by Sandy Bassie

Connection

Photo (c) 2020 Margreet Kuypers, used by permission

I wrote the following and gave it a day to breathe. Rough starts don’t determine the end. Learning to speak truth, I’m discovering the good people who care about me.

The day began with words, as it often does, struggling with fears and the prospect of days off facing them. I continued to make notes throughout as I often do. It’s good for reflecting.

Make myself get out of bed, eat something, write out a gratitude list for a workshop. Tell myself I will do these things. I am depressed. I need to acknowledge it. I want to practice drawing, paint something for fun, write in my journal. Edit a section of memoir, poem or song. Play my guitar, even just one song. Call a counselor or friend.

Depression slows time, drags it out, pushes sleep like a pillow at my face. I can’t stay here. I push back with activity. That works some days. Others not at all. I don’t like this place. I carry it to work at times and the weight is crushing.

Work covers bills. It has been a safe place for two years. Fighting depression, I depend on interaction. Most days, it helps. Lately it’s more complicated and this week made me lonely. I need to keep an eye on how I feel.

At the beginning of our lock down, when lines and limits were first established, shock took charge. I know this place. Crisis and abuse for years, my body on high alert watching for danger, keep others safe, push away anything else but focus, stay focused.

This crisis is less now. It’s becoming familiar. I don’t have shock to help me cover emotions with necessity. Coping becomes harder. Work is safe, but brings an element of isolation. Self Check Out is work done mostly alone. It can be busy, but also lonely. It has run the gamut the past six weeks. At the moment, I don’t have panic to create an edge. I do worry about contact, still tell people stand back. It’s easy to forget. Weather warming, I spend days serving couples and families, people talking about homes and gardens, all the details of life shared. A quieter crisis. It sounds stupid. I miss those things even though I know I am better away from the abuse. I hate alone, but it’s life at the moment, so I live stuck between my two boxes. Work and home.

Sharing my mood on Facebook, a friend offered a walk (appropriately social distanced). An hour meandering old streets, by water, old houses, tall trees. We stopped at points to take photos, reflective, social, just for fun. Water and shadows, movement and moods. We caught up on life and longing. Processing our current state of suspension, our observations on ways we, and others, cope or don’t as we navigate needs and wants.

End of day, I finished writing this, most of my hoped for activities done and space for contemplation of what’s to come. I’m grateful for friends reaching out, for time, walks and opportunities to hug a tree. Yes. There is still life left to be lived. Alone is part reality, part state of mind. And a little connection goes a long way.

Life is good.

 

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by Sandy Bassie

Faith

Asked, “what is faith?” I .. hesitate. /A tiny voice / alive in me, raises itself / just enough to whisper, /”faith is life.” // Curious, I lean in to see, and /earn a smile. /This tiny bud beams at me. There /beneath its childlike form, crayon in hand, /a drawing, incomplete /but shining.

So I’m playing with the idea of pauses, line breaks, my relation to the words written and reflecting on them.

I wrote these before the shutdown …. before …. well, before.

Faith has been on my mind frequently the past few years. Divorce, breaking a life, learning to open, look inside. Not wanting to see. Some places are dark, a little bruised, torn, struggling to heal. Some places still unexplored. It’s hard to venture into the unknown. Trust. Especially hard to trust myself.

I made a mistake, entered into a relationship that wasn’t one. I am the one who stayed and stayed, who had to move away, shift, push my mind, my heart and my body off the known edge. I am the one.

Those are hard words to say. Words I once knew as insult or assault, now given some time and space, a little faith allowed some elbow room. These same words ‘the one’ become freedom.

I can let go of the accusations  Told there’s always ‘the one’. Oh yes, always the one who …. fill in any sin, error, wrong that could be dredged up.  An odd turn of phrase yet clear judgement and penalty. Faith. It was often the source or reason for anger turned against me, for judgement, for penalty. Faith. Having it too often required me to forgive,and  forgive again. To be the one who lived faith, who walked it out regardless any truth in the actions being forgiven.

