The Pieces I Never Knew I Had

I perched on the edge of the bed, fixing my stare at the purge canvas some time back me. It was almost like a metaphor for my life. Transparent. Incomplete. I sometimes engaged in painting. I sometimes engage in writing. But somewhere along the line, I drew the line.

Then days turned to weeks. And weeks turned to months. I had too many hobbies to indulge in, which I simply pushed down beneath pushing my tendrils. Employment, projects, expenses. I quite frankly thought I was being realistic. I quite frankly thought I was being responsible. But in reality, I was fading away.

Waking up on a Saturday morning, there was a very old box in a wardrobe corner. Kwanzaa flashbacks came when I lifted the lid. Objects came pouring in – pictures, written notes, illustrations. Every single shard had a purpose in it. Every single shard was a part of myself that I had forgotten.

I found a sixteen-year-old picture of myself. I was chuckling, full of life, with paint smeared on my hands. I remembered that day very well. I had painted the fence in quite a chaotic manner but it was fair. Where did that girl go?

There was a pang of longing within me. I have traded happiness for good health. I have opted for safety over spontaneity. But there was a spark that ignited within me as I lit that picture. What if I try to find those lost pieces of myself?

I made up my mind to start small. I went and looked for my old painting materials. They were old, and dusty but intaglio. The pigments were still bright, waiting for me. I made a base in my sitting room, heart pounding in anticipation. Would I still know how to do it?

The first line was hesitant. I paused. It seemed alien. But then again, something changed. The paint began to flow. I lost myself in the cycle of brush and canvas. Each line created a whirl of emotions.

I was drawing my biography, so to speak, illustrating people, places, sights, nightmares, and most importantly, myself. I found parts of myself that I had long considered lost. The girl who enjoyed dancing in the rain, the dreamer who was restless in one place, the artist who would paint even the most ordinary things.

And as the canvas filled in, I felt as though I was shedding weight. Each hue reflected a different facet of my personality. The blues being the wounds of my heart, the yellows, my internalized joy, the reds, my aggression. I came to the heart-wrenching realization that I had existed in only black and white.

In the following days, I engaged in more painting. I painted in the dawn when nature was still. I painted in the evening when colors fused into magic. I converted the living room into a paint shop. So it became her refuge.

I too started exploring new things. I signed up for a ceramic class. I had never done it before. The first time I shaped the clay was like a revelation. My fingers obeyed the instincts, turning a ball of dirt into something beautiful.

I immersed myself. I was creating once more, not unfair but with my bare-hands and dirty heart. I discovered a fondness for textures and contours. Every object that I created, spoke to me.

With these modern pursuits, I began to reach out to other individuals. I become a member of some local art groups and workshops. I encountered people who encouraged me. Their journeys were similar to mine, full of lost and found stories.

We experienced joy and frustration as well. They pushed us to go deeper and explore the facets of ourselves we didn’t even know existed. It dawned on me that there were others in the world who were ‘lost’ like me. They were all on similar journeys.

One night, when I was in the middle of a sharing circle with my artworks, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I have a long way to come. What I thought was buried deep within me was now an active explosion of colors. I was not just an artist anymore, I was a creator, a dreamer, and a narrator.

Every brushstroke and every pot I molded pieced my spirit back together. I understood the disorder of existence. I learned to appreciate flaws as sources of beauty.

I surveyed the people I shared the experience with, each a patchwork of people and events. We were all parts of a grander picture. I smiled; the journey of re-discovery was on track.

I was not merely surviving; I was also very much alive. The fragments I never thought I possessed were now fused in me. I had become one again, and I was ready to sculpt my tomorrows.