This was originally sent as a newsletter for Of Pens & Paintbrushes. If you’d like to get this directly in your inbox, you can sign up here, at the Newsletter sign up page.
First off: tonight is the last opportunity to order the 2022 Snowflake designs [Pendant here, Earrings here.] I’ll be permanently retiring them late tonight or early tomorrow morning, like I do every year.
Second: Today is my 40th birthday, and to be blunt, it has sucked – and way more than usual for birthdays, at that. I was optimistic going in, I promise! However, since the Universe has not seen fit to, as we say, use lube on this natal anniversary of mine, I’m just a little more raw than usual, and that will probably come through. Not in anger – no, I don’t really get angry when it’s been that kind of a bad day – just… Extra Big Feels with no chaser.
I am not even sure where to locate an appropriate chaser for this one anyway, and I don’t think there’s a big enough lime for this day… or for this week for that matter. Salt, though, I have plenty of that. (As a choir member found out when they called me a kid this week and several people purposefully misgendered me. Whooboy.)
And off we go.
The year before Steve’s health started to drastically decline was one of the happiest in my life, and if you had asked me then if I would have traded what dreams I had for myself for living what time I had left taking care of my geese, spending time with him, making a few batches of soap and a painting or two a year, and watching my kids grow up, I would have taken your offer. I thought I understood then what I would have been walking away from, and the quiet peace and being loved would have been worth it to me. It wouldn’t have mattered if no one ever used the right pronouns or knew my name or if I never discovered what I was capable of at my best – the peace and love was worth the loss of that potential.
It was not an offer I was given. I lost the two pet geese I loved dearly to a freak accident, not long after, the almost 100 chickens I’d hand raised, and then Steve. It kept getting worse for about six months after that. I felt like my life was over. I was on the verge of losing everything I had worked for after already having lost so much of what I loved – some more than my own life.
Fast forward to early February 2023.
I’ve made it over two years and have, with no small amount of luck and help, managed to stay in the house. Two of my kids have graduated high school and are in college, and I’m showing my art in galleries again. I’m making soap AND jewelry, too. We’ve found out that we can’t keep birds with the influx of predators, but we have a cat now. I have a best friend – as an adult! I’m making more friends. I feel happy in my skin! So far, so good, even if the future is very uncertain. (That’s kinda life for you, though.)
Then, I find out in early February that the small, locally-owned welding shop I buy my jewelry torch fuel from has been giving me nearly empty tanks of acetylene… and then empty tanks of acetylene. I have no way to prove this, that they’ll accept, so no recourse, and am out a fair bit of money and time I really can’t afford to burn – or in this case, not burn. I’m not going to start a fight, because I don’t feel like wasting energy on something useless when I have a to-do list as long as my arm. Instead, I spend a bit of time trying to find another local source, and pretty handily I find one – one I’ve called before as it turns out. The person who picked up the first time had no clue what I was talking about. Website says they’ve got it though, and I’m never surprised when the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing in a local place. (Yeah. Salty, like I said.) So I go in, double check with someone in the back instead of with the register, confirm they have it, and come back the next day with my empty tanks. (You swap them, and pay for the fuel.) It’s twice the cost per tank as the other place, but at least I know the tank is full this time.
I’m driving home that evening from swapping the tanks, and the sun starts setting. I love sunsets, and this one is a show stopper. I have the music up too, and I’m happily thinking about all the things I’m doing – projects, art, and shows that I have deadlines for, work I need to do. Then it strikes me: Two years ago this would have terrified me. Just managing one of those things I was running over in my mind would have paralyzed me with anxiety, and I don’t even think twice about them now.
To get to this point ,I realize, I had to learn to do them by myself – the hard way. I had to learn how to trust myself, and trust in my instincts, and I had to do it without Steve.
It dawned on me that I never would have become who I am now without going through that trial by fire of loss and grief. I would not have had most of the experiences that have brought me joy these last few years, either. The art parties, the friends I’ve made, the work I’ve created, the comfort in my own skin, the peace with making mistakes and making a mess.
I would not be who I am without him, yes – but I also couldn’t be who I became with him.
My life felt like it was over when he died, but really? It was just beginning – and this time, it was mine alone. This time, I would live for just me.
Shortly after that drive, I saw myself in the mirror and, instead of that brief disconnect of seeing someone else through the glass, I recognized that face as mine immediately. It took me 40 years, coming out as nonbinary, and chasing dreams no one else could see but me, but I had rediscovered my peace. It was a different kind of peace, but peace all the same, and this time, one rooted in my own self instead of the fragile peace balanced on another person. This peace was mine.
I didn’t expect to do more than survive when I lost him, and I never would have dreamed of thriving. At the start, I doubted my own strength, my instincts, my own intelligence, my own courage, not realizing the depth and breadth of what I would have so quickly traded away before.
Sure, there are days I still don’t know how I’m going to get through the day, but you know what?
Damn, I am proud of who I am now, this person I fought so hard to become, this person I refused to give up on. They’re kinda awesome, and I’m kinda looking forward to seeing what I do next. I keep surprising myself with how much I am.
Wishing you that same recognition of your own power, even if you’re struggling now,
A.Markov
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This was originally sent as a newsletter for Of Pens & Paintbrushes. If you’d like to get this directly in your inbox, you can sign up here, at the Newsletter sign up page.