two mysteries revealed

It seems the mystery woman has been identified as Deborah Gardner of Spokane (Thank you reader, G.B.). Not only is she a lovely young woman, but from the brief research I've done (i.e. reading an email sent by a researching friend), she also has an encouraging story of adoption into a loving and supporting family.

Now on to the other mystery: the identity of the artist. This was kept under wraps not due to lack of information, but from lack of permission to reveal. But he has kindly granted me permission.

He is Duncan Sawyer of New Zealand, formally educated in physics and self-taught artist. 

Here is another taste of his work:

Sophia Hummel plays the violin

And…

I know that girl!

Mr. Sawyer paints on commission and you can find him on Facebook by name.

OneArmGirl

mystery woman

A week or so ago a reader emailed to ask if I might know the subject of one of his paintings…

I do not know who this woman is, but was struck by the twinkle of joy he captured in her eyes. I thought (with the artist's permission) I might post the picture of his painting here to see if any of you, my followers, know who she is. The artist has a sister who is a congenital amputee, and he has other similar portraits in his portfolio.

Just who is this beautiful mystery woman with the twinkly eyes? Now it's up to you to sleuth it out…

OneArmGirl

going the distance

I had a strong talking to with myself this week.

Since getting home, and actually staying home rather than jet setting somewhere else as I've lately been doing, I've been a little prone to loneliness and self pity.

Woe is me, I'm single again, I'm alone in the world…that sort of thing. Never mind that I've been 'alone' for all but a few years of my life when it comes to romance. I really ought to be a pro by now.

And getting back into aerial dance has been no picnic either. Planning to enact some great feat on the lira, I manage to get just one leg hooked over the hoop before gravity and my recently dormant muscles decide it's just not going to happen.

'I'm too old for this…I have one arm…and a compromised immune system,' I moan inwardly, 'what am I even doing here?'

I got an email this week from my little middle, recently married, sis, who felt compelled to tell me how I have inspired her and how she believes I inspire all sorts of people just by being who I am. I read the email sitting on my couch, where I'd previously been pondering how many people's lives would actually be affected if I were to check out early.

Now before I start getting a flush of emails expressing concern for my mental health, let me assure you, it's too late. That's the kind of morose hypothetical gymnastics I do for fun.

But I was glad to hear it. If you can get that sort of email from the person you had to share a bathroom with while growing up, you are blessed indeed.

Stretching out on the mat before practice, I try to look past the talented acrobats around me and remind myself that it's not about what I can do on the lira today, it's about showing up every week and trying again without quitting.

I was offered a job last week as a therapeutic riding instructor. It was exciting, of course, as that's essentially the one thing I was working toward all last fall. But it's taken some time to reflect on my journey to this point. Not so long ago, I didn't imagine I'd be doing anything equine-related, much less get paid as an instructor. Yet, here I was, standing amidst a group of people I'd just met, clapping their excitement for my presence.

Driving to aerial rehearsal last night, I reflected that one year ago, I would never have guessed I'd be a member of an aerial dance company now. I took a moment to let gratitude wash over me. It felt good.

As Anton Chekhov said, "Any idiot can face a crisis, it's day to day living that wears you out." Or, you might say it's the practice of waiting…for strength, for purpose, for love…that is so hard.

But I don't intend on being any idiot.

OneArmGirl

isn't it romantic

I have done something I try to avoid at all costs: come to Pennsylvania in February.

Last month my sister got married in Mexico. Little Gen and I boarded a plane to the pacific coast, joining my parents to witness the union. At the ripe old age of thirty-three, I can say I've seen my share of weddings and finding an invitation in the mail is not the excitement it once was; but the beach ceremony of the very first sister to take the leap really was beautiful. The waves crashed against the sand behind the linen arbor where they promised to be faithful forever.

And now, here on the east coast for a family reception, I'm finding the snow storm outside the window a rival beauty, though in a much different category.

Home-bound at my parents' townhouse, I'm wishing for Keeper the dog who would love to go bounding through the drifts, the snow putting an extra spring in her step. I'll have to settle for watching neighbors with pooches and sleds making tracks down the hill.

I also wish the migraine that settled in last night would move out of the right side of my skull where it's taken up residence. And while we're at it, I wish for a warm fire, a down blanket, and someone to share a glass of wine. But I'll have to settle for a gas stove and a couple honeymooners currently sleeping on an air mattress in the basement.

Tomorrow is the day of St. Valentine, a martyr and patron saint of happy marriages. Coincidence?

My little middle sister is married. How is it she's managed to cross over into a dimension that remains a mystery to me? But in a way it seems very ordinary, like having babies and dying. And our new brother fits into the family like a perfect gentleman. He's already assisted my parents in removing all of their furniture from the house to make room for the reception, and then back into the house again after it was over. The fact that's he's Mexican and doing all the heavy lifting has not failed to strike us as politically incorrect and hilarious. As I type, he is shoveling snow off the driveway.

I guess sometimes romance is a snowflake falling onto your eyelash, and sometimes it's throwing your back out with a shovel. It's all part of the same storm.

My Mexican brother just came up from the basement to give me a square of dark chocolate before settling in for an afternoon of writing thank yous.

"Yes, I'll be your valentine!"

OneArmGirl

a brief meditation

It's been a good couple of days for writing and, as it turns out, for sweeping snow off my car. It's no polar vortex, mind you, but here at the bottom of the Rockies, a snowstorm comes as beautiful relief from the monotonous sunny days.

I decided to paint my bedroom. And then I liked it so much, I decided to paint the living room. The color certainly brought warmth to the room, though had I known it would be more bubble gum pink than salmon, I might have put more thought into my color scheme. At least the yellow stained sofa is no longer the most eye-catching aspect.

