COVID-19: An Artists' Diary and Rambling Thoughts

2010, Where this starts.

The following entry was transcribed from my journal a few years ago, we can start this attempted effort of organized ramblings here:

“ I wasn’t scared. Not until the night before. As I laid in the hotel bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I realized the terrifying possibility that this could really be it. This could be my last day alive. 

I kept my whimpers low, tossing the sheets over my head— eventually drifting off to sleep. I didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that it could all be gone. Would my last day on earth really consist of sleeping in a double bed hotel room where I had to watch my family eat dinner in near tears; all because my stomach had to be empty for surgery? What a bummer.

During the time of this emergency surgery, I was 19. I felt I had the world figured out— I was heading into my sophomore year in college and had little time for reflection. I was young and reckless. I hadn’t felt healthy in a few years, but left it up to the lack of sleep, extreme alcohol intake, and stress levels of the college atmosphere. Once I could no longer keep down food or water that summer, things progressed quickly. I remember sitting in the ultrasound room and the tech asking, “have you had something to eat before this?”— her head tilting strangely at the screen. Painful, prolonged silence. I could tell by the way she left the room to bring back two other radiologists that something, in some way, was off. Three days later I was in a surgery consultation with the doctors at Westchester Medical. I had a rare tumor the size of a softball wrapped around most of abdominal my insides. 

As we moved quickly with doctors to prep for surgery within the week, I had felt little to nothing. I remember the call my mom got from the doctors after they had just confirmed the tumor— they way she walked out of the house slowly and gently closed the door behind her. Watching her walk down the drive away, whispering with a quiver in her voice I had only heard a few times in my life. I knew it wasn’t good news. But I wasn’t worried. I didn’t have a relationship with death then. I was young.

Young in the sense that your experience lacks your own interpretation of meaning yet. The pursuit of fun. The lack of comprehension. Young enough to pretend that fear doesn’t yet have grip on you; though subconsciously it controls your every move. You’re naive enough to believe you’re far off from death— but just old enough to sign the pre-op paperwork that explains, in great detail, just how close you are to not coming back. What’s the percentage of not waking up from a 12 hour surgery? Bleeding out on the table? My mom rushes me through the percentages and tells me all I need to do is sign. So you slip on the gown in pre-op, ignore the look on your parents faces that linger just a bit too long. 

At 19, I laid on the operation table and held onto my mom as they prepped to put me under for the 13 hr surgery. It was unbelievably so cold in there. “Okay samantha, We’re going to count back from 10...” 

I thought about my younger brother and sister and how cruel I had been to them for most of my life. How I wished I could change it. Did I hug them enough? “9....”

I thought about the feeling of laugher and how the air escapes your lungs and brings a feeling of joy like no other. How I hadn’t heard the sound of it in a few weeks. Sterile and somber, much like this operation room.

“8....” I can feel my eyes filling with tears. The disconnection within my life. How I wanted so much more time. To live with a sense of direction. How could this possibly be it? I squeezed my eyes closed and begged some higher power to give me another shot, ‘I’ll never take life for granted again.’ That if given the chance to open my eyes after all of this, I would fight like hell to make a journey I’m proud of. To be more awake.

Memories of my grandmother came into vision. She had passed away years before. Was there some other side, filled with ambient white light and lost loved ones, where she stood patiently waiting for me? If she was, I suddenly worried, I wouldn’t be able to pass through. I hadn’t prayed in years. 

I was under before they ever got to 7.”

And now, here we are. 28 days into isolation from COVID-19

Like so many of us, I grew up dedicating most of my time setting up the boxes to check; attempting to adhere to a game plan. A way to measure time and goals, but in a way that was reasonable, responsible, and thorough. I was on path to hit those markers. 

I remember opening my eyes for the first time in ICU, the pain so bad I could barely speak. I was incapable of turning on my side unless the nurses physically moved me; the cries coming from my body unrecognizable to my own ears. Two weeks later, I was finally capable of getting on my feet just long enough to stand in front of the hospital bathroom mirror;  pulling up my gown to see the incision. It was the first time I had seen it. I was too afraid to look. The way my fingers ran along the stitches and staples, the swelling so invasive I hardly recognized my own body. Who am I? Who do I choose to walk out of here as? I didn't want any of those things anymore. I had stared death in the face. Everything that seemed terrifying was no longer relevant. 

