The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing





Up north. 

A year later…bringing a new round of work to the art center…including fish. 

This blue sea in front of me this morning, this cold baltic blue, inspires me to to see if I can type without looking down it is so gorgeous, so compelling, so seemingly communicative of the temperature on its surface and all layers beneath. It seems to be be breathing and for the first time I really begin to think not only of its color and temperature but of the world inside…how much life there really is inside this sea that I am staring out over. 




I read a little last night about my Big Fish; about not being or at least feeling pretty unloved and unattached to my mother. I grew up, in many respects, without a mother and I am just beginning to be able to examine this very, very large fish of mine. I can’t get too close and I can’t take too much in. But, I am told in this book that this is normal. Women go for years—decades—unconscious until someday they stumble upon this big fish and start to consider it—like I’m doing. 


Thought: I wonder if this relates to our being torn about filing the complaint around Eileen. Perhaps filing it is representative in a way of owning this truth one step further—or at least testing the truth somehow inside. 




If we file the complaint we confront what it will feel like, in truth, to not be loved by Eileen. We will need to accept this. And perhaps our being unable, presently, to be comfortable with this is related to our being unable to accept the lack of love and protection and care we experienced—and dissociated away from—with our mother. 


That sounds like a good theory, A. 



He is worried, S. Worried that the formerly wise woman will hate him for it, that if he were to ever run into her in the village, that she would hiss at him. He worries that if he mails his letter to the authorities, whether she is arrested or not, she will know what he did. And the love she once had for him will turn instantly to hatred.  

And this hatred, S would be, perhaps unbearable to our painter. 



Teresa pointed this fairytale passage out to me at the end of our session on Tuesday and said that this is the struggle; the giving up the love. And I agreed with her. 


Our thought today is that this struggle indeed relates to our big fish. To accept—to confront—to in fact bring to the surface if not evoke this clarity—this truth if it is truth—is extremely difficult. 

We walked away two years ago using our feet.

Perhaps it is now time for our heart to catch up to our feet. 




I dreamed I was heading off into the night on a train. I hugged my mother goodbye and then, unlike any other time before, I could not let go. I am not sure what happened next exactly. I only know that I woke to this moment here and a questioning deep down if this is a sign that I’m remembering something big. 

Or not. 

I lay in bed wanting to be done with the complaint. And I consider now if being done is best achieved by sending…or not. 

How best to let go—finally—and move on. 

I don’t know. 

I only know that it makes me cry to think of either. 

I look out this morning at the cold blue ocean and I think of how much I wish to just sleep—for days and weeks. 

I am soul deep exhausted but unable to give myself some peace. 

I’ve been erupting, it feels like for years now. 

I’m in a stage where things make more sense, which feels better than the chaotic reaching. But it hurts now in new ways, in ways that feel very sobering. It is as if my brain was addicted to disorganization and not remembering. And now the “party” feels over. The delusion of something grand around the corner feels gone. 

Last night while Pete read the news on his laptop I hugged him and listened to his strong heart beating. I seemed to be so deeply in touch with his being alive—and with the idea too that someday this ticking will stop.  

I feel mightily awake so often now. 

I cannot seem to turn off this clarity, this being awake. 

And oh Not Gods how it makes me want to sleep…forever. 

It is Mother’s Day tomorrow and I consider how many more of those I will have in my lifetime with my mother alive. And I feel the truth of my lack of connection very clearly. The fake connection I have that keeps things smooth on life’s surface but oh that crack, the deepest one, in my ocean floor. How it perhaps split me in two or three or who knows how many pieces. 

I see that I can no longer forget that I have these feelings about my mother, about feeling so left and unloved, can no longer forget how they attach to me, why they attach to me, how they have shaped me and my life, where they have taken me and where they have prevented me from going. 

The past few days I’ve been having this vision not exactly of  my birth but rather a vision of my mother, knocked out cold, a baby being pulled out of her, another obligation to add to her collection of obligations back at home.  

This is the truth, the light of day, the truthiest truth I can find and feel this morning. It does not flit away. I can hold it now forever with consciousness. 


Arms around you, S. No wonder you wish to sleep the days away. 


A, it gets to me sometimes. I try—I really do. I try and be productive with it all. I run a business and stay independent. I stay in good health. I do my clay and allow myself to pour out into this medium.  

And this right here, my Sandbox, I’ve tried very hard here too. 

But I feel like such a failure somehow. 


We can feel. 

And we can think. 

We poured ourself out. 

And now we drink. 


Thanks, Monkey. But I feel like passing on this phase of things. 


Allow, allow, allow. For it is all that we can do. 

Fish give me hope...a new start, a new exploration, something new around the corner. Oh please...oh please...oh please. 

Fish give me hope...a new start, a new exploration, something new around the corner. Oh please...oh please...oh please.