Other-Care. On Being The Beloved.

Over the years, as a way to correct what I’ve labeled a ‘self-care deficit’, I’ve embarked on a journey of self-care.

I started therapy with the question “Why can’t I feed myself breakfast, for fuck sakes. What’s wrong with me?” That was the tail end of Ariadne’s red thread into my own inner landscape. That thread has led to an increased ability to care for myself in all the ways one should *and* can. Not just the water/food/rest equation, but more. The flowers I buy myself on therapy days. The gifts of mindfulness – journaling, that early morning tarot draw to set the tone for the day, the intentional way I meet myself on the page. The choices that foster a soul-nourishing life, like the courses I invest in so I’m always on top of my teaching game, or the ones I buy so I’m always on top of my sense of self-possession.

But in all that self-care, there was a near violent steering away from other-care.

Imagine, if you will, a life in which needing others to show up was dangerous.

That is the life I’ve lived, and in this life where needing others to show up was *very, very fucking dangerous*, I became ever increasingly more self-reliant.

And that’s not a bad thing, my loves. Not at all, but when you (and by ‘you’, I mean ‘we’) are covering a deep desire for ‘other care’ with self-reliance, you can grow very, very weary of self-care. You can start to resent all the care you so carefully extend to yourself. And you can start to slip. You can let go of the nourishing practices that you’ve established, because you *get tired* of always doing for yourself what you *wish others would do for you*.

Real talk, babes. 100 percent.

Your journal is precious. The time you spend with yourself, exploring what is true for you is precious. The flowers you buy yourself, the little acts of tenderness toward the soft beast of your body are precious. The nail polish, the things you choose to adorn yourself with, the excellent food, the copious quantities of water…precious.

But all that self-care can’t take the place of those things that others do for you. They can’t replace the fiercely loving rage, expressed on your behalf, or the food prepared, and served to you at a table set with love. They don’t cover the way that one takes a moment to check in, or the other one arrives with your best interests at heart.

We need other people. We *need* them.

Self-reliance is a thing I am very, very fond of, but I have, over the years, grown *too* fond of it, because SAFETY.

Safety of this kind is isolating. It creates in me a refusal to accept what’s on offer from those who are offering out of a sense of *care*. When someone shows up with offers of *caring*, I get scared. I get resistant.

I can be in the darkest of dark moments and still, even now, say “Go home. Leave me alone.”

I can be in the loneliest, most dire need for human contact and say “I’m just fine, thanks. Let’s talk about you.”

Because, needing people has had a history of being unsafe. Needing people has, in my history, led to abandonment, ridicule, being taken advantage of…

Being raised by ill-equipped parents set me up for this, and so my ‘people chooser’ has always equated a traumatic or dramatic bond with love.

I’m learning how to choose otherwise.

In the last seventy-two hours, I have been:

Attended to when I was about to bite off more than I could chew.

Witnessed while I rage-sobbed. Handed glasses of water, tissues. Laughed with when the storm passed. Tucked into bed.

Told “I get it. I got you.” multiple times.

Fed. Taken for a drive. Heard.

Believed. Utterly.

Led by the loving hand of a friend (as in, this was not a romantic or sexual gesture – this was platonic and somehow more poignantly caring as a result) to a drawn bath strewn with lavender flowers. Offered candlelight, firelight, music, and whatever degree of conversation or solitude I needed from moment to moment.

Checked in on with “I know this is an anniversary for you. How are you?”

Told exactly why I matter.

These are the things I have always craved, and also the things I have always lacked, and here they are, arriving, like a migration of butterflies, gathering, like a murmuration of swallows, taking over my sky.

Other-care. A lot of it. And I’m letting it come. And I’m taking it in.

And I’m not just accepting whatever is offered. I’m asking for very specific things. Like “Oh, hey. Please read this collection of memories that are coming up right now so you can know.” and “I need a human. Would you please bring food and sit with me?”

Asking. Receiving. Noticing who shows up and who doesn’t. Noticing what special brand of caring each beloved has to offer. Accepting limitations with grace, but also setting boundaries accordingly. Having a life time of corrective experiences packed into the space of a weekend, and letting that flow into all my wounded places like cool, clear water.