I've spent an obsessive amount of time since 2011 attempting to create a life that ensures fulfillment. I became hyper-aware of the impermanence of life. I obsessed over it. But also swore I was accepting of it. Life and death were no longer separate in my mind. I vowed to surrender to the concept of connection. Of meaning. Of curiosity. I dove head first into my own psyche— beginning a deep internal analysis of my life, my emotions, my headspace. Suddenly life was an expansive, never ending horizon. I couldn't stop running. I couldn’t stop wanting. I couldn't get enough. I wanted to know that when that day did come for me; when Death showed up again, that I wouldn't be begging for another chance. I wanted to be right there, with it. Ready. Accepting.

There are many ways we can numb the fear of death. Substance abuse, overexertion of our bodies and minds, working careers we hate, obsessive materialism-- we're born into a culture that quite literally runs on distracting our minds from remaining curious. We develop a knee-jerk instinct to pull away from delving into our intuitive urgings. From pushing the limits. If we stay subdued long enough, we remain in our boxes. We’re raised to gradually stop thinking for ourselves; longing for the ultimate goal of what we believe to be in control. We stop taking risks. We stop wondering. We do this because it feels safe. . We trade truth for safety. All to avoid the unknown. We spend our lives in denial that death even exists. We become a subordinate to our own lives. Where is the shift?

I’ve spent the last several years of my life doing everything in my power to prevent this from happening again. I promised I would never, ever fall to the fear of it all. That I would do everything in my power to be present in my life. To mold a way of living that I believed to be of service to myself and others around me. I became open to new ideas. I longed for a deeper sense of self-satisfaction. I began exploring the inner worlds of myself while still accepting that I’m not always in the driver’s seat. The staples under my fingertips. They were never far behind me. 

When all of this began with COVID-19, so many of my friends and family began reaching out to me, panicking about my financial stability. 'How will you make it through this?' 'What are you going to do?' You have no stability right now. You have no stability right now. There is what again, this constant need for control. This time, though; it was blatantly out in the open for everyone to worry about as one. Our need for order. Our need to understand, analyze, and perfect an outcome. Our ability to feel competent— our hunger to survive.

I spent the first few weeks curious as to why I hadn’t worried about that aspect of it like my family had. What does it come down to? The constant uncertainty already present in my life.

I've had to accept this long ago. When I was wheeled into the hospital at 19. When we buried our friend before his 21st birthday. But for the financial aspect? When I quit my stable career.  As an emerging artist, I don't ever know what the next step is. I can plan as much as I’d like for my business, but I know the reality always is that I cannot control how it will go. I stopped planning the markers of my life years ago. It's like stepping out into thick darkness— you work so hard to squint your eyes and hope they eventually adjust so that the panicky feeling in your chest will subside as the room comes into clear view— to ensure there’s no monsters there. To ensure the path is safe and straight and narrow. To know you aren't stepping through the planks on the bridge and missing your next step. Freelance life is similar to that feeling.

And most of the time, my foot falls through the boards. I’m always free falling.

It felt like slamming into a brick wall for the first few years. Those dreams you have where you’re falling through space; grasping at thin air to do anything to avoid hitting the ground—But I've adjusted. And i've tried harder than ever to enjoy the freefall. I find myself there, floating. Because with falling comes growth. The thing is, though-- we are all here, every day. Falling into darkness. Some of us are just used to noticing it. Welcome, friends. I thought. It might feel scary at first, but it’s not all that bad. COVID-19 brings all of this fear directly to the surface. How can we possibly survive without control? With free falling?

We build our lives; our thoughts, our families, our society-- all around the fear of death. As if we compact it deep enough, dig the hole and fill it in, that we will be far enough away from it. That we can build the foundations of our lives upon it and never need to acknowledge it again. That our minds will adjust to this new world we've built; one where we're firmly regulating and untouchable. One where Everything goes accordingly to plan if we just plan hard enough. 