Still. Faith hopes. It’s hard to kill hope. Faith comes with every new day, a light in our darkness. I think it’s stubborn, like me. Faith insists on living, even in the darkness, even in disaster, even in hatred and disgust, demeaning moments that try to beat me down. I may pause, let tears come. But like the image, though tiny in form, faith stubbornly sees colour and light; draws hope where there is none.

Faith. Is willing to be the one.

Faith.

by Sandy Bassie

Perception / Flashes

Pictures draw me. A while back I saw one, done by a friend on Instagram. It caught my eye. Perception is strange. Sometimes we see what we think we see without looking closely. This was that day and that look. I pursued it. Curiosity leading the way. A block of images, a pink pig. A hat. I see a heart on his back.

My mind flashes images. At times, I forget things. At times, I worry about it, but I admit, I have more things to forget now than when I was young. More to forget than before my ex, than before he hurt me. More to forget than PTSD cares to remember. More to avoid, let slide or quickly drop.

Avoid, slide and drop are curious components of my PTSD. A tangible experience when it happens. Movements as things vanish; seemingly down or to the left. I’m sure there’s meaning there – hidden behind the flash of movement, behind the sudden jolt of recognition, a realization of something gone, rush of emotion, fear of loss, of cautious longing. More curiosity than care to know.

And so, on this day, I stare at the pink pig, smelling his flower, an odd almost heart shaped red burst upon his back. And wonder, what is that, and how is it he stands so still, intent upon a single flower?

 

[Photo by permission of Meredith Rose]

 

 

by Sandy Bassie

Allow Peace

In my building, there’s no beauty outside my windows, just a parking lot. I’m one of the few who don’t have at least a chair on the balcony. At home, I had chairs front and back, both decks. Nothing fancy; simple plastic chairs my son painted green out front and a basic metal and glass patio set out back, umbrella barely hanging on as it rusted around the base.

I’ve never been good at Martha Stewart, Feng Shui or Hygge. I’m more give me a step to sit on, a patch of sunlight and birdsong, a table covered in paints, brushes and water jugs. I definitely do not do the windowsill decorations that neighbours take so much joy in creating. A few I admire. Mostly, I stop and look out towards the farm to our north. I jokingly tell people I may move into the hallway as it has my favourite view.

Admitting that I miss the views I enjoyed at my house is sad. I’ve been realizing that with more strength of emotion lately; how much I miss. I miss my spring garden with its beautiful bulbs. Butterflies, bees and ants, many birds and every year a robin who would sit on the kitchen windowsill and say hi. I miss the backyard. It was a mess. Just a garden-covered rock hill whose plants I couldn’t keep nice. I took a better run at it in the years before neck and shoulder injuries stole the enjoyment, but it was beyond me. Maybe if I could have paid for help? Maybe.

Martha Stewart, Feng Shui and Hygge assume willingness to live in your space. I have so much trouble doing that, worked too long at believing where I lived wasn’t mine to enjoy. Miss my house. I could almost let a little Hygge happen there if I still had it, but here. Here is still far from me.

I met a lovely woman when I first moved here, and miss her since she moved away. She had the most beautiful things in her apartment, all laid out in Hygge style. Her rooms had the same directional space as mine, but felt so different. It mystified me. I loved being there for the softness of her couch, the simplicity of her table and other furniture, the colours, and lights, everywhere tiny lights danced on surfaces and hid among her other decorations. Her apartment was so peaceful.

She was brave. When she found herself alone, she decided to take a firm stand on out with the old and in with the new. She purged completely. What she had now was all her. Where she lived told that story. Every piece of furniture, while inexpensive, was something she had chosen for this place. Every decoration, all of her kitchen appliances, art, tiny lights hidden in tree branches, the colours and positions … none of it was accident. It was all her and designed to help her be at peace. I enjoyed going there just to sit and breathe.

