Trusting for the Words

The art of writing requires TRUST.  I hold a pen, I await the thoughts to arise.  As quickly as the ideas surface, I scribble them out onto my page.  Wait I am not merely scribbling, am I?  Surely these thoughts deserve more than a smattering of ink touching paper, they demand or perhaps expect to land with dignity, with respect.

I am choosing words to relate to others, to purposely and persistently probe my mind for the images that might resonate with family, friends, and strangers.  Writing requires this TRUST, the unseen mysterious momentum that urges my words to appear and then be shared.

It occurs to me that if a blog exists to provide words for others to read then it should be led by a mission statement, a reasonable guideline of sorts should surround my thoughts.

So, I begin again, to write here on my blog to literally expose my traumatic brain injury (TBI) recovery through my own words, my observations, and my understanding.  My mission statement – To offer a glimpse of hope to myself and to others who struggle with brain blurs!  What do I mean by brain blurs?  The moment when you try to hold onto a thought or an idea and then it disappears as if someone finger painted it into a lovely smear.

Its lovely because underneath its smudged colours lies a sweet, simple thought you managed to think forth.  Yet the smear so completely covers it, you can’t possibly rescue it.  The idea simply cannot be retrieved at present, it has become a brain blur.

Maybe you call it shutting down or hitting the wall.  The non-TBI world would call it forgetfulness, or with age a senior moment; scoffing at how seriously my brain blur affects me.  For me, and maybe for others with TBI, a brain blur throws me off course in the moment and/or perhaps for a longer period of time. It may trigger physical difficulties, anxiety or the anguish of thinking “uh-oh, what does everybody else see when my brain blur overtakes me?”

Fortunately for me, these brain blurs are happening less frequently.  However, when they do, they are still as debilitating and impacting as they have been for the past two years of my recovery.  That I can now actually focus on a mission statement offers me hope that I am regaining the ability to draw images from my mind and re-establish the ability to TRUST my words.

Feather of Mine

A number of years ago I took a graphic arts course in which we needed to create a logo for ourselves.  In fact, we had to hand-draw it, so obviously this happened in the time before internet ready-made downloads offered printed logos that could be selected and then “Photoshopped” to perfection.  I chose a feather, one with haphazard edges that represented to me at least, rugged days of wear and tear. I drew folded-over edges and creases that left my feather looking bent and crooked but as I surmised, a feather with personality!

A feather that had withstood its adaptation to the unknown environment of a forest floor.  A feather that had survived crushing forces of hiking boots, shuffling kicks from hooved animals, and flattening shoves of thrown backpacks.  I imagined my feather being discarded from its winged home, falling to the ground much like I would lose a strand of hair by brushing against a rough piece of bark while moving through the trees.  I pictured the swooping eagle descending closer and closer to catch its prey from the forest floor and then as it beat its wings to slow its descent a feather, a single feather dislodged from underneath its wing, finding its way to the path below.

Feather of mine, found as I tracked the trail through the woods, following the winding way to a place to be alone and ponder my thoughts.

I’m not sure if I drew my feather logo with detailed depictions of tattered strands because I had in mind its history or whether I drew it with its future unfolding before me.  To me, that feather represented a way to relate the words that I would share with others.  That feather would inspire me, as I felt not only its fine fragile hairs but its firm central shaft as well.  Created to be attached to the whole, to be part of a magnificent, powerful eagle wing.  How could it not lead my imagination to be a storyteller?

Years later, this feather of mine, this logo of who I believed I would be, this feather of mine, so crinkled and crumpled yet full of potential to create, this feather of mine is in my grasp again, and so I write, and so I write.

Blanket of Trust

As I return to writing on my blog following an extended absence while recovering from a concussion/traumatic brain injury, I want and need to explore what it means to trust again.  This is an unexpected path that now opens up before me.  Let’s walk it together…

In the middle of TRUST is the desire to believe.  This idea floats into my mind this morning as Dusty and I cozy up together on the sofa.  The predicted snowflakes swirl outside, buffeted by currents of unseen, untraceable, unimaginable gusts of wind.  The snowflakes, crystallized creations with the briefest existence continue their unpredictable descent to the ground below.  They will find a comfortable landing as their sparkling beads of ice slide together, softening from unique diamond-like conceptions to a blended blanket of decoration.

The clock ticks in the background and I hear over and over again, in the middle of TRUST is the desire to believe.

I scroll back over the past weeks to recall my sweet granddaughter, Violet, during one of her visits at our house.  We had gone outside so that she could enjoy a scooter ride before bedtime.  As she pushed herself from the garage to the driveway rain began to fall.  “Oh no, it’s raining,” she began to whine.  “We’re going to get wet, oh no.  Too wet for my ‘cooter.”  I walked outside and held up my palms to determine how quickly the raindrops were falling.  A bit of wind caught me by surprise and I turned to see Violet scrunching her face into a pout beneath her bike helmet.  She wiped away a raindrop that fell directly on her nose.  Then as a second burst of cold air caught me by surprise, I heard Violet exclaim. “Nana it’s snowing!  Yay it’s snowing!”  She climbed off her scooter threw back her head and stuck out her tongue to try to catch a falling snowflake.  “Nana I caught one!”  She began running in circles beneath the snowflakes that grew larger and larger amidst the blustery winds.  Gone was the whining, laughter pulling her scrunched-up face into smiles and open-mouthed delight.  She literally gulped air and snowflakes while she twirled about.

In the middle of TRUST is the desire to believe.  I want that.  I want that immediate reaction that switches off any moment of despair and turns on snowflake delight.  I want to model the wonder of a toddler who can’t stop spinning in the middle of her complete and utter amazement.  I want to be baffled a by a new beginning.

In the middle of TRUST is the desire to believe Like a unique snowflake, I find myself swirling about in my situation where unimaginable gusts of wind throw me off course.  I want to be held by uplifted palms or guided by unseen currents to a gentle landing. I want to understand the desire to believe, to TRUST wholeheartedly, spontaneously.  Where does my trust begin?  Where does it end?  My TRUST, it feels like I am somewhere in the middle, it surrounds me and moves me. I am like a snowflake created uniquely for a time…and so whenever I can and for as long as I can, I need to feel the coolness of the dancing wind. I need to follow its path, to hold up my desire to believe and to let myself blend into a beautiful blanket of TRUST.