Venn and the Art of Paper Bandages
When it is all over.
When the cards and flowers cease, when the concern is no longer manifest, when the customary obligations tumble back into your path and the time has come to stop drinking yourself into a stupor every night. When you are stalked by a dark shadow-ghost, when you close your eyes at night and cannot think, blink or dream away the agonising picture memories of suffering and death. When you wake bruised with tiredness and remember that nothing is the same. When crime and horror films do not entertain but trouble and scratch at your weakened heart, when suddenly every phone call might herald bad news. You know that you are in your own circle.
It always comes back to Venn Diagrams. In a roomful of people at a wedding, a funeral, a birthday, everyone has something or someone in common. Linking arms, embracing, nodding in understanding and recognising similar characteristics creates overlapping relationships, unions. Intersections.
But the salient part belongs only to ourselves, and in our own circle we remain detached in our own cognizance.
The terror of an ugly death and loss of a parent left me bubble-like, floating, bumping, bobbing. I shared many experiences and sights, was involved with group discussions, linked to many by common characteristics and a common cause yet always looked at everything through my eyes, at my father dying, feeling my loss. I began to want less and less to participate.
After eight months I shrank the intersections, rubbed out the unions and retreated from the Venn Diagram. I tried to close my circle, but a great ugly gash remained. Scarred and scared, I was tired of sharing. I wanted solitude. I wanted peace.
The Autumn heard my plea and sent me to a sun-warmed garden step with a notebook and pen to witness blue skies, September sun and busy blackbirds. I found good. I found minute by minute simplicity and I found words. I sat still and enjoyed warmth, softly falling leaves and creaking trees. I wrote for no other reason than I needed to. Pages and pages of colours, shadows, smells and sounds. Mounded damp pages from my tears and from the bathroom where ideas sprang pay homage to nature frantically toiling around me while I merely existed and observed.
A year on, I wander the house with my soft-cover notebooks. I place one beside me each night and reach for it in the morning. I have found comfort and security in the healing properties of ink and tree pulp. I am not yet mended but I am patching myself with paper, righting myself with words and beginning to relearn the art of finding joy and success in recognising those with similar attributes and forming unions and intersections again.