The Lost Days

There are struggles with physical limitation in illness, the pain, weakness, and fatigue that so quickly erode our pride and aspirations and make simple tasks, even breathing, so difficult. But the pressures of these limitations call forth a deeper struggle which is ongoing within us but usually unconscious—that of the self in its efforts to be, to unfold and fulfill its purpose. 

~ Kat Duff (1)

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I’ve not been well for a number of weeks, and consequently I’ve barely set foot in my studio, let alone been able to work on anything. It’s strange how the onset of illness causes interests and aspirations to slip away to be replaced by apathy and meaninglessness. It’s painful. Yet for all its harshness, this lack of purpose is itself a self-protective message from the body, saying, You must rest.

I’ve rested and done very little. Still, there is a sense of loss at the days that have been consumed by illness, each day blurring into the next, such that there are few events to anchor memory on. It amazes me that autumn is almost over. Where has the time flown to?

It seems that I can trace the passage of the last few months through the paintings I have made. Creativity was beginning to flow more easily. To not create anything for weeks leaves an emptiness that begs to be filled somehow, but it brings with it an all-familiar stuckness. It took such effort to begin to create images, and now I have to begin yet again, not knowing what I am capable of.

Clarissa Pinkola Estés says: ‘Do your art. Generally a thing cannot freeze if it is moving. So move. Keep moving.’ (2) I think this is good advice. Yet how does it apply to someone with a chronic illness who needs to cease moving from time to time? It is all the more difficult to keep a creative practice alive when there are often long periods of not working that must be endured, and a deep sense of doubt that returns with every retreat from activity. I become scared that I will never have a good idea, never be inspired. I descend into a depression that makes me wonder if I will ever be creative again. 

It’s therefore just as strange that when I begin to return to some kind of wellness—meagre though it may be—I feel what I can only describe as a sense of euphoria. Joy begins to surge tentatively through my veins. I can’t say where it comes from, for the current state of the world still angers and upsets me, so it feels a little incongruous. I suppose it must be the energy of life, for life always wants to live, even when it seems an impossibility.  

So, I’m spending time in my studio once more, taking some cautious steps back into art-making. I trust that work will emerge again soon.

To be honest, though, I haven’t quite done nothing recently. I’ve knitted one beanie in readiness for the fast-approaching winter, and am working on a second. 

And I have begun reading a book that I hope will bring me some inspiration—Susan Griffin’s account of her own experience of illness, What Her Body Thought: A Journey into the Shadows. As she says, ‘the truth is that illness … uncovers hidden reserves of strength.’ (3) 

I suppose that is why I continue on, trying to make up for the lost days, and saving what inspiration I can for the next fallow time I will endure.

References

1. Kat Duff, The Alchemy of Illness, Bell Tower: New York, 1993, p. 71

2. Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run with the Wolves: Contacting the Power of the Wild Woman, Rider: London, 1992, p. 183

3. Susan Griffin, What Her Body Thought: A Journey into the Shadows, HarperSanFrancisco: New York, 1999, p. 43