It is certainly specific to me. Hence, I didn't plan to share it. I couldn't quite see how it would be of interest to you.
However, now that many of us in the world are practicing some sort of staying inside, it feels a little relevant. It is about being inside, all the way inside, and exploring.
The image I'm using here is not the one that inspired the piece (I don't have permission to use that pic I imagine) but it is equally as much a self-portrait for me and it works. The only edit I had to make in order to use it was getting rid of the word "snow".
Whether or not this piece has any relevance to you I hope you can feel the value of taking time inside. Of exploring all the styles of ourselves and the memories we make and the rooms we build that we sometimes refuse to leave, regardless of what other memories or rooms we could be taking time to create and experience. For me, a big one is simply my sons growing up. Seriously, I couldn't wait for it until it happened and then I didn't know how to live with it. Now, I do.
And largely because I wrote this.
I hope you are equally able to take advantage of time inside.
Happy reading, friends!
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)
Inside
I was sent here – brought here? – as
some form of punishment. Banished with the expectation of reflection. Yet, I
can see no punishment in this.
The beauty is breathtaking!
Literally, my breath stops often here
and I feel it being accepted as a gift by This Place. I want to give it, too.
Give my breath away. However, so far I haven’t.
Just as my vision distorts and the
pain that exists on my peripheries (quiet pain, a reminder of where I am not) begins
to fade, I pull the breath back to me, back into me.
This Place returns it gracefully. It
seems to have no agenda.
And so I spend much of my time
attempting to reflect. I would say I spend many days, but it is always some
form of day and night here. The passing of time counted in how many things I’ve
thought rather than calendar or clock.
Yet the beauty and scope of This Place
don’t encourage reflection from me so much as it demands exploration. Oh, not
so much of the adventurous treasure hunting kind. More of a curious probing and
bringing to life. Well, there is adventure and treasure in that.
Inside I am warm and cozy. The coffee
here is always perfectly percolated, even though I don’t remember ever perking
it. In fact, that is something I’ve never been good at. Choosing instead to own
drip coffee makers even though percolated coffee is my favorite. I’ve always
been someone who will accept what is good rather than risk ruining it in hopes
of making something better.
I enter new rooms often. Coffee wrapped
in my hands, tapping my ring on the mug – I’m wearing my ring here, I hear.
I consider first the room’s décor.
Aside from the kitchen and living room, which are styled in a way I imagine
many would expect if walking up to this house, rustic with a fireplace and area
rugs, other rooms are surprisingly decorated.
I call the room at the top of the
stairs Angry Teenager. Black, metal, dangerous, on edge. I go there for that
feeling. Of course, as I explore, items reveal themselves that invite more
complexity. Scribbled hopeful poetry, an Anne Murray CD, a picture book of only
cute kittens.
The Princess room – prettified with
fairies and forest animals - rarely calls to me but I’ve visited more than once.
Creating, as I do here, backstories for the room and its occupant.
Now that I think about it, I guess it
isn’t true that I’m not called to reflect here. It’s just that my reflections
are always imbedded in my inventions. Backstories – invented or experienced -
and explorations guide my reflections.
Other than the kitchen-living room
combo, it’s The Boy’s room I spend most of my time in. (If you know me you may
have been surprised I didn’t say the library. Of which, in This Place, there
are a few! But, no. You aren’t surprised. If you know me.)
The Boy’s room is also upstairs, on
the opposite side of the living room. It has a window that reaches slightly
away from the house and I know that’s dangerous, calling as it does for
adventure that moves away. But I also approve, and think it’s just the right
amount of danger and away.
Oh, how I love imagining and remembering stories in
there!
The toys are familiar (Admittedly,
everything in This Place is familiar. For a person who craves creating I’ve
never been good at inventing things that are wildly different from what I live
with or know well. Rearranging, working with what is familiar, that’s my
forte.) and I play, while bringing The Boys to mind.
Confession: This is a place where I am
only alone, can only be alone, and I don’t mind that for now. Eventually I’ll
want more. My own ideas are limited without diverse others to add and
elucidate. Also, I do crave The Boys. I’m aware, in a reluctant way, my desire
for them when they are no longer available is why I am here.
Right now, though, I’m looking outside.
Telling this while I stare out at the trees. (Of course, trees. A
little on the nose! In many ways my imagination is truly lazy.) I feel the pain
on the periphery and allow it, not for the first time, to wrap around me.
It is only when the pain is pervasive
that I can exist simultaneously in This Place and That Place. I’m able to feel
and hear and sometimes even see everything and all of it at once. I can only
hold onto this for a short moment, like trying to hold onto the splendor of
having an epiphany. Or an orgasm.
I think I must not let the pain get its hooks
in me or I will be stolen from This Place entirely. I’m sure of it.
I’m not sure I want that.
But something is happening. As I’m
doing this telling, feeling a desire to explain, have it make sense, I can’t
ignore what I’ve been trying not to know.
If I go back to That Place, I will be
stolen from This Place. But also, This Place will be with me.
True, I won’t likely
be sent – brought? – here in this way. But This Place is me. A self-portrait.
Nothing more or less magical than that.
And That Place, where the pain waits,
is where The Boys are. Well, no. That is the point. Where they no longer are.
There, they are men.
None live home with me, snuggling,
fighting, playing, sniffling, reaching always ultimately in my direction and me
in theirs.
But in This Place I am only alone, can
only be alone. (Let the breath go: stay!)
And the pain in That Place is where
the people are. (Embrace the pain: return!)
I did this to myself. I banished
myself.
I brought myself here.
I must choose.
Myself.
