So, this painting started out as a self portrait which it still is. I realize that I don’t have long flaming hair anymore, nor is it that particular shade of pink, but she is still me.
She is me because she finally feels sexy, she is me because she is free, in her element-in nature, with her hair blowing in the wind to show you how wild she feels.
She is me not just because of the owl tattoo but because of what she means. I’m no good at analyzing art. My friend Cindy is, however.
She told me the painting symbolizes rebirth. And it does. You know, in life we make our plans, we go about our business, and set on a path we think will lead us to never never land, but in truth, we make bad choices. We don’t listen to our intuition when it tells us: criticism is not love. Focusing on a person’s flaws is not love.
It never was love. It was unreciprocated, this feeling of love that she felt.
She loved him, she did. She tried everything she could to be the best person in the world, the person he would want, but she failed. And do you know why she failed? She failed because all she needs to do in life is be herself.
I speak in the third person because that person doesn’t exist anymore, that girl who needed, that girl who longed for, and did not receive true acceptance.
It’s some sort of an evolution, the idea of rebirth. The other day, my daughter Dakota, in a fit of jealousy, said she wished Dharma wasn’t around. I said, well what should I do, Dakota? Should I put her back in my belly?
But maybe we can put ourselves back in the belly. Maybe not our mother’s belly. Especially if our mothers were less than perfect. But certainly, we can mother ourselves. Care for ourselves. Love ourselves. We can mother ourselves. We can.
In a perfect womb, we can feed and nourish ourselves while we grow in our ideas and our creativity, and when the time is right, we will birth ourselves, coming out of the womb, and knowing that birth hurts. If you’ve had a home birth like I have, or have had a natural (no painkillers) birth, you know what I’m talking about.
Birthing is a painful and beautiful process. Remember this when you are birthing yourself. It hurts in a good way, because you are bringing life into the world, this magical and amazing being that comes into the world soaking in beautiful white light, much like that episode of Charmed where she births the baby at home, and he comes into the world swirling in beautiful white light (yes, I watch Charmed, shaddap).
So, birthing is an evolution of ourselves. We are always evolving, always growing. We can choose this. We can choose to accept change, or we can choose to become bitter angry people, wishing that we had what we did in our teens or twenties. But that’s not life. Life is the fact that sometimes you have to work for a living, and sometimes it means working a lot. That doesn’t mean that you flaunt it, as if you are this amazing person because you take care of your children.
Life is the fact that shit happens. Life happens.
Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans -John Lennon
It’s true. I have learned this first hand the past few months, and the past few years. I realize that you can’t always plan everything out.
What I can do, what I CAN plan, is to make my life better. To make MY life an amazing one. I can choose to make my life beautiful no matter what the circumstance. No matter what is going on.
I love this poem by Maya Angelou, “I rise”. When all of this happened to me, I read the poem, and watched her recite it on youtube and it just really resonated with me. I love it, and the poem means a lot to me.
I’ll post my favorite part of her poem:
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise.
Currently listening to:
Diana Gonzalez Diana Gonzalez is a self taught artist, writer and poet, formerly known as The Craftaholic.
“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”