Waving Fields

In some ways I've been given a unique opportunity in this life. I've been forced to face mortality on two fronts. First my own when doctors were completely baffled by my symptoms and my health slowly declined over a 3-year period. Death was a very real possibility. Secondly, the sudden passing of my husband earlier this year in a traffic accident. The range of emotions I've experienced and my need to understand them have given me great insight into myself. Facing my own mortality went a long way in preparing me emotionally before losing my husband. I honestly don't think I would have survived it with my sanity intact if I hadn't already learned that I had emotional strength (I had previously thought myself weak). I had hope. I had a belief that not only did a future exist, but a future where I could be happy again.

I initially thought that my lesson was to appreciate the NOW. To take each day as it came and make the minutes count. I still think this is valid, but for me personally, I need more. I could drive myself crazy worrying about time wasted and only succeed in making myself sicker in the process. Time where I could be doing something more important. Time where I could be making a difference. What I need is to continue to believe in a future. To work toward long-term goals. This is where I have always excelled and I believe it was my saving grace. It will also allow me be less obsessive about the day-to-day. I can relinquish control over each second of each minute. Though precious, those seconds can be grasped so tightly and infused with such importance that they lose their joy.

I've watched other people pass in and out of my life, floundering. Not knowing what they were meant to do. Not knowing what makes them happy or where their passion lies. I've always known and realized how fortunate I was to know. I was an artist. From a small child I worked to perfect my ability and made it my life's passion.

It was simple for me.
I am an artist.

When I was sick, I kept painting even when my hands shook so bad that the brush skipped over the board. It was a needed escape from the pain and worry. After Tom died, I kept painting. It brought joy back in the midst of loss.

A few years ago, I painted Tom standing on a tower of rocks looking across a vast, nearly barren plain. I called it "Looking to His Past." I believe you need to understand the past before facing the future. I'm glad Tom nor I knew the limited scope of his future. I am thankful for the time we had together. I will never forget it, but now I'm moving toward a new future, not the one that I had planned. I've been forced to adapt, but I CHOOSE to be happy.

In looking to my future, I'm assigning myself a task. I've decided to undertake a year-long project and focus on a single subject. This is an idea I've entertained before, but it seems to have more urgency now. I know I NEED to do this even if I can't explain the why in any sort of rational manner.

If you know my work, you might suspect that I get bored with a subject easily. I do. I bounce from landscapes, to florals, to animals to interiors and more, but there is once I keep coming back to...the grasses. They exemplify quiet and peace to me. Nothing is so soothing as standing before a field of endless wild grasses watching them sway in slightest breeze. Mesmerizing. They allow you to glimpse the wind. The patterns ever changing across their expanse. An ocean in their own right. I will paint the grasses and let their calm wash over me.

"Texas Textures"

-Granbury Area, Texas

Acrylic on Board

16" x 12"

note: dimensions are unframed size

price includes frame

$595

Fate's Lesson

It's been a while since I've written. I've been busy with both the day job, painting and volunteer projects, but perhaps I just needed a break from my relentless self psychoanalysis and needed to attempt to enjoy life again by just feeling instead of thinking. A new friend was discussing his personal situation and my husband's death with me over lunch and it seems we have in common the need to research and read extensively to educate ourselves when confronted with something unfamiliar.

He commented that I must have had to overcome anger toward Tom for dying. Except I never did. I wasn't angry. It wasn't purposeful. I also found that I couldn't relate to what I was reading about how to deal with a death. It didn't really apply to me or what I was feeling. I had already survived more than most people had to deal with in their entire lives even before Tom's death. My perspective was very different. I was left with my own thoughts on the situation. I wanted to move forward with my life. Fate has made a point of beating one single lesson into my head and it is this, "life is fragile–we are only guaranteed this very moment–make it count." I made a decision recently to do so and start dating. For the friends that I have talked to about it, you are pretty evenly split. Some of you are all for it and others think I'm making a rash decision and am opening myself up for more pain or to be taken advantage of. Let me assure you that the logical rational side of me is still firmly intact and in control. Okay, there has admittedly been a little heart denting in this process, but I've got a pretty good handle on it now. I won't settle just to be with someone instead of alone.

