Letting Go, Part 1 — Turning the Past into Fresh Pages

TODAY’S BUZZ

My latest obsession: making recycled paper out of unlikely artifacts (aka DIY eco art therapy)

What’s in store: journals and gifts that’ll keep giving long after the roses fade

Looking forward: limited edition chapbooks coming soon!

Luckily, I’d paid it on time, but unearthing the memory from my collage supplies drawer still triggered a twinge of annoyance. One of the grittier sides of love is the hard work of forgiving ourselves for costly consequences we totally could’ve prevented.

In my early thirties, I funded four years of my life with a two-year stint working for an entity I’ll call The Empire. It was a profoundly unhealthy job for me and I’ve spent the past decade recovering.

Sometimes it’s impossible to get rid of all physical, mental, or emotional reminders of less-than-positive past experiences. I’ve found that trying to amputate painful memories or uncomfortable feelings doesn’t serve me in the long run. Here’s what helps me: Processing through writing, dancing, and artmaking. Changing the story I tell myself about the meaning of what happened. Sharing selectively with safe people. Stuffing stationery boxes full of prayers.

Recently, my friend Kira suggested that I clear my cache (years of prayers) and read those folded slips of paper to remember how the God of my understanding had guided me through the aftermath of my choices. Many of those prayers (about my career, relationships, finances, and self-care struggles) were nearly identical to today’s.

An idea came to me: What if I made recycled paper out of what I’ve tried to let go of over and over?

For me, artmaking is fundamentally a spiritual collaboration. Though I don’t always consciously invite divine inspiration, this time, I wanted the process to be all about spiritual and emotional healing.

Above: Raw materials in my blender bottle plus an assortment of finished paper. Ingredients include COVID test instructions, calendar dates, an interview thank-you note returned to me in the mail, sheet music from the musical I’m working on, orange zest, a dollar bill, receipts, worker’s comp paperwork, grocery bags, product packaging, metallic paints, and gold tissue paper. 

A few learnings from my messy kitchen studio:

• I can’t predict how anything will turn out, but if I set the intention of making something beautiful out of whatever’s in reach, that’s bound to shift the outcome.

• Nothing is wasted. Everything is an experiment.

• Whatever happens, I can always make new choices. That includes choosing how I narrate my own story.

• When I accept the spills and allow for ragged edges and thin places, I enjoy the process more and I’m happy with what I create.

Ironically, the more each ingredient is broken down, the stronger the integrity of the new paper will be. Forgoing the blender—merely shredding or tearing the pieces by hand—doesn’t yield the same results. If I don’t fully submit to the breakdown and reintegration process, the fibers won’t hold together as well in the end. In my experience, that’s how it is with soulwork, too.

But there’s a fine line between thorough integration and over-blending. After a lifetime of striving for smooth perfection (ask me how that’s working for me!), I’m seeing how, even within myself, the inconsistencies add color and texture. In paper and in people, when traces of old patterns are visible, mixed in with fragments of messages taken from different contexts, that’s where things get interesting.

If I need a piece of paper that looks and feels like every other bleach white sheet, I can go to Staples. When I want a blank page that’s a whole story in and of itself, I make one. I try to preserve some of the character of the original components so that each page hints at where it comes from.

Above: Paper made from prayers written on scraps of lilac paper, which the blue and black ink turned to a deeper twilight lavender in the blender. The drying rack is resting on what I was reading at the time—fittingly, Michelle Obama’s book Becoming.

Above: Made with the “liner notes” and warnings accompanying medications that brought me back to life, plus a sprinkling of things that represent comfort, joy, and hope, including packaging from my go-to tea (Stash Lemon-Ginger), a colorful notecard cut into confetti, and seeds from sweet baby peppers.

Above: Coast of California—my first exploration beyond the abstract. Ingredients: gift wrap beyond saving, including from my great-grandfather’s shop (more on that in this post), quotes from Yogi tea bag tags, and a metallic printed napkin (thanks for the dinner collab, Sarah!), each delicate scrap meticulously placed with the tip of a knife.

Cherish yourself and the ones you love,

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