Self-care matters. But the care you get from others also matters.

In the journey towards wholeness, it might matter even more.

 

 

 

 

 

Walking My Talk

Come find me on Instagram for peeks into my personal practice and other shenanigans.

I like to think that one of the most important things I foster as a teacher and creative enabler is PRACTICE. And by that, I don’t mean ‘sketch for 2 hours a day’, though that could certainly be a part of it. When I say ‘practice’, I say it like one might say ‘yoga practice’ or ‘meditation practice’. I want to get people into their painty spaces (wherever they may be) on the regular, meeting themselves on the page, falling in love with whatever they see reflected back at them in the mirror of their journals.

I don’t know about you, but the only way for me to ensure that I do anything consistently is to make space for it as a regular PRACTICE. If I wait for inspiration to strike, or if I just do it when I ‘feel like it’, I lose steam very quickly. If my motivation is the end product, samesies. Steamless. Juiceless. Interest wanes, and I move on. But if I think of what I do as a practice, and if I know my reasons why I’m doing it as such, things shift for me.

Why I Engage Creativity As A Practice

If you were to ask me what my most important goal in life might be, I would tell you that it is to be self-possessed. I know that’s a big goal, and I know I’m not quite there yet, but my heart’s deepest desire is to know and love myself in all my parts so much, so fiercely, so consistently, that I cannot be knocked off course by anyone or anything else. I want to, in the face of a storm, declare that I am the storm. I want to, when feeling buffeted by waves, declare that I am the wave. I want to ride life. I don’t want it riding me.

If I know anything about riding life it is that it requires self-awareness. It requires regular visits to the internal landscape where the truth of my reality resides. It also requires self-compassion, because if you’re riding your life (as opposed to letting it ride you) you know yourself to be ultimately responsible for your every response. You are in charge. The buck stops with you. The good, the bad, the ugly, it’s all on you, and that’s a heavy responsibility to bear if you’re doing it without self-compassion.

This practice of meeting myself on the page, whether through written or art journaling, allows me to know myself much more deeply than I might otherwise, and knowing myself deeply allows me to have more self-compassion than I might otherwise. In an atmosphere of self-compassion, I can try and fail, grapple, soar, plummet, weigh, sift, heal, and grow under the watchful and tender eye of a self that loves herself like a mother loves her babe.

And, given where I come from, that’s huge.

Huge.

Somewhere over the last couple of years, I fell out of practice. Everything I did, I did for work, and because it was for work, I was focused on technique, focused on teaching, out of alignment with my deepest desire (which is to be self-possessed). Everything I did, I did for your eyes, not my own.

I had other practices that kept me somewhat in touch with that self that makes magic, and I made a lot of beautiful, worthy spreads for you all to engage in the classes I was teaching, but I started to feel lonely for my *self*. I started to wonder where *I’d* wandered off to. I longed to woo myself back into alignment, to woo that wild child within me to come play, to reveal herself to me anew.

I needed to revisit my own reasons why I do this thing I do, and I needed to recommit to it. I needed to rebuild trust with the self I’d all but abandoned.

Last year, I made a decision to shift things around a bit so that I’d have more time for my personal PRACTICE. I went monthly with BOD instead of bi-weekly, which made *all the difference* and freed up so much time that I could gently ease myself back into the daily routine of meeting myself on the page with the video camera OFF. When the new schedule went into effect, I dusted off a journal given to me by a beloved friend, and I returned to my practice with gusto. The spreads I make in this journal are for me and me alone. I may share images of them, but I don’t feel compelled to explain them, film their creation, or otherwise leverage them for work.

It’s had an enormous impact.

I forgot, while I was off trying to run a business, how effective art journaling is for sifting and weighing the contents of my soul. I’d forgotten how good it was as a way to self-soothe, to bring more self-compassion into my every day. I’d forgotten what a lovely way it was to be in conversation with myself – with all my parts. I’d forgotten how nourishing it was, and how this kind of unfettered creativity seeds more creativity. The less I practice, the less inspired I feel. The less in touch with myself I feel. The less self-possessed. The more I practice, the more ‘in my own skin’ I feel. The more beloved. The more seen. The more attended to.

