IT IS LIKE A MIRACLE!

I had surgery a week ago and have been taking it easy at home, recovering.  I am astounded by the healing abilities of the body.  Immediately after the operation and in the three days following, I was convinced that I would not survive.  But then I turned the corner and the pain began to lessen.  And all of this happened while I sat and watched.  I did nothing to facilitate the process.  We are simply and miraculously programmed to rebuild.  Until we are not.

During the fourth of fifth night of curling myself protectively over my own abdomen in my chair in front of the TV, I answered the phone and was informed that I was a semi-finalist in a $50,000 home makeover contest.  Normally, I would have simply said I was not interested and hung up the phone.  But perhaps due to boredom, or due to the drugs languishing in my blood, I began to question the voice on the other end of the line. 

We had already established that I was indeed Cheryl (pronounced chair-rail) Hicks, but I had to explain two times to the voice that I had not entered a contest before he found the place in his script where he assured me that sometimes one’s name simply becomes available for such contests on the internet.  “It is like a miracle.”

Perhaps that is what made me continue to question the voice.

“Where did you get my name and phone number?  Who do you work for?”

“Yes, well, the identity of the principal of the organization at the immediate top of the corporation is… “  (and here I lost track of my ability to listen.  I am still unsure whether this was due to the painkillers or the abundance of prepositional phrases, but I do recall that the entity itself had something to do with Yahoo.)

The voice assured me that I was immediately eligible for some $200 worth of gift cards and all I had to do was… (again, this requirement of action, even in the abstract, caused my brain to shut down momentarily).

I asked a couple more questions and each one was followed by, “Yes, well…” (sound of shuffling script pages)… and a surprisingly forthcoming answer.  I began to suspect that solicitors were not allowed to lie.

Suddenly the game was no longer challenging for either of us, and the voice asked, most politely, to speak to Mr. David Hicks.  Even as I assured him that Mr. David was also not interested in his generous offer, I was thinking about the identity attached to the voice and about the nature of commerce that bubbles just under the crust of our information driven society often undetected, at least by those like me who live fairly sheltered lives.

Somewhere, probably on the other side of the planet, a human being spent several hours each day/night dealing with people like me and people unlike me.  Some would be rude.  Some would be delighted by their luck.  Some would realize that this might be the best job available to the voice right now and that it was important for his job security for him to conclude each call as efficiently as possible.

I wondered if the voice got any credit for keeping me on the line a few extra seconds or if he was penalized somehow when these seconds did not lead to a successful conclusion.  I wondered what I would do if the only job I could get was talking to strangers on the phone for hours at a time about things most of them did not want to talk about. 

I said, “Thank you , but I am not interested,”  and hung up the phone. 

I repositioned myself physically and wondered about the organism that is our planet, the combined cultures, economies, policies, oil spills, earthquakes, personalities, frailties, talents, technologies, vices , visions and voices that make up the world community.  And I wondered if there was any hope that she still had the ability to heal herself.

SELF PORTRAIT UPDATED

HOW YA LIKE ME NOW?

 

I have started a new self-portrait.  I try to make myself do one annually, but some years I avoid the whole self-reflective process.  Today I was thinking of some of the most famous self-portraits I have seen.  Frida Kahlo, Vincent VanGogh, Chuck Close… It is no coincidence that these three artists have greatly influenced my portraits.

The thing about a self-portrait is that it makes you look at yourself if a different way.  I may put on make-up every day (okay, maybe not every day in the summer), and it makes me realize that looking in a mirror is different from looking at a photograph.  It is sort of the same thing as hearing your voice in person as compared as to hearing a recording of your voice.  It can be almost unrecognizable!  For example, one day I called my house to talk to my husband and when he was not there, I left a generic message on the answering machine.  Something along the lines of,  “Hi.  It’s me.  I’ll call back later.”  Now, I am a little embarrassed to admit that later that day when I came home and played the message on the machine, for a brief moment I did not recognize my own voice and thought for just a moment that my daughter had called.  This can be attributed to the fact that I am a little goofy, that my voice sounds a whole lot like my daughter’s voice, and that the voice one hears in a recording is just different from the voice that resonates out of one’s own head.  And the whole thing reminds me of how many ways I am out of touch with my true self.