I’ve been here two years. I don’t find mine comfortable yet, it has a few spots, but I’m still working at it. Past things live too large. I can’t get rid of them. They aren’t the things that can go. Not yet. Later maybe, but for now they are here, and I live in the nook and crannies of my art space … a table, a chair, bookcases and a window looking out onto cars in the lot. It has to do. Creativity only needs an opening to exist.
Creativity happens in the little things, finds life in surprises. When I get the chance, I walk the halls. I look to see what people put in the windows. I look out over the fields to my farm. I look to see if anything living comes to visit. I look for the peace I had with my friend. I try to find some Hygge even without her here.

And so I stopped, looked, took in the scene. The tiny window layout had that sense of calm and comfort. I took a picture because it framed my farm so nicely. Because on that day, walking the halls, that window, that scene made me smile and there are times I need to remember.

We are all still isolating. I don’t walk the hall often at the moment. I don’t visit neighbours, though I hear other voices at times and occasionally see people coming and going. Being inside without connection is a strange feeling. I miss connection. At work, I’m surrounded by shoppers. Standing on circles. Marking distance. Moving back to lines on the floor for price matching or asking for help. Stay back. Keep away. It isn’t really connection. Little conversation happens beyond how can I help and thank you for being here. Being here. It’s a big deal. Existing. Doing. Being. It’s tiring. At times I walk between me and work. Stare at the same things. Breathe. Look for peace. When I find it, I take a picture. I want to remember.

Remembering is one way of coping with being. Learning the things that let me smile, breathe, find peace. This is a long journey. I take the picture and hold to the memories when they come. Allow peace … and Breathe.

by Sandy Bassie

Time/Wasted

This, a few days ago. A little wasted time births poetry from tired mind.

I
Weeping, the face of your brightness now obscured, beauty in despair
Aranea glistens as frosted morning fades


II
Within the grey, eyes still bright … stars remember the glory of the day … ah morning, come softly into the quiet of our dreams


III
I pale as stagnant waters puddle behind my eyes, tired dregs of longing, th3se yesterdays and tomorrows struggle in endl3ss eddies, desperate for release

by Sandy Bassie

Intangible

Instagram is becoming a closer friend. For quite a while, I had the app on my phone but seldom looked, even at posts from friends. 

Lately, I’m posting pictures …. paintings actually …. reflecting moods in my off hours. At home, after work, before work, alone is too much. I need something tangible to ground me.  So much of this time hurts the intangible. I ache not knowing how to fill it. 

I paint, write, email. I phone. I struggle.

Today’s painting reflects the weight I feel. And strangely, the lightness of being alone within it. 

 

by Sandy Bassie

Isolation

It has been a strange month. Isolation is all around us. Whether at home or work, I feel it deeply. There is a weight to it. The smells are louder. I’m allergic/hypersensitive to the cleaners we use at work. Benadryl helps, but not completely. I was given a mask by a lovely lady in town. I’m wearing it, realizing it may do nothing against germs, but it creates a  buffer between me and the wipes, sprays and continual cleaning. 

I live in a place of in between. I’ve lived here before, but that was more abuse and fear of the tangible, approachable implications. You could see and hear it coming. This is different. Everything looks the same, well nearly. There are the lineups, blank spots on store shelves, less cars on the road, so much more quiet to the day when I sit here listening to the simple sounds outside. Dogs bark, they must be walked. Some cars pass by, there are almost no sirens. I noticed that last week or the one before. It startled me, hearing a siren go past and I suddenly realized it was an anomaly to my now usual day. Before I’d hear at least two or three each day heading somewhere. We must be safer locked inside. I hope we’re learning the lessons that slower provides.

The first week or two at work were chaos. Angry, pushy, at times long distance and self important shoppers demanding things I could not give. My body remembers and shifted gears. Within a day, I noticed it … the alarm of crisis in action … I was perfectly calm and steady.  Aware, heightened awareness, attentive and ready for whatever came. I moved with speed and accuracy between my self check area and the door. I shifted into teacher mode – Jacob mode – and was giving prompts with encouragement, focusing all our attention (mine and the customers) to the task of keeping the flow. Instruction mingled with story, I wove connections and got smiles. We were a team. Back and forth I went, encouraging, thanking them … three out, one in, get the flow, break congestion at the tills, switch gears, one out one in, thank you for helping. On and on. 