I had already gone out with a couple people when I'm informed that my company wished to present a Lifetime Achievement Award to Tom at our National Sales Meeting. I was asked to design it, accept it and speak. Upon hearing this, I am simultaneously honored, terrified and angry. It was truly a wonderful gesture and I do appreciate it greatly, but I am terrified of public speaking, though I apparently do a good job of disguising that as I'm actually speaking. Mainly though, I was a little angry that almost no one seemed to realize the potential to reopen wounds. To me this was essentially another memorial service...people speaking about his life, showing the video compilation of our life together...I didn't really want to go through this again, not now that I was moving forward. I knew everyone's heart was in the right place and I felt compelled to go through with it. If not for me, then for Tom's brother, Paul, who was flying in to attend.

I didn't sleep the night before, rewrote my speech 4 times and tweaked wording right up until a few hours before the presentation. I stood in front of the mirror in the hotel room and read it over and over out loud until I no longer stumbled over the words. When the video began playing, I could see the tears in those around me. I was determined to hold it together. I had planned to watch the video about 20 times beforehand to make myself somewhat immune to the content, but I hadn't. I tapped my foot nervously, staring down periodically at my piece of paper just wishing it was over, but my favorite picture came up. You know, the one that makes everyone laugh, Tom eating surrounded by the fur-kids evenly spaced in a semi-circle around him staring at the plate...cat, dog, cat, dog, dog...I can't help but smile at that.

It was finally time for me. I walked up to the podium and was nearly overcome by the thunderous applause. Though I felt I didn't deserve it. This was Tom's award. I do know it was to show support for me, for my loss. It was appreciated. I even made you laugh. You don't know how I agonized about putting Tom's joke about us working together in there. I wondered if it was appropriate, but in the end it felt right to me, so I left it in. Once I began talking, the anxiety diminished greatly. I was determined to do the best job I could for Paul, for Tom...and for me. I don't regret it. My fear was that if I didn't speak, that I would regret.

I felt solemn the next day, not sad so much as introspective. Was it the right decision to move on with my life? I will always love him, but my heart still has room. Fate's lesson has not fallen on deaf ears. So I take control of the reins and ride forward into the unknown.

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About the Painting:

"Sky Waves"
4 feet wide by 16" high
Acrylic on Masonite board

$1,495

When my sister and I were driving home from seeing the building where we had Tom's service, this was the scene before us as we turned into my development.

Divorce or Death.

It not like anyone chooses to live through either one of these scenarios, but I've been thinking a lot about the differences between them since my neighbor is trying to muddle his way through the aftermath of a recent divorce and had a particularly difficult time with father's day yesterday. It may surprise you, but I think divorce would be the harder of the two.

When Tom left the world, I knew I had been loved. My neighbor had his love, his family, disintegrate around him and in many ways it invalidated their previous years together. She cheated and she did the leaving. I was left also, but it wasn't purposeful. Wasn't his choice. I was still loved. My memories still intact.

My neighbor is surprised that he isn't further along emotionally. He still thinks about her being with someone else and can't seem to move on. I think about how Tom doesn't have to suffer with depression anymore. I couldn't fix it, only be there for him and it is a tough thing to watch someone go through that repeatedly.

I wonder if people reading my blog have the impression that our marriage was an effortless, perfect meshing of two people. It was not. We went through struggles and at times were nearly torn apart. It recently occurred to me that I had married a thunderstorm. From a distance a thunderstorm was beautiful and exciting, but if caught in the middle unprepared it was nerve-racking. It took years for me to not take his mood swings personally. To come to a real understanding of what he could and couldn't control. What was just the depression talking. I never doubted the love, though or failed to value his complete honesty or fierce loyalty. I could count on him in the long run and our love evolved to a very deep level.

My neighbor says he's not looking to date, though I saw reference to a dating site on his Facebook. When someone goes through a break-up or divorce their friends and family seem to encourage them to get right back out there. To look for someone new. This is not the case with death. Initially people looked at me and marveled at how well I was dealing with this and were happy. I believed in facing it directly. Not hiding my head in the sand. No living in denial. Analyzing why I was feeling what I'm feeling. I am much farther along in healing and moving forward than my neighbor. I believe this is because I was loved. I felt valued by another human being. I made a difference in someone's life. I still can.

Why is death treated differently? I'd like to date again. I'm not looking for a replacement or someone to take care of me. I can take care of me. I know this. I am doing things on my own and not asking for much help because I don't want to be reliant on someone else. Yet I feel that there is an unwritten assumption of a proper amount of time for grieving, like I'm supposed to put my life on hold indefinitely until others approve of my reentering the world. Six months, a year, tell me please what do you think is appropriate for my life? Would it mean that I loved Tom any less to date again? Do you want me to shave off my eyebrows (did you know that the ancient Egyptians did this to mourn their cats)? In Hinduism death is seen as just a turning point in an endless journey and excessive mourning would hinder the soul from moving to the next level. Mourners cannot help the dead. A period of 13-days of rituals starting at the completion of cremation is observed. I went through the rituals. The modern day versions. I threw myself into them.

