Starting over new . . . again

There's nothing like reinventing yourself. At least, there's nothing like the myth of it. I have created a number of these opportunities for myself by moving to new cities in response to specific crises at specific times. I have also been handed the "opportunity" for reinvention via swift and painful sea changes that came in the from of break-ups (two) and apartment fires (one).

The act of changing locations seems to set in motion a kind of emotional alchemical process that transforms stinky turds into shiny fetish objects. Example: I moved to Montreal after grad school because I wanted an interesting city in which I could quietly fail as an artist while eating really good food and drinking exceptional coffee in buzzy, happening cafés. But what really happened was that I got lonely because I knew no one. So, I registered on an online dating site and proceeded to go on dates with strangers. The men I met, however, all very nice indeed, did not fill the bill nor the void. So, instead of continuing to meet them, I decided to paint them instead. I focused on the images of men who did not attract me. Through the painting process, I somehow grew to love their faces. I added pink to wan skin and some loving pounds to gaunt cheeks. This process made me think of my favourite passage in The Little Prince when our hero becomes disillusioned because he encounters a planet with many, many roses, and realizes his rose is not only not the only rose, but not even the most beautiful rose in the universe. Crestfallen . . . devastated, even . . . he eventually recovers his love for her when he realizes that the love he feels is not about her beauty (and certainly not about her personality, which is petulant and demanding). He loves her because he has cared for her. Love happens through devotion which happens through time. As beauty fades, love grows. Real love does.

My point? The myth of reinvention, for me anyway, has always included this idea that I might be able to go away somewhere and quietly and anonymously improve myself, returning to the scene of my friends and colleagues with a loud TA DA! Behold the new Liz: graceful, better informed, fit and cut and hot, not to mention a painter with gallery representation and a few great bodies of work behind her, and lots of media attention -- a woman worthy of being loved.

What did I miss? That I was already worthy and lovable as I was: broken from heartbreak, addled with fear of failure (aka success), and as flawed and fragile as every other human being on the planet. Still, it took my apartment fire, followed by a failed relationship with my childhood sweetheart, a move into my father's home and turning 40 with none of the trappings of happy life I thought I'd have -- notably a loving partner and a family -- to wake me up to life's great reality: I am it. I am my own reality. And it is great because it is what is happening right now. It can't be anything else. So it may as well be something worth loving.

I can't say that I am able to maintain this crane-shot view, the one that usually puts my painting "failure" and relationship "failure" into perspective. No one gets to define these for me. I am my own definition as I live each one, making it up as I go.

Why a blog? Because I write about zillion e-mails every day, so I may as well be putting that energy into polishing my heart's thoughts, hopefully creating a surface shiny enough to reflect me back to myself. I know it will ease the anxiety and possibly mitigate the fear. And I know that I will have blissful moments in which might be able to say, "There you are, Liz. Wow! You really are beautiful!"