I set out to make a piece about our empowerment. Of our voice, of the innate and majestic force within. I began with a careful plan. I measured, I constructed, I painted within the lines.
But as I did, the very force I painted about, started to wreak havoc. First on my body, my hormones, and soon on my mind.
Unannounced and greatly uninvited, it arrives every month, but yet I forget. Forget to armor myself, to prepare, to game plan before the fight.
The intrusive thoughts now on loop - you’re small, you’re weak, you’re incapable, you’re bad. A bad mother, wife, daughter, friend, artist, a bad woman.
Sadly alternating with angrily, I listen, and worse I follow. I act out on those that love me most, including myself. I believe the thoughts and start tearing down all the beauty I’ve built around me.
I looked then at my painting with all its perfect and intentional marks, and suddenly it mocked me, laughing at all the imperfections I believed existed in myself, in my life.
So I painted over it, craving a clean slate, a more honest slate. I then picked up my pen and drew. A single, continuous, unplanned line with curves and bends meandering through symbols of strength, and beauty and perseverance.
My heart pounded as I then drew the 28 days, the 28 chances to see myself more clearly. My mind fought back, telling me the lines must be perfect; that perfection on my canvas will manifest perfection in my life. But I ignored it this time, my hand wobbling, my lines wiggling, the canvas filling with the mistakes and magic of anything done by hand. Perfect in her imperfections.
She speaks louder now than my mind, her voice clear and confident. To trust my value is based beyond productivity or perfection. That some days will be clouded, my shine hidden but always present underneath. “Even in all of it’s phases, the moon is still whole.” Even in my imperfection, I’m perfect.