I've seen it over and over, though.

The whispers.

"Can you believe he married again? It was only 6 months after her death."

"Dating? Really! What's wrong with her? Has she no shame?"

So what do I want?

Friendship. To connect. To feel alive. I don't know that I'm entirely sure. What I have learned repeatedly in my life is that we are guaranteed nothing except this very moment. We have to make ourselves happy first and not rely on others to do so. It is only then that we can give love freely without reservation and without conditions. I plan to be happy. Judge me if you must. It wouldn' t be the first time I've been the subject of rumor. I married the boss, remember…and that became a love story for the ages.

"Lemons"

Accept the bitter or turn them into a sweet delight.

Pronouns

I...we...my..ours...

Pronouns. Some of the simplest and most basic words in our language. It's how we relate information about ourselves to the world and likely some of the first words ever grunted by humans. They've gained a disproportionate power over me in the past few weeks. I'm stumbling over them. I find myself answering a question about something in my personal life and by default use the plural form and realize that, technically, it's incorrect. I am no longer a plural. It stopped me in mid-sentence and I felt compelled to explain why while standing in the middle of a public restroom. I knew the person I was speaking to would understand the distinction.

How many of you remember diagramming sentences in school? I was (still am) a geek. I enjoyed it and perhaps it was the first inclination of a love for written words. Yes, it is and perhaps I am, a bit neurotic in my quest for accuracy, but it's more than that. I frequently have a secondary dialog running in my head as I am speaking to others. It's like I am hearing what what I'm saying from their point of view or sometimes just critiquing myself unnecessarily and harshly. I realize that my word choice could remind them of my widowed status when I refer to we and our. It changes the way the other person relates to me at that moment. It is occasionally nice to have a conversation in which Tom is never mentioned. Where I can forget, even if it's just temporary.

The other day I was enjoying lunch with a friend and the subject of dogs came up. I was asked, "you guys have how many dogs?" I was suddenly ripped from my upbeat mood with the mention of the plural, but also having it used in the present tense' "you guys have." There is only me now. Only I have. There was no intention to hurt, but at that moment, I wanted to be seen as an I, not a we. I considered saying, "I have 5 dogs" with a little too much emphasis on "I," but that would have been mean and again, I realized that the person meant no harm. I have a hard enough time myself knowing which to use. I know that for a split second my facial expression changed. I tried to hide it and just answered the question, but am unsure if I was successful. I truly did not want them to feel badly.

I changed the message on my answering machine Sunday. I decided it was cruel to others to keep his voice on it. Perhaps I was torturing myself unnecessarily too. "This is Tom and Rebecca. If you'd like to, please leave a message." He sounded so upbeat, but I am no longer a plural.

I just giggled out loud. It occurred to me that two of the parrots say 'hello.' Perhaps I need to change the message again...

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The painting just finished tonight is "High Tide Morning on Fripp Island"

36" x 24" acrylic on board

The first morning in South Carolina at the beach house I rented for our vacation in November

The Telling

I think I have nearly run out of places Tom and I ate regularly at where I will be confronted with questions about him. Last week the regular guy was back at the McDonald's drive-thru and was almost in tears when I drove up. I assume a co-worker of mine told them, since he said he heard and offered his condolences and asked if I was okay. Tuesday I went into Subway for a salad. The girl behind the counter asks, "where is your better half?" I'm not alone in line and don't want to broadcast it, so I lean in and tell her while I fight back tears and then stare at the sliced tomatoes. I hold it together until I get to the car then completely lose it and try to reason out why telling new people bothers me so much. I don't really know anything about her or her life. I don't have a tangible connection with her. I can talk about him just fine with people who I've already told. Once it's out there, I'm okay. I still haven't quite figured this out.

