I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again. - Georgia O'Keeffe

After the stroke, after the brain surgery to repair the aneurysm, I’ve been leaving little notes about my progress over on Facebook. It occurs to me to bring those notes over here for those who may not follow me there. I want you to know what’s going on, too.

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I am re-entering normal. My body feels fine. No residual effects of the stroke except a tiny wobble in my gait and, when I spin from one foot to the other, I tip to one side. No residual effects of the brain surgery except a twinging little headache that sparkles just behind my eyebrow - unpredictably. All day. Some days.

But though I feel mostly normal, I'm not. I'm quieter inside (and I like it this way). I'm shy, socially (and I like that too.) I feel like working but not in ways that involve other people - like counseling or teaching. Soon (I am certainly feeling like planning all of that just not doing it. Not yet.)

On a phone call the other day with a dear one, I had very little to share. I haven't done anything I can talk about. Not unless he wants to go over (again) the symptoms, the process, the whole review.

I could have said: I am spending my days in my office, watching the sun move from one window to the other. I am surprised when I look up and find that it's four pm. Surprised that I've spent another day dreaming - reading, doodling notes about this or that memory.

What I mean is: I have been through a huge experience but there's really nothing to share about that. It's a journey I am taking alone. And I like that.

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As I come out of it, I find myself choosing paint colors. My first project, a small bathroom, was painted peachy white 20 years ago. At first, I ordered paint samples in similar colors but when I picked up my paintbrush (after much testing on the bathroom walls) it was a darker, moodier color I chose, against my husband's protests that it wouldn't work in a small room. I watered down the charcoal gray which I’d purchased for a different project, and started watercolor-washing it over the old peachy white. As the room darkened, I sighed. How lovely.

And then... the oddest thing happened. Over the next four weeks (which is how long it is taking me to paint this tiny room) my husband and I both began painting murals on the remaining white walls, using the new paints. Vines snake up the wall above the sink. Mountains emerged behind the entry door. We've liberated something marvelous and, without discussing it, we are having a conversation in paint and imagery.

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I’ve been cleaning out drawers and closets. I found this collection of locks and keys in my mother’s art cabinet, which I inherited seven years ago and which I have been slowly investigating/claiming for my own.

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Friday night, my first time out for dinner with friends since June, a friend who works in medicine told me to expect full recovery to take six months. This was such a blessing - being told that. A kind of permission tucked inside of a reminder to slow down.

Yesterday and today my body is very sleepy. It seems to be working on a secret project that is using up all of my/our energy. It's remarkable how uneven my energy feels. One or two days, I feel buoyant, bubbling with bright clear energy. I can run around - doing errands, painting the bathroom, cooking beautiful soups and even (and this is so not me) baking!

Then, for two days, I am like this. Napping, yawning.

For the first time since the brain surgery, I took a long (slow) walk in the woods, stopping to touch (and hold onto) the birch trees in the middle of the path. I asked them to help support my healing. When I turned back toward home, walking the same path, I was gifted these wonderful treasures in the photo.

Pictured: Four brightly colored leaves. An acorn. A wooden wing. Wow! And a green felt numeral 8 (my birthday is 8/8, so meaningful to me.

A couple hours later, I could barely get through PT. This is not me complaining. I am enjoying this time of discovery and reimagining my relationship with my body. I am so lucky and blessed that i have the time and resources to allow me to rest when I need to rest.

It's just that it's so uneven. Waves of bubbly energy. Waves of knocked-onto the sofa exhaustion. Strange.

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As I am also slowly moving through recovery from brain surgery. I love the idea of enriching different aspects of my brain - the physical brain, the mind that lives there, the consciousness that flows through all the layers and levels of my body and the rest of my life. I love how healing one thing opens the door to healing the next and the next things.

For a writing class that I’ve enrolled in, this ishow I introduced myself:

" ... I'm writing from the (messy) sun room where I am in some sort of unearthing, re-creation, healing and re-discovery process which involves setting up altars on every surface - each like a little diorama/stage set enacting pieces of a story I've been caught in (caught myself in) since, on the eve of summer solstice, when I had a stroke and was laid down on a soft surface to dream. . . for three months..."

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(A note about this photo: That is NOT my house. It’s the stable where our landlord houses her horses and a few boarders. We live in a tiny rented cottage on the other end of the property. In this photo, I am standing in the driveway of the farm as the sun sets. My husband snapped this photo of my first walk after the brain surgery for our children. Feeling shy, enduring the attention of the camera lens and letting love pour through me, I closed my eyes.)

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I'm putting together a post, for my Magic Schoolers, about the way that I work with healing dolls and dioramas. I am letting it take as long as it takes to write it - every day there is a new idea or insight that I want to share.

This is my new normal. No hurry. Wide open heart. Eyes willing to close and rest. Walking around feeling so grateful for every sunrise, every sunset.

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