If COVID-19 has made one thing blatantly clear; it’s that this is a facade. The realization that we're not only not in control; but also fearful of ourselves-- is an extremely uncomfortable situation. And that's where most of us are right now. Where do we go from here? How do we submit to our habits of over-mangagment, restraint, and control? How do we choose to let go if our institutions, moral grounds and overall life characteristics are built on these foundations? We learn to walk through life with clenched fists; desperately grasping onto whatever we can. Does this need for control stem from a deep, biologically motivated system already present in us as a means for survival; or is it something we develop through societal emphasis and conditioning? Every day, we attempt to make thousands of choices in order manipulate our sense of self-autonomy. Each of these choices, no matter how small, reinforces our perception of control and self-suffiecny. Grasping tighter.

After my exhibition in London had been cancelled, I had spent too many hours watching the news. I couldn't leave my bed. Bodies piling up across the globe. Out of nowhere. The heaviness of loss filled my bedroom. Death. Taking it's swings. Showing up as it always does, reminding us that we’re not the leaders of our lives. There it was again. I had never forgotten it, after all. My commitment to purpose held my receipts. Here I am, living this life I had so carefully created. All around Death. All around the acknowledgment of it. But then came COVID. And I had a realization. 

I've spent the last several years of my life so internally infatuated with death and my relationship with it that I've forgotten what its like to be truly present. I could never turn it off. I needed constant verification that I was loyal to my outlook. So often, we wake up mid-life and realize, suddenly, out of nowhere— that we are the authors of our own stories. I’ve known that I am. I’ve placed so much unnecessary pressure upon myself, my redemption, my growth— that I tend to lose sight of the sweetness.

I've written thousands of goals, and achieved hundreds of them. I've worked longer days than ever before to hit these goals. I've done my time with forgiveness and loss and hope and love. I’ve put those experiences into my work and allowed it to transform me; but never too much. Committing myself fully to my creative expression challenges my potential. I wanted nothing more. I promised to never be out of touch with my full capacity as an artist. As a human. I've always done the work. I've always wanted everything to mean something. I'll never live a life of numbness. I'll never lose touch with my passion for life again— as long as I can find a way for it to all mean something.

The problem with this thought pattern is the overlook of the most significant fact: just by existing, just by being— we all inherently hold meaning. I am inherently meaningful.

I’ve always latched onto the thought that we create meaning of our own lives. (So again, a false security of control?) However, if it is created through us and a series of actions— this becomes problematic, no? We become servants to our everyday judgement criteria.

This experience through COVID-19 has surfaced many different reactions and reflections for me. My initial reaction of the world forgetting our relationship with love and loss and death— Why have people forgotten? How can you live your life everyday so removed from death? I’m ashamed to say that at first, I was a bit annoyed. This is the issue. We’re all so busy being caught in the machine that no one cares to understand themselves. No one cares to accept that we are only here now, only once. Everyone is so disconnected. Fear controls us. Over the last month here in quarantine, I’ve realized I’ve never been above any of it. I’ve only allowed my obsession with purpose and validation of this purpose keep me from surrendering to the concept of intrinsic value.

We do not need to earn our badge of meaning.

Through art school, I had read about so many infamous artists, and even friends, describe their creative process to be aligned through some sort of divine experience. That our ideas and notions are a vehicle for expression of the actual, living creative energy of the universe. A surrendering to the fact that our creative notions do not come from us, but through us. I’ve never related to this in any way. I’ve scoffed at it. Another choice. A need for control. I am unable to surrender because I am the one in charge here. I am the one who chooses all pieces of my life. How does this new formed reality of COVID-19 alter these thought patterns?

All creativity involves the deepest form of surrender; the willingness to accept the unknown.

Accepting the unknown allows us to move closer to our deepest truth.

Moving towards this truth pushes us to accept that we are believers in our own goodness, our own power— that we are inherently meaningful and worthy.

Inherent worth creates healing within ourselves and the work around us.

Healing the world around us reintroduces the unity of us all, past the boundaries of time and space.

We come home to ourselves. We come home to one another.

As we should.

x S