So, I’m walking my talk.

And it’s good to be back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Music Crush + My Mini Me

LOOK AT MY MINI ME!

My daughter arrived on Friday, and we have been completely wrapped up in the comfort that is the two of us in the same space at the same time. There is a feeling of ‘home’ that happens when my girl is here that is ineffable. I wish I could find words, but love like this – fierce, protective (both of us), honest, true – is beyond my writerly reach. It is purely good. That’s all I got. Purely. Good.

She got to spend time with my boyfriend, too, and they adore one another. We were sitting there in the auditorium talking before the show started, and she was telling me what it’s like for her to watch him and I together. She tells me that there’s this thing he does with his eyes when he looks at me that feels to her like ‘home’. Y’all, she CRIED. In PUBLIC. It was the sweetest thing ever.

We called him last night so she could tell him how she feels about him, about us, and she cried a little more.

Yes, my mini me is just as tender a wee beastie as I am.

Anyway…he gives her ‘worthy of my mom’ feels, and that is saying something, yes? Yes.

*And now I’m crying, for fuck sakes. Moving on!*

We went to see Marianas Trench yesterday – my daughter’s 31st birthday present. We did the whole VIP Meet & Greet thing, and while I had a really good time, I hate to admit it, but I feel like maybe I’m getting too old for and cranky for *waves at all of that*. At least, the part where you stand in line for hours and then stand on your feet for a few more hours. I’m aching all over, y’all! BUT! The show was really good, the band was thoughtful, and I admire their musicality (even if they’re not really my jam), and my daughter was absolutely thrilled with the whole affair.

The opening act, though….OH MY HEART. I am slain.

Wilderhood? Meet Elijah Woods x Jamie Fine. 

The voice on this one. It’s something like Adele and Amy Winehouse had a baby and Janis Joplin is the Godmother. I have not been this obsessed with a new music crush since I discovered LP. 

Just wanted to share. :)

xo

Effy

P.S. Floor seats? Never again. I would rather sit up in the nosebleed section where I can sit the fuck down and enjoy the show. *LOL* The VIP lounge and early seating, however? All the YES to THAT!

 

 

 

OHAI! I AM ALIVE!

My beautiful daughter and I.

Hello, hello, hello! It’s been a long time since last we typed, eh?

Aside from some promo stuff, I haven’t properly written here in eleventy million years, and you’ve probably forgotten all about me! All good, though. I know you’ll wander back when you’re ready and we can clink mugs together once more.

As I type, my daughter is on a train from Ottawa to Kitchener to spend her birthday weekend with me, so I got up super early this morning so I could keep the train on the tracks with my mind, like mother’s do. She’s due in at 12:30, and I CANNOT WAIT TO SQUISH HER FACE. We’re having a little party here for family with cake and Fireball whisky and Caesars and beer and wine and whatever else folks bring, and then tomorrow, I’m taking her to see Mariana’s Trench – first for a meet and greet, and then the concert itself. She’s all kinds of kermit flails over it, and I am thrilled about that. She’s going to be here ’till Monday, and we have the usual stuff planned for the rest of her visit – hollandaise sauce at some point, a lot of sitting around together doing our own thing, watching something on Netflix.

We are the best of friends, my eldest child and I, and if you’ve ever hung out with us together in the same room, you know we are eerily similar. Like, we have the same facial expressions, and we finish one another’s sentences. She is so like me, but then again, she is also so unlike me. We’re both pretty flowers in the garden called life, but where I’m a thistle, she’s a rose. Where I’m all sharp edges, she’s a soft place to land.

She was the first person to call me Mama, and I am grateful to her every day for the role motherhood played in growing me, and for the friendship we’ve built together. I don’t know how I got so lucky. I just wanted you to know.

