Since my mother passed I've been looking for signs; anything to let me know that she's okay. Both my brother and sister proclaim that they have felt her presence in some form, but for me, nothing. I'm not a particularly religious person, I see myself as more of a spititual being; I find it hard to accept that once we take our last breath that's it, game over. So the fact that I've received nothing leaves me wondering if I failed her as a son.
Following one of my most vivid dreams of late I woke up in tears, I couldn't remember all of the details as they tend to disolve shortly after waking, but I had this overpowering sense of grief which stayed with me for the remainder of the day. At somepoint, I think around midday I decided to force myself out of bed and make something of the day. I turned to my notebook and tried to document my thoughts, the process bringing with it some degree of reconciliation with my own psyche.
I've turned to the heling power of art before, I think we all have, but I'm not accustomed to that healing coming from my own work, or at least I've never thought of it in that way. But the collage that was born out of my emotions and words made sense, it felt complete. The darkness, the three geese taking flight, the blurred symbols of love in the foreground and finally my mum looking over my empty bed, all made sense. How this work feeds into my practice I'm not entirely sure. Naturally my dreamscenes appear on a more personal level, illustrating my diary, maybe I'll keep them that way.
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