Sign Posts, God Moments, Signals

For a long time when a decision had to be made in my life I called my six closest friends or family members and went over my options. Polled the audience. After general consensus, I decided. Consequently, I never knew the temperature of Molly. There came a time when this awareness was dawning on me that I took to signs, reading from Julia Cameron's The Artist Way, I sought syncronicity. Coincidences that were more than obvious directions as to which way to go. Sign posts. God moments. Signals.

I am stubborn. This I continue to recognize, as if perhaps the trait wore off and I am introduced for the first time, and feel a sense of de ja vue. Yet when you spend a year and a half in The Dark Ages, stubborn is the least of your faults for which you're concerned. However, stubbornness, my old friend, chooses now to sneak up on me. If I fail to be attentive to myself, I may find myself suddenly crying for an unknown reason, and I have to stop and think about what the heck I missed. Why am I reacting? Because you were too stubborn to attend to your feelings. Ah. Thank you my friend. I find signals, God moments, sign posts share this same approach with me. You haven't received the message Molly? SLAM, sign in my face. You need to pay attention.

I left Ohio last in a chaotic space. Having moved past polling the audience, I now practice listening to my temperature, a temperature that is often hard to read as I am unfamiliar with the measurements, new to the science as I am. To help me, I see every car that I pull in back of sporting an Ohio license plate. Sign posts. God moments. Signals.

Tonight, I'm feeling the need to paint. I have no table. I have no chair. Hell, I have no bed. But I want to paint, I feel that, I read that. Moving things here and there I stumble upon a prayer bundle with handwriting of a friend who is not well. I speak a soft, "Get well," to the quiet of my room. I pick a song on the stereo to paint to, hit the mix and settle in, folding my legs beneath me to crouch at the edge of two tupperware containers stacked atop each other. The songs drift one to the next, each directly connecting to the friend and I have to stop painting and pause. I feel sign posts. God moments. Signals. But this time, I don't know what they mean, but I strain all the same to hear what I am suppose to hear as I gather the syncronicity of the evening.

Periodically I struggle to understand purpose in life. "Do you have to have purpose?" my mother asked me once. "I do," I say. There must be a logic somewhere. For an artistic mind, my need to make sense of things surprises me. However, one of my friend's breaking her neck hasn't fit a logic for me. This friend's illness doesn't fit a logic for me. Depression at the time did not have a logic, though now I can appreciate the learning curve. So I guess where I am at present is looking at if life really hasn't any logic to it at all. And if it doesn't then my paradigm is once again tossed to the wind and I wonder if following sign posts, God moments and signs will settle it down into proper order again or if it's all just a wash. Blue paint over charcoal.