Wednesday I'd asked a co-worker to lunch and Tortilla Flats in Roanoke was suggested. I started to balk thinking, oh God, it's going to happen again, as we had gotten to know the owner, Brenda, quite well. Tom had even snuck her burritos to me while I was in the hospital, so she had been well aware of how sick I'd been. Over the years, though, she had been at the restaurant less and less as she let the employees take over the day-to-day. I figured I was okay. We ordered food, sat in the open-air patio and enjoyed a nice conversation. Upon leaving we went back inside for more tea, but the tea was missing. Brenda turns around holding the tea container and exclaims, "Rebecca, where have you been? How are you?" She gets bonus points for recognizing me. So many people that didn't see me very often have actually not realized who I was when they saw me as my body went from 95 pounds to 88 pounds to 130 pounds and now back down to 105 due the effects of disease, throwing high dose steroids at it, stabilization on the correct treatment and then recent additional weight loss from stress of the death have had complete control over my body. I say, "Oh, around," and "My health is much much better." Here it comes. "How's Tom?" My poor friend is standing a few paces back knowing about the 2 previous instances and is probably afraid he's about to witness me dissolve into a quivering puddle. Brenda grabs my hand as I tell her and hugs me several times. She had actually been afraid that I had passed, since she hadn't seen us in a while. We both realized the irony of the entire situation. It should have been me.

I didn't dissolve, though. It was easier than it had been. Though I did walk past the driver's side of my car when I went to leave, so I may have been a little flustered. I promised her I'd come for lunch more often. My friend says that he can't imagine what I must be going through. There really isn't any way to explain it and I think it's different for everyone. I really have no desire to dwell in the past and I think that has gone a long way toward allowing me to move forward. I'm still painting. I decided to go ahead and enter a few of the shows whose deadlines are fast approaching. I was initially going to just forgo the rest of the year as far as juried shows went, but it's best to keep my work out there. You never know when it's going to lead to a new opportunity. So one foot in front of the other. Even with the occasional stumble, it's still moving forward.

The painting is "The Old Power Plant"

Each October during Harvest Moon Festival, they fire up the machines in the Old Power Plant near the Historic Square in Granbury. It's not something to be missed. Admist the roaring machines, this quiet corner by the window was calling out to me.

The Dark and the Light

I know it's not a 'pretty picture'...a dying cedar tree. If you look at my work, the majority falls within the generally accepted realm of what is beautiful or pleasing. If you form an impression of what you think I'm like in person based on it, you may end up pretty far off the mark. In my life I have often been drawn to things that are not pretty in the traditional sense. I see beauty in the ususual. I have a fondness for reptiles and kept large lizards for many years. I love bats. I used to grow carnivorous pitcher plants and was recently thinking of getting more. I'm fascinated with the biology and psychology of mental illnesses. I like to understand the motives behind what people do or say and take little at face value. I think medical examiner would be a pretty cool job.

Perhaps I need beauty in my art. The light to balance out darker side of life in general, but you can't have one without the other. Ignorance may truly be bliss, but I choose to understand and accept that everyone has both dark and light within and to deny this is to not know yourself.

So this cedar tree with its octopus like tentacles reaching out in all directions is not so much an anomaly for me, as it is just another part of myself.

About the painting:

I used a glowing, orangey background to make the time of day less easily pinpointed as well as making the tree feel even more isolated since you can't see it's surroundings.

"Last Days"

-Near Sedona, Arizona

Acrylic on Board

8" x 10.5"

note: dimensions are unframed size

comes framed

$390

Currently accepting checks and PayPal

or pay in installments.

Contact artist for details.

View this painting on Rebecca's website

Read more of Rebecca's blog entries at rebeccazook.blogspot.com

See all Rebecca's work at www.rebeccazook.com

"Xeric Beauty" acrylic painting by Rebecca Zook

"Xeric Beauty-a Texas Garden"
Acrylic on Board
9"x12"
note: dimensions are unframed size
comes framed
$325.00

A little scene from my heat-tolerant garden.

Ice Plant, Catmint, Liatris (not in bloom) and Mexican Hats

Needles and Spines

The ambient sounds in the large tiled room suddenly cease. Everyone was listening. At first you could barely make out the whistling, but soon smiles could be seen on most of the patients sitting in the turquoise chairs. Even some toe-tapping. The tune was familiar to everyone. Someone at the far end of the room was watching The Andy Griffin Show. As the last note fades, the voices regain strength. More people arrive to fill the chairs. The smiles, however brief, are welcome and needed. Most of the people sitting in the chairs are quietly engaged in battle. Most are fighting cancer.