Speaking of Motherhood

Salem Bowie Floofenhauser Wild

Four weeks ago, I picked up this little beauty from a farm about an hour from here. This is Salem, the newest member of my fur family. She’s a Pomsky, which is a breed created by crossing a Siberian Husky mom with a Pomeranian dad. (You can imagine why you’d never do it the other way around, right?). I’m not into designer breeds, but I fell in total FACE LOVE when I was window shopping on Kijiji, idly scanning the ‘puppies for sale’ ads one day when I really needed a pick me up. There she was, with her heterochromia and so much attitude that I could *feel* her through the screen. I knew she was mine the moment I laid eyes on her.

She’s 14 weeks old now, and is already so much a part of what goes on around here that it feels like she’s always been here. She and her big sister, Sookie, have established pack order (Sookie is the boss of her), and half the training that goes on around here is done *by* Sookie who knows what’s what and who’s who (I’m the boss of Sookie). She beds down in the family nest every night and doesn’t budge until morning, which is very unusual for a puppy this young. She has her manic, gizmo moments, which we all call ‘crazy hour’, but she is also mellow a good part of the day, too, as long as she has one of my slippers nearby. Sybil, my cat, adores tormenting her, and she and Sookie play like they’re litter mates.

Some of you may remember that I lost a dog last year. She came to me as a rescue, and within six months, she herniated the discs in her back to the point where she could no longer even be touched without crying. It was heartbreaking, and even though she was only with us for a very short time, both Sookie and I really felt her loss. Salem has been a part of our healing. She completes the pack, and enlivens the household with her derpy, adorable face, and her irresistible antics.

She’s a blessing, y’all.

 

 

In Other News

My programs all opened in late December or Early January, and things are going gorgeously. I’m making so much art this year, and really digging into knowing myself in my parts. I’m keeping four journals this year – one a private art journal, the second my Book Of Days, the third, my Sweet Trash Journal, and the fourth, a private bullet journal that I use for tracking habits, media I consume, and ‘what was beautiful today’ spreads that include everything I find that delights or inspires me. The art I’m making this year shows a lot of progress, and I feel like I’m finding my style and my voice. Having a practice like the one I’ve developed over the years since I started doing this thing I do means that I have no choice but to grow my skills. It’s also grown my intimacy with myself and the world around me in ways that I could never have imagined.

Art I’ve made so far this year.

And yet more art I’ve made so far this year.

I’m still anxious, still recovering from C-PTSD, still working through trauma layered upon trauma layered upon trauma, and that sometimes makes for some pretty bad fucking days, but over all, I’m happy. I love my work. I love my people. I love this life I made for myself out of the ashes of The Tower experience that began in 2014. I’ve learned some things about myself over this last half year or so that I believe will help me progress, though. Feeling the feelings that have been stored in my body for 45 plus years will not kill me. I can do my work, and function in the world. There is value in showing up with all of this stuff on board, being honest about it, being transparent about my process. I’ve fallen in love with my own way of being in the world and I rarely second guess that. If I get criticized for it, I am now more likely to assume that’s a you problem, not a me problem. I’ve gotten better at boundaries. I’ve gotten better at self-care. I make a lot of space in my life for the sacred to arrive, and even take root.

Depending on the day, you will find me somewhere between totally together and never not broken on the floor, but I keep on keeping on, no matter what life throws my way, and I’m pretty proud of that.

In February, I dusted off a space that had been just kind of sitting there, and turned it into a HUB OF MIXED MEDIA MADNESS we call The Wilderhood. You might come for the art, but you’ll stay for the love. It is very much like my ‘outer court’ coven, a gathering place for my Wildlings, who are the most loving, generous, talented, kind people in the universe. Also, bad ass. SO BAD ASS. So many of my coterie are doing their own work, showing up, sharing their process, healing by leaps and bounds through the power of meeting themselves on the page. I am very proud of my community. Very proud. And I’m a devotee.

I’ve also got a quiet little pack of Wildlings over on Patreon, where I teach A Year Of Rumi as a month to month offering.

Here’s a peak at this month’s lesson.

VIEW ON YOUTUBE

Speaking Of YouTube

I’ve dusted off my YouTube channel as well, and purged it of a whole bunch of odds and ends that no longer belonged there, making the speed paintings infinitely more findable. I plan on uploading new things there on the regular, so please consider subscribing. 

