“Ok?” I say. Crone is not the prettiest word. She is undaunted. “Do you feel it?” she asks, aura sparkling as gentle rain falls. “This? Us? Oh, I'm so glad you're here.”
Teresa Robinson, affectionately aka @Stargardener and @RightBrainPlanner, draws me in ~ right into her cottage, right into her heart. Love and incense wafts through rooms like her own presence. We sit, smiling at each other like children do: me, shy, and her, bursting.
I want to tell you about my friend Teresa so that you will know her, too. About her he(art). About her incredible courage and knack for whispering, at just the right time,
“Baby steps, braveheart.”
I want to tell you how she gently coaxes us on, those of us blessed to nestle close within her circle; how she champions our hearts and wraps #secretmessages around us like cashmere. And then I would tell you about how she is a midwife to artists.
::
She leads me to her magic room, a tiny bedroom-turned-studio bursting at the seams with books and crayons and paints and other sparkly treasures. I'm told she has a way of flinging glorious handfuls of glitter and art pages leap to life. I want to see this, but she reaches instead for a stack of bills. They look a little out of place. She holds up an envelope like it's a hundred bucks, with a faceful of delight. “See this?” She is beaming.
I do see it. I need to pay my own utilities, I remember. I make a mental note.
“Well, look. This is what you can do with it. I never throw anything away. The inside of these envelopes, the ones that come with your electric bill, or your water bill, or your credit card bill?” She's peeling it open as she talks, spreading it flat with skillful hands. “They usually have the most amazing designs inside! And you can use them in your art journals, you can doodle on them or take a glue stick ~ I always keep one in my purse ~ and glue secret messages inside. There are endless possibilities. Look.”
She gives me the tour, revealing page after page of intricate artwork, words layered on receipts, words twisted into labyrinths, candy wrappers offering a splash of color behind carefully arranged photos torn from magazines. “There is no limit to what you can do. You don't even have to spend a lot of money. I use everything.”
Old books, even, given redemption through the sacred practice of art journaling.
::
If ever there was a warrioress, it would be this woman. “My word is {undaunted},” she writes.“To be intentional with regard to dealing with situational realities when I feel discouraged; inadequately equipped {intimidated my own perfectionism} or discouraged by difficulty, disappointment or physical challenge.”
Teresa daily wrestles the crippling effects of multiple sclerosis, but it is without complaint as she bravely welcomes each morning with open arms and a brilliant smile. She creates with courage and grace, art buoyed by the rarely-mentioned but constant presence of pain, her sacred companion. She flings glitter, even when her eyes are blurred and she cannot see, and takes baby steps, even when her bones ache. She sings to her tribe of bravehearts, love songs. She brings artists to life.
I suspect it is often through tears.
::
We sit in her kitchen, sharing coffee. She loves coffee like I do, rich and dark and strong. She makes tomato and black bean soup and we spoon it up in the waning afternoon sun, savory broth warming our bellies. She offers me cookies and I eat them, and she is glad. She says women only eat cookies around those we feel comfortable with, comfortable enough to be ourselves.
 |
| I realize I want what the crones have: time for all those long deep breaths, time to watch more closely, time to learn to enjoy what I've always been afraid of ~ the sag and the invisibility, the ease of understanding that life is not about doing. The crones understand this, and it gives them all kinds of time ~ time to get much less done, time for all these holy moments. ~ Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies. Art by Teresa Robinson. |
::
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| Teresa Robinson, midwife to artists, and crone. |
Crones are mystics, wise women of years. They have seen things. They know things, like how to give birth, for example. All art is birth. There is labor and darkness and pain and beauty, a bearing down and bringing forth. Those who come along with healing hands to support the crowning of new life have a sacred calling. A doula friend calls it “blessed to be a witness.” And this act of witnessing the fruit of creation, again and again, well. I think it must be like seeing the face of God.
And Teresa reflects Her with the tenderest kind of love.
::
It's raining again, gently, when I leave.
And I feel it.
This. Us.
_______________________________
Art heals. Teresa knows this and creates voluptuously, sharing her he(art) and soul at www.rightbrainplanner.com. She also completed a series of beautiful art journal kits, the kind which make you breathless and twitchy and eager, ready to dive in. She runs The Art Journaler with our mutual friend Mandy and recently launched a new subscription service for artists who need encouragement and inspiration.
About Teresa:
“I have journaled since I was a young girl,” she writes about herself, “saving trinkets, notes and cards, and sporadically making handwritten entries in various bound notebooks in order to jot mental notes of important {or just sparkly} events. My earliest “art journals” were doodles, hand-lettered notations, stickers and various collage ephemera accumulated from my daily activities. These notations of memory were collected on my wall calendar and a small cedar box.”View more:
http://www.rightbrainplanner.com/bizcard/
http://www.rightbrainplanner.com/start-here/
http://theartjournaler.com/about-us/
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This is volume 5 in the Portraits of a Warrioress series. For more, visit Prelude to a Portrait. Would you like to join my warrioress tribe? Please sign up here!