Often the first one here, I always sit by the window. There are roses outside in warmer months. My feet dangle in the chair, not quite reaching the floor. My shoes slip off. I feel a bit like a child here; dependent on the staff that bustles around reacting with efficiency to the beeping of the machines calling out to them. Would I like a blanket, a pillow? Something to eat? No, I'm fine. I'm here once every 3 weeks. It provides me with a unique perspective about people and about life. I have a treatable, but not curable blood disorder, a primary immune deficiency. IVIG, an expensive blood plasma product, boosts my immune system and helps to control secondary autoimmune diseases. It's also the only treatment available for my illness. We are hooked up to individual machines. Mine is giving me infection fighting antibodies. Theirs essentially pumping poison into their bodies to kill invading cells. A man comforts his wife. Talking in quiet whispers. It's only her second time here. Some patients just want to sleep during their treatment. Others are compelled to talk, desperate to make a connection with someone who understands. I've heard about all types of cancers here. Of people's marriages breaking up while they are still sick. Right now the man next to me is discussing a dog that recently came into his life. He didn't want it. He thought he hated dogs. Now he is grateful for its affection and that it has given him something to focus on other than his cancer.

In some ways I feel like fraud being here. I've been asked more than once what kind of cancer I have and I actually feel bad explaining that I don't have it. I also envy these people. They have a shot at getting better, of never setting foot here again. This is a life sentence for me. Every 3 weeks, forever, hoping that my veins hold out, but self-pity is not something to cling to.

There is another group of people who come here. I wonder at their life story, but I can't speak with them. Hands and feet in shackles, flanked in front and rear by armed guards. All heads turn as they are marched through the room and placed in their own section. For a minute the rest of us forget about our struggles. They are the incarcerated, the prisoners, also here for treatment. I imagine the trip and time here is something they look forward to. I imagine it's better than day after day in a cell.

A sign on the wall proclaims, "Live. Laugh. Love." We all deal with our personal disease differently. Some overcome with sadness or anger. Some pray. Other stoic and practical, realistic about the odds, but we are trying. All of us. We understand more than most that each day is a gift not to be wasted.

About the painting:

"Prickly Pear Cactus Flower Trio"

Acrylic on Board

11" x 14"

note: dimensions are unframed size, painting arrives framed

$595.00

Sometimes I liken myself to a cactus. I'm not the most approachable person in real life. Quiet and reserved. Often with my 'spines' out for protection, but if you get to know me, you may find the flower hiding inside.

Goat Study

"Goat Study"

5"x9.75"

Acrylic on board

(contact me if interested in this piece)

View all Rebecca's work at rebeccazook.com

Sparrow's Garden

Newly Completed...

"Sparrow's Garden"

Acrylic on Board

24" high x 15" wide

SOLD

To read about the creation of this piece go to (post titled: The Good The Bad and The Ugly)

To see all my paintings visit my website
www.rebeccazook.com

Dragons

‎"Fairy tales do not tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children that dragons can be killed." -G.K. Chesterton

I recently posted this quote on my Facebook page. It struck a cord with me. Overcoming fears, perceived or actual, is something that's been a struggle for me for much of my life. My youngest sister has done a lot of research on shyness, since her daughter and she, like me are innately shy, cautious people. We analyze every new situation looking for danger and thinking of ways to prevent harm. It's instinctual, likely genetic. Society doesn't value those traits, instead bold and fearlessness are admired. If we were a flock of birds or herd of deer, though, it's the shy wary ones, ever watchful, that perceive danger first and warn the rest of the flock, saving their lives.

Of the tortoise and the hare...I am the tortoise.
The ant and the grasshopper...I am the ant.

I've always been an artist. I went through a period where I did not do any fine art painting...that's for another blog. One of the first Christmas gifts I got from my husband was a bunch of acrylic paints, brushes and canvas board. This was around 2003. I was grateful for the encouragement, but I stared at them, doubting my ability. Slowly, the way of the cautious, I regained confidence. I started entering shows. I started winning awards. I was asked to have solo shows. Okay, maybe people actually liked my work.

I think the most touching compliments I received were on a piece called "Hands by Candlelight." Several people told me it made them cry. It was a simple composition of a pair of hands holding a votive candle. Each saw something personal in it. Some knew my story, some didn't. I was dumbfounded that I could elicit such a response with my work.

So, after much thought, planning and risk assessment, I decided to start placing advertisements in national magazines for my art. The first quarter page ad should be coming out within days in Southwest Art.

I'm both excited ...and worried... some of you will understand.

Visit my website to see all my artwork www.rebeccazook.com