Monday, August 29, 2011
So THAT'S where that went...
Happiness can come from anywhere. A scrap of paper for scribbling something important is priceless at the right moment. Finding what I hadn't known was missing makes me feel abundant.
Color pencils are my favorite art tool, tied for first place with very fine point, permanent black pens, like Sakura Micron .005. They work well together. Yesterday, involved in the virtuous activity of trying to reclaim my life and indoor space from the brambles and nettles that had taken over, exiling me to a dusty corner, I discovered the box of shrink art pin leftovers also had clutches of color pencils. So that's where all the shades of brown went. No wonder I could never find the Peacock Green.
Depression, a life-long condition, can foster a specific sort of amnesia. We forget who we are, we forget what simple pleasures make us happy, we lose track of accomplishments or endurances and undervalue the challenging voyage we seem to have been shanghaied into. I am not complaining. Nor am I, to the best of my knowledge, depressed now or even in the recent past. I'm just saying...Actually, I'm expressing thanks for illumination, the wind that lifted amnesia's veil and reminded me about a body of work done with color pencils, though it is dispersed across continents and few of its components reside with me. But the tools still do: both the color pencils and the rubber stamps they brought to life.
If our history is tucked away in boxes, we (of a certain age) may forget some of the good parts. As I related the find of the pencils, the illustrated pins, to a wise friend, she suggested I assemble my rubber stamp catalog and line the 400+ images across a table top. We have a built-in buffet cabinet in the dining room that would serve well. Without visible evidence, I allow myself to assume that I have been absent-mindedly twisting my hair around my finger for the past 17 years, even though I have increased my stamp lines in this century, if not this decade...yet.
What I mean to say is that if I can find myself to be richer in much of what matters than I thought, the same is very possibly true for you. At the risk of sounding like a new-age sap, I confess to keeping, from time to time, a journal of gratitude. Daily, I speak out loud appreciation for the gifts of my life. As my reclamation project chugs along, I add to the list.
There is nothing too small to be acknowledged when it comes to being thankful. In fact, there is nothing small when it comes to good. Seeming evidence to the contrary, I have not become the old desert rat who buried her treasures in abandoned mine shafts or under anonymous boulders, then lost the map she drew so she could go back and dig them up. Part of me always knows where they are, it is just that the other part remembers so inefficiently.