I don’t know why artists tend to recreate themselves. I do know that I have never painted a self-portrait with the intention of selling it.  And yet, with the exception of one self-portrait that my husband wanted to keep, I have sold all of the ones I have painted. Perhaps artists paint themselves because the subject is readily available.  Perhaps it is due to vanity.  Perhaps it is a form of soul searching.   My instincts lean toward the latter.

My face has changed a lot in the ten years that I have been painting.  I jokingly told my daughters one day recently that my face is collapsing.  But really, it was no joke.  The plump parts that once made my cheeks perky and my face heart shaped have begun to slump.  I can only imagine them going a bit further south each day, moving steadily and irretrievably toward the land of Jowldom. 

As an artist I always appreciated a beautiful face.  As a fifty-year-old woman, I am learning to appreciate the marks life leaves on one’s countenance.  When I look at my face these days, I see a strong resemblance to my mother.  My relationship with Mamma was not always ideal.   As a writer I have tapped into this vein repeatedly.  As an artist I am just beginning to do the same thing.   When I notice that my mouth is shaped somewhat like hers, I remind myself not to say hurtful things to people.  When I realize that my eyes are large like hers, I realize that in many ways I am still an innocent.  And as I have learned to be a little gentler with myself, I have learned also to cut my mother a little slack.

A few years ago I started a series of poems titled Conversations with the Virgin.  Of course, it goes without saying that these poems are a spiritual exploration, but they are also an attempt to reconcile my negative feelings for my mother with the need to embrace my own femininity.  The two poems below are from this series:

 

 

FULL PARDON

 

Lady of Luminous Laughter,

I know you look down on me

and wonder at my stupidity,

that you must marvel at my inability

to appreciate the wonder that saturates my life.

 

Prone to melancholy, sometimes

I pretend that my tears are born of glee

and that the sudden lurching snap

that jerks me toward the earth’s hot core

is natural, even desirable.

 

Sometimes I confuse you

with the young Cambodian woman

who runs the cash register at the liquor store,

so determined to pull from me

some detail of my day, yet always willing

to pay me for my reluctance

with patience

with her boundless exuberance,

with her predictable reassurance,

with these four simple words, “You are so beautiful!”

 

Sometimes you remind me of my friend Kat,

(You know, the one with the tumor?)

and the way she looked at me that day

and how with a smile that lifted only

the left side of her face, she said simply,

“You have a beautiful life.”

 

Sometimes my face turns hot

and my shame grows unchecked,

blossoming uninhibited in my chest

until almost no oxygen remains and

all I can think is that I should have

visited Mamma before she died.

 

Then, I imagine you there, in that otherworldly place,

with your arms crossed gently over your breast,

holding your veil, soft against your face

and floating toward the ceiling

where, with only the occasional silent smile,

you rain peace and understanding from the rafters.

 

 

AND BY THE FACT ITSELF

 

Lady, my thoughts of you are as thin

as the skin on the back of my hands. 

The star in my lucid dreams you are

and it seems that I can’t even take a phone message

without automatically adding a reference to you.

Holy Mother, I once read

that those wishing to control dreams

should spend their last minutes of life

each night studying the backs of their hands.  You see,

 

and I know you do, that our hands are the things

we see more than others,

more than other objects,

more than other expressions, digressions…

more than thoughts throughout our waking sessions.

 

Ip

so

fact

o

 

when we see them in our sleep,

our deep subconscious minds design scenarios

in which they’re able to function.  And so

sound dreamers function in their sleep.

 

But Lady, my eyes weep tears of blood

as slumber goes

the way of wonder,

the way of distant thunder born of memory,

the way that gender

only begins to explain

the differences between our legs, and so we run

and run and run like dogs asleep,

and never still, we keep

the sacred pacts of childhood.  

 

Today I look at my face

and I see your smile.