I have been saying “Hey” lately too,

to God.

Formalities just weren’t

working.

Whether or not you agree with my concept of God, you may find the irreverence of a three-letter word works well proffered as prayer. I do, especially now when an acute viral infection earthquakes my chronic pain. In this season of well-wishing, giving, and never-ending scurrying for one day of hopeful celebration, it is my prayer that you, too, will offer your own prayer to the eternal Creator Who loves you.

Lately I’ve been focusing intently on a mixed-media polymer clay art project that is building up the ol’ muscles ravaged by RSD and fibromyalgia. Every day I wake up, excited to work with Art, which competes with my husband for being the love of my life (to be fair, I know that I am in competition with my husband’s love of hunting and being a woodsman).  Art, or should I say movement in general, is so painful that it prompts my brain to say, “Why are you deciding to get out of bed today?” It is more necessary that I move now than if I were completely healthy because I have little to no reserve healthiness to fall back on. So, I kick my feet out from under my bed covers each day and mentally prepare for the fight.

However, it has not been as much of a struggle as dealing with the pain when a friend is broken somewhere in his or her life.

Right now I have a good friend whose heart is heavy. She is what I might refer to as an “art friend” because I met her through a shared artistic endeavor. She is incredibly talented, but right now her love for art is on hold. Her spirit and heart are heavy. To me, the worst part about it is that I am in another state and cannot be with her now. My humanness in dealing with illness reminds me that others are human, too, and need compassionate care. My heart cries, “How I wish I could help!” This hurts more than any physical pain I currently experience. Although art and friendships are not crucial to survival, it’s apparent they are fighting for that coveted top spot, otherwise I may not feel them at all.

You’d think in a civilized society that women would be more acceptable, even beautiful, to others without having to wear a mask, deviously called make up. In a civilized society, one would see beyond the chemical contrivances and bear witness to each person’s soul. After all, we all will look more or less the same amount of dead laying on a coroner’s slab, made up or not.

My genetics state that there were a long line of females before me who wore cosmetics to improve their looks. My genetics also state that if there ever came a day when my face didn’t break out regularly into zits I’d pack the face paints away. Several surgeries and a year of Proactiv later, my skin looks pretty good, so unless someone either gets hitched or is pushing daisies, I rarely touch my facial minerals. You’ll understand, then, why the Motor Vehicle Division in our small town thought my husband might be seeing a new gal when this one decided to remake the face she’d normally been seen bare with.

When I was a teenager no one really showed me how to apply foreign goop to my face, so I learned from the usual media. The media must have been Boy George singing on New Year’s Eve and Cindi Lauper, because I remember several adults referring to my eyeshadow job as the NBC peacock. I became much better, thank goodness not only for me but for my viewers; however, it doesn’t appear that a well-done face job is like having the skill of bicycle riding where it comes back to you no matter how old you are. (By the way, I have to disagree with that adage – I nearly killed myself last time I took up bicycle riding.) Now it apparently takes me forty-five minutes what used to take ten. I broke my mascara wand, and my white porcelain sink and countertop is covered in fine, earth-and-flesh-toned powders. Usually I am waiting on my husband while he preens; now he is waiting on me, albeit patiently, while I blend and wipe and scrape and scream.

For all the work, though, and a few near-expletives thrown in, I took a photo that looks like a deer in the headlights – the same look on my drivers’ license as four years ago. I guess it was fairly worth it.