And, I think that’s it for now…

There’s so much more, but it would take me forever to type it all out, and I feel like this is a good start.

I want to be more present here in the weeks and months to come, since blogging is something I intend to do daily come April 2019 (expect poems! Many poems!), and there’s no time like the present to get into a good habit. Blogging might be ‘dead’, but its good for me, so even if there’s no one out there,

I will always return to this patient box of light where my words can find a home, and my heart can be unburdened.

As always, my loves, I will see you in all of our places.

xo

Effy

 

 

 

Hello From The Other Side

I figured, since so many of you have left lovely letters in my inbox, that I’d update you on where I’m at. :)

Since last we typed, I caught a virus which lead to an ‘exacerbation’ – basically, my asthma got uncontrollably worse due to the inflammation caused by the virus that had moved into my respiratory system. I’ve been on prednisone and a couple of new puffers in order to reduce the inflammation, and I am happy to report that I am *finally* seeing some improvement. I can breathe much better than I could last week, and though I am still coughing, it isn’t quite as all encompassing an experience as it has been. I can make it from the couch to the kitchen without gripping furniture for support (the shortness of breath has been off the hook) which is nice, and I actually managed to eat solid food yesterday.

Yesterday was the first ‘close to human’ I’ve felt since the virus hit on the 5th of September, and I pulled out a limited palette of things to play with in order to remind myself that I *could still paint*. Believe me, after ten days of doing nothing but moving from bed to couch to bed again, one can forget what one is made of, and that was definitely my experience.

I came into the studio and put on a movie on the lap top (Eat, Pray, Love), pulled out a journal a friend made me years ago, and made a solemn vow to myself that I would not judge the outcome. I would just *play* for the sake of playing. I reached for whatever delighted me (in this case, fluorescent pink paint, turquois pthalo, black pen, pink and blue Tombow markers, gold paint, a stencil, a couple of Faber Castell Pitt Pens, and a white paint marker) and I just made stuff for the sake of making stuff.

It was like getting reacquainted with my inner artist, who had been hiding in a blanket fort under a pile of Vicks scented Kleenex.

Oh, hello. Are you still in there? Think you might want to come out and play?

Painting while under the influence of NyQuil is really interesting. There’s something about this stuff that depersonalizes me – meaning, I don’t feel like myself at all while I’m on it. I feel like I’m outside of myself watching myself. It is very difficult to get in touch with what’s happening on the inside of the equation. Numb is a good descriptor, along with foggy, and pretty much ‘out of it’. Still, the flinging of paint without caring about outcomes let me reach through that fog so that I could shake hands with myself once more after ten or so days of being relatively unknown to myself. It was a bit like an archeological dig. Oh, yes. There I am, under the rubble of exhaustion and an overwhelming list of blown deadlines. There I am, still complicated as ever, still grappling as usual, still half bewildered and half determined, still somehow *here*.

I know that in the big scheme of things this ten day ‘down and out’ experience of mine is no big deal. I was able to adjust things, tweak things, beg off, switch out. I survived. My business survived. But it is *scary* when something like this happens and you have absolutely no control over it. There are no sick days to call in. There’s no one to pick up the slack. It’s just you and this alarming new normal wherein two hours of upright are too many, and you can forget about painting or writing anything coherent. You’re lucky if you can make tea.

It’s made me think. Made me wonder how I can create a life in which there is time for the inevitable frailties of the body. Made me miss being partnered up so that when the chips are down, there’s someone there to change the sheets and make the soup. Made me question the way I schedule myself down to the very last second of every single month, week, day, hour.

I’m still thinking.

Meanwhile, here I am, making the most of the time I have with you this morning by coming in here to share that I am alive and mending. I also wanted to share the journaling I did yesterday in my bid for freedom from the artless, NyQuil haze. Click through them to see them full size. They’re unusual for me. A bit on the psychedelic side, colour wise. Looser than my usual fare. Less concerned with outcomes. I like them a lot, and I especially like the honesty in the sentiment I included on gold paper. “I’m willing to find out…”

CLICK THROUGH TO SEE THEM FULL SIZED

And that’s me for now, on the mend.

xo

Effy