Painting two rooms with one arm and a hand roller reminds me that I'm still an over-achiever. In the beginning I thought nothing of it, but by the end of day two, my Michelangelo-like aspirations disappeared beneath the epsom salt water of a hot bath.

Then, on Monday, I found myself in a particularly difficult position, aerially speaking, which required me to slide down the fabric, gripping it between my lower arm and bicep. The result was the loss of some skin and a nice rug burn on the inside of my elbow. I learned this about myself: I would rather suffer 2nd degree burns than ask for help.

I am trying to be better to myself. I'm eating salads nearly every day, praying more, and forcing myself to journal. I'm reading a book by Kathleen Norris called Cloister Walk in which she says that in a monastic community "prayer rolls on, as daily as marriage and washing dishes."

I like to think of prayer like that; mostly not lofty or high brow, but sometimes just like getting that last bit of spaghetti sauce off a plate, or painting a wall.

Or something a little less hard on the arm.

OneArmGirl 

working it out

Well, I've had a week to sit around sulking about my limitations. But I have a low tolerance for self-pity, in myself or anyone else, so on my first day home, I went to the gym.

Not one to be accused of being a gym rat, I felt like a bumbling novice trying to figure out how one steps onto the stair stepper and then for the next five minutes (yes, that's as long as I lasted) being fully convinced that I was stepping backward.

Then after making several rounds through the weight machines, studying the multi-step visual directions complete with figures of highlighted muscle groups, I decided to ask for help.

Rey, the gentlemanly man in charge, had some spare time, so he agreed to take me on, though I had the distinct impression that he was doing me a great favor. 

I followed Rey from machine to machine as he explained the mechanics, then took notes on weight settings. Suffice it to say, nothing passed 30 lbs., so there's room for endless improvement. 

Obviously safety was of utmost importance to Rey as he consistently warned me not to do too much and hovered about in case I lost my balance. He seemed very concerned about my balance. I tried to stay within his expectations, but I couldn't help showing off just a bit. I refrained from showing him pictures of my aerial endeavors. 

He must have been impressed, though, because he shared with me that he was a polio survivor and had achieved remarkable strength in his legs, though they remained stick thin. He also had a spinal deformity which causes him daily pain.

"I just learned to live with it," he said.

'Just learn to live with it' is a phrase I've come to loathe, especially when someone else pronounces it over my life. 'You just learn to live with it!' I find myself wanting to snap, 'I have bigger plans.'

And I do. But truthfully isn't that what we're all doing every day? Learning to live with it, whatever it is? Primarily, it is being human, constricted to a body and a reality that never seems to be enough.

I guess instead of learning to want less and be satisfied with enough, I'm really just learning to live with my own expectations, no matter how irrational they might be. They are haughty and elitist much of the time, but they are also genuinely desiring to inspire and make a difference. I'd rather learn to be friends with my expectations than enemies.

Last night at aerial rehearsal, I pushed myself too hard, as usual. But I also spent considerable time sitting on the safety pads, watching the achievements of my companions and trying not to entertain envy or frustration.

I'm just learning to work it out.

OneArmGirl

getting up

In California last week, I was able to stop in and see some old friends.

I hadn't seen my first vaulting coach and fellow single-armed friend Rick, and wife Virginia, in seven years. Of course, Rick got me back on the horse as soon as possible.

Shoulder stand on the barrel

It's been a while since I've vaulted with any regularity, but I was happy to attend a morning adult class with several other women the day after I arrived. There was plenty of stretching and chatting, and I felt at ease among peers. I even attempted a cartwheel on the barrel (with plenty of spotting) and only a minor strained muscle. 

But come the afternoon kids' class, fatigue was setting in. I felt the old nemesis of a compromised immune system pushing me up against the wall, and I knew I should call it a day. I stayed outside, thinking I'd just watch the kids do their thing. But sitting cross-legged on the barrel, my frustration grew as I watched the thoughtless youthful expenditure of energy. 

"Are you going to get up there?" one of the dads asked encouragingly. He didn't know me, but his eyes told me he wanted to see something impressive.

And I knew I could do it…in my mind, conceptually, I had it together. Even my muscles know what to do. Whatever skill doesn't come naturally, I have the drive to hone. But it is all for naught, I thought, with growing desperation, because the more I push, the more I suffer. Why do I even try?

Heading for cover inside, I felt tears welling up, threatening to run down my cheeks.

Still teary-eyed, I sat with Rick watching television after class. I didn't want to cry, but I wanted him to know I was upset. It didn't take much coaxing.

"I just get so frustrated sometimes. I have all this ability, but it doesn't matter…"

"I know," he said stretching his one over-used shoulder, "believe me, I know… But we're not here for ourselves, we're here to help as many people as we can."

I didn't care. Not one bit. And I was angry because I knew he was right. What makes me special?

We decided to go see Lone Survivor. I was still angry in the car ride over. As the story of US Navy Seals doomed to fight odds quickly turning against them unfolded, I felt a kinship with these men of exceptional determination. I, too, want to fight with everything in me, or die trying, viciously satisfied.

Yet, for all their skill and dreams, these soldiers were still in the service of someone else's mission, bound by duty to something outside their control. In one powerful moment, the leader leaves cover to make a call for help, knowing it will mean his own certain death. Reaching an exposed rock, the mobile phone to his ear, he begins to explain the dire situation when he is riddled with enemy bullets. His body slumps, the phone dropping to the ground, but he has accomplished his mission.

I felt the tears coming again. But I also felt relief. The pain remained, but the loneliness was gone.

OneArmGirl