworks I had stashed under the desk in my studio, vulnerable pieces about being raped and feeling like I was keeping their secret, not knowing what to do with that. Here’s a snippet from that edition —

So many people ask this question: why don’t sexual abuse survivors just tell someone? Well, it can take years before you even get the support to allow yourself to feel it, to believe yourself. Even then, it’s exhausting. And again and again, it feels like this horrible set of choices. Trying to find some semblance of normalcy and peace, feeling a need to use your voice because otherwise, it feels like reinforcing the shame, all the lies you’ve been fed. What is the middle path? How do I use my voice and protect my precious little energy? How do I heal when the people who did this to me face zero accountability? And I don’t know any way to hold them accountable that doesn’t also feel like I’m hurting myself?

Where is the line between safety and stifling myself? Where does my need for privacy end and my need to show myself I’m not powerless anymore begin, my need for community, for human connection? And what do I do about the fact that I know my experience is not at all uncommon? How do I take care of myself as well as be myself when being myself means standing up for what I believe is right?

These are complicated questions. And maybe, it’s not that I need a perfect answer to them. I think I just need to express myself right now. This is who I am. I crave honesty. I want to live with an open heart and an open throat, that I’m not swallowing my pain, hiding out alone because it’s only thing that feels safe.

Whether you realize it or not, you all help me move on and move forward. It isn’t enough to scribble words into a journal. Or to make art and stash it under a desk.

Community, being witnessed, connection with others, sharing … it is a salve for the shame, guilt, and confusion I feel about all of the things I’ve described above and all of the “secret messages” I’ve embedded into the artworks.

This is how I free myself, and hopefully, how we free each other.

I still don’t have an answer to my question — Where does my need for privacy end and my need to show myself I’m not powerless anymore begin, my need for community, for human connection?

I can accept that too. Okay. I don’t have an answer to my question. I’m deciding to live with that. I’m deciding to loosen the reins a little, because these ropes I’m clinging onto? They don’t change anything! These ropes? They make me feel like I’m choking, like I can’t breathe. They make me nauseous. I keep trying to outrun my feelings, outrun what I need to accept. And of course, I am. That’s part of the process. It is. I can see that …

I’ve been running more lately. I jog around at sunset. It feels good. I can run if I want to. I can feel the wind nipping at my neck. I’m allowed. But I don’t have to outrun. I can move fast sometimes because I want to, because I’m excited about this or that, because it’s a release, because it’s fun.

I’ve been making all sorts of espresso drinks at home. Sometimes, it feels like I’m buzzing. Sometimes, I hate it but sometimes, I like it better than feeling tired. Than feeling down. And that’s okay. I’m human!

Sometimes, I stay up way too late because I get into a TV show and I want to see what happens (hooked!). And also because falling asleep is hard.

There’s a difference between making helpful choices and over-regulating myself, berating myself for being human, for taking risks, for seeing what happens.

There’s a protector part of me … she thinks it’s too risky, too much of a liability to let myself be human. And I get frustrated, I get so mad at her, because she just won’t let me relax, right? Well, whether I like it or not, it’s my job to hug that part of myself, hold her, tell her she can rest now, tell her I got this. Because I do, even when it really feels like I don’t.

Above is one of my new artworks, made with oil paint and colored pencil on paper. It’s called, “Growth in turbulence” …

Growth in turbulence, grief in letting it be what it is, strength in reminding myself I am made of the same stuff as the wind, the rain, the dirt, the trees, the sky, the sun, my pain will not destroy me, my voice, my tenderness, my endurance, my will is its own kind of power … I can do this. I will do this … Heal and thrive, learn to let myself be human while recalling my strength, my power, my love for being alive

Beginning again, embracing uncertainty or at least trying to, letting myself know that I’m doing enough, just keep going, you got this, you do, I promise,

Nicole Sylvia Javorsky