Artist: Adolf Mentzel (1815-1905)

Artist: Adolf Mentzel (1815-1905)

Have you ever felt like you were on a train and the view is great but suddenly it starts moving so fast all the colors of the view swirl together?  Now you see life like a Renoir painting.  Everything is bright but out of focus.  The pace of change makes it hard to put boundaries around time and space.  You can’t name what you see anymore.

The train of my life has been moving.  There’s beauty in the view, but I haven’t felt like putting words to it, and I certainly haven’t felt good about airing my thoughts in this semi-public arena of blogdom.  I have wondered, should I close this down?  Shall I simply declare (or, let my silence say it) that I’ve abdicated What Color is Love?  I don’t know what color love is anymore.  It is a blur of grays and reds and vermillion, aqua and ultramarine and phthalo blue.  The colors are vivid but my tongue sticks to roof of my mouth.  No, my keyboard sticks to my fingertips.  I feel dull and insignificant.  I feel alive and happy.  I feel energized and tired.  I feel sexy and invisible.  I feel like a woman.

I say this last bit because I think there are seasons of our lives as women that are particularly hard to make sense of.  Although we specialize in multitasking, in having all four of life’s burners going.  Although we’re accustomed to preparing the exquisite “meals” of life with every pan in the house.  Nevertheless there are seasons where the juggling act truly feels like I’m a circus performer and I can’t sort out the thoughts and emotions of my head.  In this chaos how can I try to put words into the blogosphere?

This isn’t a lament.  I like being a woman and I like my life.  But I’m not sure if my voice is on this fast-moving train where the colors blur and the contours disintegrate. As if my voice were a thousand meters behind and I want to call to her and say run, you can do it, catch me!  I’m here.  With my voice back in my body I’ll be able to speak kind and comforting words to my soul and maybe then, to yours too.

But today, I break the silence and surrender to the speed.  Because today is Sunday.  A world at rest.  The train is in it’s station, blowing off steam.  My eyes blink and I can focus.  The sun glows warm and the sea sparkles.  My child sleeps while canvas curtains billow softly.  In the calm I recollect myself and feel my voice again.  Inside my chest, she’s a bird come home to the nest.  Later, I will ask her softly, Voice, what lands did you discover, what truths do you now see?   Shhhh…rest now awhile.  Take time.  Tomorrow you can tell me your tales.


Self portrait made with my fingerprints on vellum

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4 thoughts on “Integrate

  1. Oh Rebecca! I am so glad you chose to share, even if the swirl of your journey’s colors make you feel overwhelmed, or muddied, or somehow not worthy of putting words to the sounds inside. This so comforts me to read. I feel it, your words, and I see it, your images. Thank you!

  2. bobbi boyd says:

    As Martha Ballard, a well-known eighteenth-century woman, wrote in her journal on Nov. 26, 1795, “A womans work is Never Done as ye Song Says, and happy Shee whos Strength holds out to the End…”


    • rebeccaannafaubion says:

      Sounds like the sometimes dizzying life of being a woman is a universal – and timeless – theme. I love you mom!

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