 Yesterday it was one month, exactly one month since my other job closed. Medical. We had to. In that time, my life consists of the constant back and forth between store and home, store and home. I work as much as I can, pick up shifts to make up for the emptiness January and February fed my bank accounts. I feel guilty appreciating the opportunity to work and make it up. I shift between high and low, distance and alone. It’s an odd little melodrama I play out all alone. Its peaks and valleys are fine some days, but others the fog rolls in and I barely cope. In the good moments, between low and high, I write and I paint. Let my body share the distress with a tangible medium. My only real contact besides the cleaning surfaces, and they give me nothing back. 

My goal, for now, try to write what wants to come. Then try to write what needs to come. And try to write the things I planned and struggle to get out.  Here. Instagram. Facebook and email groups. Lift my head, look and see, let it out. Share me. 

For today, a link. I’ll post them here too when I have a moment to remember how it work. Right now. Find food. Pack lunch. Head to work. 

ART of LIFE in this ISOLATION:

Painting emotions this month Inner ‘isolation’. https://www.instagram.com/p/B_IQX2NAHo4/?igshid=1h7nr4c6zpd92

by Sandy Bassie

Reflection

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As today is one of my down days (non work days), I slept.  When I woke I sent a brief note to an art group keeping each other company through emails … and wrote this:

Poem / Reflection

A cup of tea to toast the day and hope to wash my yesterday whose isolated state was bathed in lysol-laden gestures drawing hope upon the air and touching light on momentary contacts I hope we do not share.

All stop and start and wait and run exhausts my inner gears. Ah rest, you’re welcome,  though in bursts a little hard to bear. I have forgot, but toast and tea and quiet gives me time to think and stare at mental notes and images; reflect upon them here.

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by Sandy Bassie

Remember to Breathe

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2020 sandy-bassie Swirl

Two days off … I slept.  And when I wasn’t sleeping, or listening to TV talk about Covid-19 news, I made art. Words, Paint. Music. Something to fill my spirit with light. Not artificial light of my apartment or workplace, but nature’s light, creativity’s light.  I need to move and too often in this time, movement is given only to coping. I am so glad I have art and creativity to remind me. Breathe.

I belong to a number of groups including art, writing and music. These are my favourite ones because they let out my creativity … on the days I allow it space … I can feel life inside me. Worlds bigger than the routine I follow. Keeping these creative things in my life gives and costs me. How is hard to describe…

I had an email recently from a friend leading one of the arts groups. She spoke about reactions during this time of self-isolation; fight or flight being common, but freeze was new to her.  It made me think.

Freeze is well known to me and has been for years. Still, I don’t understand. I recognize it lives in the PTSD. I see the ways it shows up and know the pattern, but knowing that has little practical value. I have words I want to share – publish – submit. I make paintings and am learning to accept them as they are – free flowing – awkward, messy, at times (as a friend said today) impish. They want out to play. They want a home. I want to submit them to magazines, sell them to people, see others enjoy the smiles they can bring. Freeze. Creativity, like my attempts at ‘career’ rather than ‘job’ gets hits hard by ‘freeze’. It is a part of my isolation, not just during this time of Covid self-isolation, but all the times PTSD slams doors I venture to open.

Acknowledging the word, my stomach gets queasy and I sense a need to burst into tears. Why remains mystery, even to myself.  I try to explain, but it has no meaning, just swirls like colours in the water jar before they turn to grey. At least in saying that, I believe my art friend will see something of my experience.

Thank you to friends who check in, who laugh and share moments online, who post pictures and poems, who refuse to give in to the places we fear. I appreciate you all. I need what I said at the start … I am so glad I have art and creativity (and all of you) to remind me. Live. Laugh. Breathe.

And one day, the colours will dance rather than gray. They will not freeze. They will release into the world taking hope, light, joy.

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