Bleeding to life
A warm blanket over my shoulders could not dissipate the angst of waiting for a doctor that was taking forever to show up. A thousand things in my to-do list, my mind going in circles planning how I was going to make the best out of the little time I had left to address my responsibilities of the day. A nurse with apologetic eyes kept coming in and out of the cold room. Finally, the doctor came in. I needed to get a contrast injected into my knee. The catheter was much larger than I expected but I was as collaborative as possible so that I could leave out of there as soon as possible.
The doctor was tall and thin, the kind of person who makes jokes without any inflection of his facial muscles to keep you wondering if he was throwing a joke or filing a complaint. After the third “joke,” I was laughing. We discussed politics, kids’ age differences, country of origin, and why the doctor had sent me there, among a variety of topics. After he removed the catheter, he pressed the site and looked at me with a very serious face, or with his regular face, I should say.
“You have very thin blood,” he stated.
I thought for a second. “Is that good or bad?” I asked.
“It all depends,” he mentioned. “If you go to war and get stabbed, that is not good.”
I consider my options for a second. I have no plans of going to war.
“But if you worry about things like blood clots,” he continued, “Then it is really good. It can go either way.”
Thin blood…the capacity to bleed easily.
If there is a stereotype that is usually thrown at artists with the lightness of down feathers is that we are sensitive creatures. And well, we are. We wear our hearts on our sleeves. Artists have the capacity to create beautiful things because they see beauty in the world. We can rejoice in the spectacular sunset display, the interesting curvature of an ear that connects to a delicate neck with absolute precision, or a witting leaf cast in the shadows. The world is a playground and a feast to an artist. Yes, I am biased, but I love looking at the world through that lens. Some may argue that they are rose-colored glasses, but I disagree. The power of the artist relays not in the search for beauty but in the realization that there is beauty anywhere (such as in dirty sinks, my dear Antonio Lopez’s fans) Let me be honest: it is impossible not to love the world when there is so much to admire in it. However, the same world that can bloom in allure also contains pain. There cannot be one without the other.
If we train ourselves to delight in beauty, isn’t it natural to be deeply affected by whatever breaks it? We bleed easily, yes. It comes with a package. Blood spurts like a river when we are at war with the world around us. Hopefully, we can protect ourselves so that we are never stabbed or learn to see beauty in each scar.
A saying states that “blood is thicker than water.” It certainly is, but if you are a sensitive/artist/connected-to-your-soul person, blood, that river that we all carry inside, needs to remain fluid. No clots, no mass that clogs the system and stops beauty in its tracks. We must let emotions flow and trust that grace will rescue us from the heavy blade of pain. I could keep going about with all sorts of dramatic metaphors, but honestly, I am even getting tired of thinking about it. Time to go back to that peaceful state supported by light and beauty.
What can I say…I am an artist with thin blood that flows like a river, a woman who has lost her armature and retains a laser focus on the beautiful world that surrounds her. And in that world, bleeding is not the beginning of pain; it is a sign of life. And we should all be entitled to embrace as much of this beautiful world for as long as we should live.