Returning, gently

On grief, love, and the slow, circuitous route back to art

Hello loves,

It’s been three weeks since last I wrote, and in that time, my world has tilted on its axis.

On July 1, my beloved cat Loki passed away. He was 12 years old, and had been battling cancer for nearly two years. He was my constant companion, the guardian of my bookshelf, my little Zen philosopher, my own stern little Professor McGonagall, my four-legged herbalist. Saying goodbye to him has been harder than I imagined, even after all these months of knowing it was inevitable.

I wrote a wee memorial for him on my blog, which you can read here if you like. It’s my small way of marking his presence, of honoring his life, of celebrating the deep bond and love that we shared.

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Since his passing, I haven’t been able to pick up a paint brush. I haven’t been able to do much, actually, except to cry at the most unexpected of moments, to wrap myself up in comfort reading, to sleep a lot {I suppose grief does that to you} and to hold his brother, Simba, even closer.

But this week, I’ve started to take a few tentative steps forward.

I started by cleaning and dusting my floor-to-ceiling bookshelf; boxed up some old books and marked them for donation; and decorated and spruced up the shelves a bit. Something I couldn’t do under Loki’s reign.

He loved nothing more than to throw things off high shelves, which is why my bookshelves were crammed with books, many of them old and unloved, so he could have the pleasure of flinging them off the shelves when he felt we weren’t giving him the attention he wanted.

Loki, perched on his favorite shelf.

It’s also why I never could decorate my bookshelves — not even with a photo frame or two. The few times I tried, he would jump up, balancing precariously in an effort to reach even the shelves that were just out of paw’s reach, so he could bat them off the shelf. It’s almost like seeing anything that wasn’t a book on those shelves was a personal affront to his sensibilities.

“Bookshelves are meant for books, not for all these doo-dads”, I imagine him thinking to himself, as he furiously pawed off the offending doo-dads in question.

Loki’s favorite bookshelf - fluffed up and styled. I wish I had a ginger cat figurine I could place on his favorite shelf, but until then, this photograph of Loki and Simba are a bittersweet reminder of his claim on this shelf.

Looking at my newly cleaned and decorated bookshelf is bittersweet — I’m quite pleased with how it’s turned out so far, and also, every time I look at it, it’s a reminder that Loki is no longer a part of our lives.

This sign of life hasn’t extended to the painty table, though.

I walk up to my art table sometimes, run my hands over my art journal, left invitingly open on the desk, but feel unequal to the task of picking up a paint brush or paints.

At first, it was the weight of grief, which slowly metamorphosed into pressure. I want the first art journal spread I paint to be in honor of Loki, of his brave and loving spirit. But what if I don’t get it “right”? What if I can’t capture his fierce, loving energy?

And then, sometime last week, when I was standing out on the balcony, staring up at the stars, I had a sudden epiphany:

What if the painting doesn’t have to be perfect? What if it just has to be heartfelt? Simply an expression of love? It doesn’t even have to be representational in any way, it can simply be an abstract — it just has to be intentional…to come from the heart…

That loosened something in me. I still feel too fragile to pick up my paint brush, but I don’t think I’m frozen with fear of perfection anymore, just weighed down with grief. With this little voice inside me that asks what the point of it is. We are here for such a fleetingly short time, after all. Why paint, why create, when it will all disappear one day, in the blink of an eye?

This is grief talking, I know. And I’m still not out on the other side of it, so I don’t have a counter to this voice just yet. But perhaps, I am beginning to sense a stirring back to life, which is currently being expressed through a desire to fluff up and feather my nest.

From long practice with the creative cycle, I know that our creative impulse sometimes dies down in one area for a bit, only to flare to life in another. I know that I will return to the painty table eventually — soon, I think. For the greening in one area inevitably nourishes and restores the rest of the branches of the creativity tree.

For now, I will fluff my nest, and walk over to the painty table every now and then to touch my journal and my paints, waiting for that spark of life…of creativity to return. And when it does, I will paint with Loki rather than for him, imagining his spirit sitting beside me, guiding my hand and my color choices, purring in contentment and love. And when I finish that painting with Loki, I’ll share it with you too.

If you’ve read this far, give your fur babies an extra hug tonight.

Love,
Shinjini

P.S.: We were very worried about Simba, about how he would take the loss of his brother, but he seems to be doing remarkably well. It’s almost like the brothers had some sort of communication before Loki crossed over the rainbow bridge…some words of wisdom and love shared between the brothers during Loki’s last days…