Writing
Excerpt from Roberta’s book, Courage Reborn
Winter 2001- New York City
It has been a few months since Lisa has left us, and I am losing gloves. I get on the crosstown bus with packages, or I am just trying to get to the subway. I take off my gloves. Because the bus has the heat cranked up so high, I want to get completely undressed. Heat is overused in New York City. The heat is so intense in my apartment, I wear a tank top and use a summer blanket for the entire winter.
I take off my gloves, because that is what I can do now. I’m on a crowded bus, thick with winter coats of grey and brown brushing up against me. The heat is blasting and I am prickly and sensitive from my grief. There is no personal space. The best I can do is take off my gloves. I probably forget to put them in my pockets.
I get distracted with random thoughts, perhaps some sadness, and totally forget about the gloves until I get off the bus and once again start to feel the cold. The gloves probably slip from my lap and end up on the gritty bus floor.
Living in New York City is challenging, but I love it. I have seen people run down the street in freezing temperatures to return a dropped glove, but i have lost mine on a crowded bus and there will be no finding them.
My mother feels bad, so she buys me a pair of fancy gloves. I lose them too.
I start buying cheap gloves at the drugstore.
Summer 2001 New York City
I want to paint. I have been painting like crazy. I need to paint. But it is summer school in the continuing education program and sometimes the classes do not fill up.
The teacher puts us in a room and tells us what they are offering. There’s a drawing class and a design class. I look at the the teacher, Richard PItts, and say, “I want to paint.” He sees something in me, maybe in my eyes. He tells me if I sign up for his class, he will let me paint; so I do, and he keeps his word.
He puts me in a room by myself and sets up a still life. We decide on a limited pallet. Because I use so many bright colors when face painting, it will be a good challenge-white, black, yellow ochre, and burnt sienna. And for five or six weeks, twice a week for three hours, I am in a room by myself having a Zen painting experience.
Richard pops in from time to time. “Lighter lights, darker darks,” he says as he runs out the door. And I am left to study the objects. To get into their souls. I see entire universes in a plastic orange. I see galaxies in a piece of driftwood.
He pops back in, picks up one of my brushes, and with one stroke or a dab or white, an object has more depth. I think it is magic.
I lose track of time. Three hours turns into four, then five, maybe more. Richard tells me to lock the door when I leave. I have my own private painting studio that summer in a classroom at FIT.
Febrary 25, 2018- Philadelphia
It is six months after Suzanne’s passing and the shock is wearing off. I have been hypervigilant because of all the tasks I have had to do, but after a big break at the beach where everything s-l-o-w-e-d d-o-w-n, things are getting harder.
The fog is different now. I have been writing since visiting Kripalu in December. Writing comes from my feeling brain. It bypasses the thinking brain. I can write in the fog. It helps me get some clarity in the fog.
I want to write every day, so I leave the house with my writing notebook every day. While writing, I dive into my grief and express every aspect of it. I get to remember things I had forgotten and begin to put the story of my journey dow on paper. I haven’t felt this kind of committment to anything in a very long time.
I go to the bak to withdraw some money from the ATM and realize I don’t have my wallet. I don’t have my wallet, but I have my notebook. Writing has become my lifeline.
____________________
