In Spite of the Evidence

It occurred to me that I could have saved us all a whole lot of time... all this storytelling—each little anecdote of my life one tiny brush stroke, laboriously painting the portrait...

I could have just listed my appropriate labels: adult child of an alcoholic, sexual incest survivor, divorcee... all of those labels gleaming like badges of suffering. Then I could have offered up my trophies to show how well I succeeded in spite of all that suffering: awards for animation, my CV, portfolio, blue ribbons for basketry, a list of corporate clients who have my art work in their collections. I could tell you these things and show you these things and maybe even weave it all together with a sprinkle of philosophical wonder and you would know who I am.

Nah... I don't even know who I am and I've lived all that stuff. One element seems to recur: survival. I took a lot of risks, (still do) trusted a lot of strangers. For more than half of my life I did those things pretty blindly, without much awareness. Awareness brought a little caution, but not much. Somewhere in my mid forties I realized I wanted something more "worthwhile" to add to my trophies, that in and of themselves, they meant very little. I craved something basic... feed the homeless, comfort the dying. Something was whispering "incomplete."

I've been "on the brink" of who I was to become so many times it makes me laugh. It especially makes me laugh to realize that life is so precarious and short that we are always on the brink without knowing it. (But sometimes I knew it.)