Reflections of the Soul

I was going through some old art work the other day and came across several paintings that I'd done after my partner passed away. Some of them are quite dark, and yet reflecting on them reminded me of the journey I was going through at the time. The lack of direction and procrastination reminded me of how I feel now. Trying to put positive and uplifting content into this blog sometimes seems near on impossible.









Dry pastel on a painted background.

The Book Seller

The Book Seller
3B Pencil on white cartridge paper

I did this drawing from a photo in National Geographic. It's the story of a man haunted by the past. He lost a leg in the war, after being wounded and taken to a Soviet Camp. There he drank a bottle of vodka and allowed his cell mates to amputate the limb with a knife. Now he wears and artificial leg. He is also a man who loves books. They are his passion. He sells them on the streets of Legnica from a baby carriage. Because he is old and crippled, boys often steal from him. And because he is a man who loves books, he buys them back an hour later. His spare time he spends in bed, playing chess against himself.

Paul Newman

Precious Love

A mother's love is a mother's love. This was done from a beautiful photo of my grandson and his mother.

THE BATTLE

What do you do when the battle is won?

That’s all I know how to do, is battle. With doctors, specialists, teachers. Knowing in my heart, something is not right. He never sleeps, he won’t eat.

Where are my cuddles my son?

Years of searching, arguing. Years of doctors telling you your child is just ADHD. Medications will fix him. So I feed this frail little boy with more medication, and watch as the fear for the outside world gets worse.
The bullying at school.
The struggle to read, and write.
The struggles to see the world as others do,
To fit in when there was no place to fit.
No matter we love him just the same. The years pass, the battle goes on.
Another referral.
Another specialist. Maybe this time will be different someone says, one of the best in his field they say. So I spend the rent money and walk on, in hopeful optimism.

A nice man, softly spoken, he asks the questions that I have answered a thousand times before. But this feels different as he presses for details that were not asked before. I rack my brain to remember the little things that got blurred in the background of sleepless days and nights from long ago.

Finally he puts down his pen, studies his notes, studies the referrals from various psychologists and says your son has Autism Spectrum Disorder.

Thank you I say, with my hands in my lap. I remember the early years when I knew in my heart that this was it. I remember the doctors that said no, that’s not it. Not worth considering. So on I walked in hopeful optimism. On, through the years. To this quiet spoken man.
Yes, he says this is the answer, it has always been the answer.


The battle is won.

Now the journey begins.

Being A Mum

This picture was sent to me via an email.. I don't know

where the origional came from, but have to share it.

This is pricless.


SEE MOM'S REPLY BELOW

Dear Mrs. Jones, I wish to clarify that I am not now, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. I work at Home Depot and I told Sarah how hectic it was last week before the blizzard hit. I told her we sold out every single shovel we had. Then I found one more in the back room, and several people were fighting over who would get it. Sarah's picture does NOT show me dancing around a pole. It's supposed to depict me selling the last snow shovel we had at Home Depot. From now on I will remember to check her homework more thoroughly before she turns it in. Sincerely, Mrs. Smith

The Boy Who Only Seeks A Friend

The school holidays are drawing to a close and life in the Billington/Palmer household will again return to some sort of normality. Life in Spiers Place, Middle Swan will feel secure in the knowledge that one child will again be contained within the boundaries of school walls, small children will again be able to roam free for a few hours of the day. Police visits will die down and neighbors will refrain from treading a path to my door. The neighborhood will return to a time of peace and serenity for the majority of the day.

Alas, the boy only wishes for a friend to play with. Does he understand that grabbing someone by the throat, in a play fight does not count as a sign of affection? I ask him. Why did you do that my son? He answers, because they were mean to me mum, not even contemplating the consequences of such an action.

However, another day dawns and the boy continues on his quest, forgotten are the torments of the previous day, the names and pebbles that persecute him. He lives to fight another day, secure in the knowledge that mum will save the day.

We love him so, the wayward boy that only seeks a friend. Someone to understand the torment that seeks him out, and love him all the while. Seek on my boy, one day someone will come and ask to play. Until then I will be your friend and always ask to play.

So it continues, the life of the boy that only seeks a friend.