I recently counted my art journals. well, the ones I could find and discovered I had completed about 20 or so. that is so crazy to me. TBH, I have been awful at photographing and flipping through them but hopefully, I will improve on that front soon.
seeing these stacks reminded me how far I have come and that this is not a linear thing, this journey. it’s a constant learning and unlearning. claiming and unclaiming. rarely, neat, orderly or caption worthy.
however, lining these book babies. my books (as my oldest calls them) out reminded me that I am capable of creating beauty, processing hard things, showing up, finishing things and knowing when to stop (aka not working the page to death). Life is complicated. People often think if they have a bad day, moment or series of such that life is bad or they are bad but it’s not…it’s just life and it doesn’t mean you are failing or doing it wrong. I have to remind myself of this constantly because to not do so is to rob myself of my own humanity. what good is that to my own soul?
that is why I love art journaling because it let’s me be human and not have it all together. Not that I ever do but sometimes people or the thought of (certain) people puts an unbelievable and unachievable person on me to tidy all my edges and soft spots. what good is that to my soul?
I have been swimming in the grief of losing my grandmother and so many other family members these past two years. it is not always easy…I don’t knowing why the life style gurus make us think it is…this bittersweet spot is okay.
the other day, I watched my kids play in the water. their faces like tiny time stamps of my ancestors. I know it will be okay. this is good for my soul.