I fail to recall a time the process of art as coping and healing has been as directly illustrated in my work as it seems to be now. Like the best art I’ve made, it crept up on me, developing seamlessly and without effort. Now that I see it, though, I’m smiling.

In a dire emotional state, I started creating bloodwork paintings again, and like last time, painted hearts. I created many tiny canvases, and at one point as I was painting one of them I realized I liked the heart cracked down the middle rather than complete, and left it that way. I painted most of the rest of the canvases with hearts that were somehow split open.

After I finished those pieces, I realized it was a telling choice to make, and I liked how the hearts weren’t completely severed. There was a small thread at the bottom of each one, holding it together. A couple nights ago, that healing continued, when I stitched myself back together.

There’s a fair bit of talk in therapy and in general right now about death, and consequently, birth. I’m in a new cycle of recognition regarding who I am as a mother, and how.

I am thankful, for my life.