The other day, I was in a funk. It seemed that whatever I did, I was only going through the motions.
And God help me, I had every urge to go back to bed.
But I powered through. Because this is what I do. And certainly, this is what my household expects. If nothing else, there are people who need me.
In the pit of my stomach was a weight. An ache.
And I recognized it: Sadness.
Sadness had come to visit me that day. She had settled in before I had even washed my face and headed to the kitchen to make my coffee. She had already seeped into my bones before I could even get out of bed.
Yes, I have long decided that Sadness is a “she”, a strange sort of companion.
Together, we make an uneasy pairing. I don’t like her, not really, but she seems to like visiting me.
Although I hate to admit it, I find a strange comfort in what her presence represents: a reminder of all the beautiful things I’d lost in this life of mine.
She feels familiar, although not always welcome.
I have learned to open the door for her. To offer her a seat. To let her be until she decides to leave.
Sometimes I acknowledge her presence out loud.
“I’m sad today,” I say, and this validates her. And, it would, seem, it validates me.
Most days, I really just want her to go away, even if I can’t bring myself to tell
her to. She cramps my style. And so I do my best to ignore her, carrying on with my day as if nothing were wrong. Putting one heavy foot in front of another heavy foot, wearily plodding my way through my many obligations, trying not to think too much.
But sometimes I let her see me release some tears, muttering under my breath. Some days, I cry a lot. But she just sits there quietly, without judgment. I think, sometimes, this is fine. Just fine.
A while ago, I realized that sitting with Sadness while doing something with my hands is another passable scenario for me.
Sometimes I decoupage used jars.
First I put on some music or a podcast to listen to. (Mostly, to drown out the silence around me or to quiet my thoughts.)
Then I pretend to ignore Sadness while I pick up a clean glass jar and paint it. The brush strokes are calming to me. I am comforted by my “blank canvas” as I concentrate on my task.
When I am done and I leave the jar out to dry, I might rifle through my pretty papers to see what design I would like to see on an already-dry jar, and I start prepping them for decoupage.
I get lost in my thoughts, to the extent where I almost forget she’s there.
As I anticipate the thing of beauty I am making, I can feel her lift off of me, even as she tugs sharply at my heart, as if to say, “I’m here!”
I ignore her, as I take another jar I’d already painted a while ago. I find a flat brush and my glue. Then I start to loosely wrap the paper around my jar, adjusting its position. Straightening it.
Then I lay on a thin strip of glue and gently lay the paper down. I try to smooth out the bubbles with my brush.
No matter. This is not something that needs to be perfect.
I work on and get lost in the task.
“I’m here!” she insists.
Oh. She’s still here?
I've forgotten that I am supposed to be sad.
I pause. I nod at her and say, “I know… but it’s time for you to go.”
Her hold slackens. “I’ll come back, you know.”
“You always do.”
A sob might escape me then, as I realize that I am letting her go, and not exactly willingly. The release is bittersweet, but I continue my work. (It is a strange feeling, saying “See you later” to Sadness.)
I make a mess of my hands. It happens all the time. Some paint, some glue.
I carefully wash them and move on to my tools before the medium dries on them.
As soon as I’ve dried everything, I go back to inspect my work. I find some imperfections and find a tool to fix it. Maybe a Q-tip, or maybe a brush for a small touch-up of paint or glue.
Then I set the jar down on the small turntable and slowly turn it around, finding satisfaction in this thing I made.
I love how pretty it is, even with its creases. I love how I have made something plain, something that people might even throw away, into something pretty and useful. Even cheerful.
It matters not how many of these jars I’ve decoupaged in the last few months. It only matters that the act of creating something chased Sadness away for a time.
So that I no longer feel weighed down. No longer distracted by her heaviness.
I know she’ll be back. Grief has a way of sending her back to visit me every now and then.
Good thing I have many jars.
And if I didn't? I'd probably make something else.
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