art therapy – mac and muggi

White Rice

Switch to brown rice, she said.

No.

No?

White rice is cultural for me, and besides, the only difference is a gram of fiber per serving.

Not true, it is lower on the glycemic index and will go into your system slower.

No.

Well, cut your portions.

(Silence.)

Are you exercising?

Yes, I’m up to almost 8000 steps a day.

Is that at work?

Yes, I work in a warehouse now, and I walk all day.

That doesn’t really count, she said. You need to walk at a high rate and get the heart pumping. You’ll need to do more outside of work. And why don’t you just grab a couple of two-pound weights? You’d be surprised how heavy they get.

(Silence.)

(Internally:

I am screaming:

Did you know I binge eat sometimes when I am bored and I never realized that it was because I had undiagnosed ADHD and didn’t know I was stimming with food and was in a constant state of panic and stress because I never NEVER thought I was doing enough? Did you know I had half my thyroid removed because they thought it might be cancerous? Did you know I had a little chunk of my brain removed because it was cancerous? Did you know there are days when I don’t want to live and I cry and am not interested in activities anymore?

*Yes, of course, you did- it’s in my file, it’s in the depression questionnaire that starts every office visit.

Did you know that nearly every woman in my family is short with a big butt? That there are other shapes, other standards?

I am looking at you right now with your acceptable BMI and your two-line weight solutions and you are seeing me as rebellious patient that needs to occupy less space and I am seeing you, truly seeing every doctor I have ever visited, for the first time.

None of my doctors look like me. None of my doctors come from where I come from, eat what my mother’s mother has put on the table. I don’t see myself in anyone here. I didn’t even want to come here today because what you advise is as predictable as the sunrise.

Do you know I dated a feeder when I was 19? That he wanted me to be overweight to isolate me and keep anyone from looking at me? Did you know family members said “Mira, estas poniendo gordita” when I was just a kid? Do you know I barely buy clothes and when I do the stress of shopping makes me ill? That my bandmates wanted to give me our earnings to join Jenny Craig because I was a full grown 140 lbs and that was too fat to ever become a star, to ever make it? That the thought of dressing for an event sends me into a spiral? No, I guess you wouldn’t. That information is as irrelevant as the fact that a year ago I was doing 1500 steps a day, and my movement is up at a factor of 5 and I am the same weight. The SAME.

And don’t misunderstand me- I want to be healthy, and I know I am at risk- but it has to be my way, my time. You don’t listen, don’t treat the whole. I am the whole, and if you can’t see the whole, how can you possibly help me?

I will never fit the European standard of beauty. I can only fit my version of health. And you will not colonize my body by telling me that the one food that is the anchor of every plate is the one thing that I shouldn’t have. I don’t eat pasta, have minimized bread, and you still want me to leave white rice for brown? To cut the servings down so small that I measure my food in tablespoons?

I will eat rice, and yuca and pasteles, chuletas and arroz con habichuelas, and I will have chocolate and pizza, tacos and string cheese, and protein shakes along with the salads. I will eat what I can palate and damn the rest. I will move when I want to move and rest when I want to rest.

I’m going to live for the spirit of me- the important part, not this bag of meat my soul travels in while I am here, so you can take the numbers on the scale and stick them up your ass.

And I’m going to eat my white rice, even if one day I am coughing up blood in it.)

Externally:

Ok.

The 52/52/52 project

It’s 2022, and I really felt like I wanted to accomplish something, but I am one of the worst people when it comes to follow through.

Week 1

I’ve always really felt like I wanted to accomplish something kinda big, a grand project, but I am one of the worst people when it comes to follow through. I like to do so many things that I am constantly on a pivot, a person very comfortable riding the lazy susan and spinning until I’m dizzy and in great need of checking my compass for direction.

And then I turned 52 at the end of last year, and said with great indignation, “Dang it!” Yes, I really said that. It’s my cry of frustration and irritation, and it has a nice ring to it. “Dang it, I am going to get a thing done this coming year, and I am going to tell people so that they hold me to it.”

And so, I had to think to myself, what is going to keep my interest when I usually change hobbies six times before my morning shower? It has to be something that has layers, isn’t the same from week to week, but is the same enough to make it easy to do. So I decided on this:

A 52 year old woman (me of course, my blog, my project) will paint a postcard to send to a friend or a stranger, that is based on one of 52 questions I’ll write that must be answered in an essay or poem, and I will do this for 52 weeks. And at the end the year I’ll celebrate by looking back at all of my work. Then I’ll print it all up in a binder to look at any time my mental passenger starts telling me I never finish anything. I will hold this binder of future days over my head like Lloyd in Say Anything, and sing “In your FACE” and know that I am capable of doing all the things.

And so, I started week one on January 7th, 2021, completed my first postcard a day late, mailed it 3 days late, and am writing this 3 days late, but it’s ok. Crazy ideas never get a smooth start, but like a kid driving their first 5 speed, the gear shifts will smooth with time and practice. So here’s Week 1- thanks for reading.

Week 1: Who were you before you were you?

Somewhere in the soup or maybe just a splice of energy in the solar winds,
No form, no thought, just me, meaning the universe, slowly pulling in on itself
But force will pull me into a heavy shape one moment soon or past
And I’ll be expected to choose, decide, which of these random atoms I’m going to bag my magic in.
No, I don’t know that yet. I am on the cosmic breeze
Breathing the breath that has no breath,
And just being

I will forget how to do that soon
I’m not even I
And that is the ultimate peace

Then come moments like flashing light and first pain
And breath that is not like no breath

Easy like unwrapping candy, this first part

When the toys chose themselves and the crayons chose the places to fill
Thought without thought, boxes filled with promise

Now I am here and the toy-box just holds the pin to my bank account and the softener sheets and the spare keys for just-in-case

And i have forgotten how to play, dance on the solar flares

Shadows earthbound long and low
But reflections in the rain puddles shine bright, I remember that light

See yourself
Remember
Remember how to play

Don’t wait to create

Creativity is a fickle friend. Trying to really find the creative spark on a daily basis is much like inviting your introvert friend out for coffee. They yes (and before you say I am picking on introverts, that is me cancelling the coffee date) but you totally know they aren’t coming.

The thing is though, you want to be creative. You want to make, sing, paint, write. Wishing or waiting for inspiration won’t help you get any closer.

Maybe you’ll just do it when you can do it perfectly? Ok, I’ll just wait over here until you’re ready. Just kidding, I have no patience to wait.

I know this sounds like I am talking to you about your creativity, but I am really talking about my past self. I was terrified to ART, That was for the pros with degrees and credentials. It was intimidating.

I took a class. Encaustics. Lots of older women, completely non-competitive and full of laughter. I was hooked. I was making things for joy, and completely forgot about other people’s art- I was wrapped up in making my own things. It was therapeutic, and this was really what I needed most. A therapy that took me out of the day and out of my head and onto whatever media I could draw or work on.

After doing something artistic daily for the last two years, I came to realize that creativity had nothing to do with my artwork. It was about showing up every day even when I didn’t feel like it. Getting emotions out. Moving my hands. That was where the art really was for me.

If you’re blocked in your creativity, try just getting anything down without any judgement. Play a song you already know, draw the worst picture you’ve ever drawn. And then forget about it, Then do it again tomorrow, and the next day. DO it for the hell of it, Do it for the joy.

If you’re blogging about your creativity or feeling blocked, comment so that I can read about your struggles and successes, and look at your blog. I would really love to know where you are in your journey.

With all my art.