No thought-out prose for this portrait, no polished focus on editing for this post. It will stumble and buzz like a child finally free from time-out.
"Dandi Lyon" became one of the most vulnerable and unexpected works I have done in a long time (and that includes this post), and at first, that surprised me, as it was going to be another themed piece like any other. Special, but not soul-baring or autobiographical. As per the prompt, I decided on a self-portrait for The Hive gallery's "Hiveland" game; A project nearly 10 years in the making with different artists creating avatar cards of their higher selves or god-like creatures that fit with the bee theme within whatever realm you wanted your character to reside. I chose The Heartland realm, a sort of oasis with a lake of honey and lush otherworldly landscapes.
I immediately had a vision of my higher self as a guide through the portal to this sanctuary. That is where my intentions ended, and my hands became tools of purpose in their place. The creature I painted looked more childlike, something that I do not portray in most of my works. It was then that I realized that I was indeed showing the side of my higher self that is my inner child.
Spiritually, this aligns with the concept of awakening not just to the harsh realities of life, but also to the reclamation of the heart after being broken; the deprogramming of harmful beliefs adopted during individuation to keep safe, but that do not actually reflect our true nature and desires.
(Photo: Family beach day- Father, kid being buried alive, half-sister, '90s surfer dude, me with undiagnosed autistic T-Rex hands, oblivious to the camera. The synchronicities of Ariel on my suit are not lost on me.)
In the painting, I saw my eyes looking back at me in that familiar, deep, and bright blue-green gaze, but with an extra sparkle that spread outward, unlike the sharp, condensed light now in my eyes, which looks wise and strong but also sad. My face was round as it is now, but with rosier cheeks.
My hair would be a particular focus, as it is the main thing (second only to how I dress) in my appearance that would outwardly signify massive internal shifts. My hair and what I did with it were always a very spiritual practice. In the painting, it was wild and golden as it was when I was young and born blonde, before it took on the darker brown with auburn highlights it has now, should I choose not to dye it. White hair strands are also coming out on occasion, symbolizing the toll of stress and entry into my crone phase.
I am looking forward to having it all white like my grandmother instead of gray in the future.
I have had my natural hair color for many years, long enough to pass my waist, with shaved sides like a Viking. Prior to that, it was dyed dark auburn and blonde (with or without Betty Paige bangs). Then, over the past few years, I grew out my sides, dyed them back to the blonde I had as a child, and cut them shorter with wolf-cut layers as my natural wavy hair has become curlier since perimenopause began. I have only cut my hair "short" to a little past my shoulders, maybe 3 or 4 times in my life after major endings. Beyond that, it was always long. That is where it wants to be, beyond my waist and tickling my ass. Ha! It will not take too terribly long to reach its former length. At the time I am writing this post, it is down to the middle of my back, though I will eventually resemble more of a Stevie Nicks than a gothic warrior in the next phase.
(A collage of former "me's")
The pictures above consisted of me a year after my illness that caused paralysis at age 12- next to an adult version of me healed as I will ever be, ones of my submissive side believing a partner could help me rebuild in safety, combining our strengths and helping each other through our weaknesses, then to the ones that realized it was often a fantasy with the wrong people (where I was still sweet and hopeful, but no longer pleading to be noticed), to the intense ones that acted as a reclamation- having the outside mirror the warrior I was after overcoming loss of a partner through cancer, and loss of jobs through bullying and burnout, where I shaved my sides much to my family's dismay, but for me it was an act of freedom and radical self-ownership. These were often combined with ones displaying my natural curves that I would not be afraid to show again after sexual assaults made me want to hide my form out of shame instead of preference. Finally, once I had a moment's peace, a simple picture taken after watching an inspiring movie, and before I would start another cycle again to learn more lessons and transform once more.
Though it may seem like these snapshots of me were linear, I often ebbed and flowed with them all many times- some have stayed with pride, some have transformed into healthier versions, and some no longer exist in me at all.
Reflections on my appearance normally are not a focus unless I am doing a version of self-portrait artistic expression, and those are normally on the darker, erotic side of me, where I have always felt the most confident and free.
Though to even get to that point I had to overcome simply taking pictures of myself at all, as it was something I did not do for a long time throughout my life, as I did not see myself as beautiful and was ashamed of my appearance (including going as far as permanently blacking out parts of myself with a sharpie pen when I was younger on pics that I did find of me- something traumatizing enough that my sister still remembers me doing that in the bathroom decades later). It took me nearly to my 30's before I got more comfortable with photos and learned to walk with my head held high, no matter my size or ability to fully smile.
This force of reflection through Dandi Lyon was on the opposite end of my spectrum. A rare conscious, carefree joyfulness and innocence made me giggle with each stroke of fur I painted, and this also brought on unexpected tears. I was protective of this piece and felt grief, deeply buried anger, and shame for what was lost, especially so early on.
As stated above, decades before an autism diagnosis (Read more here), permanent partial facial paralysis caused by Ramsay Hunt's Syndrome, close deaths of a partner and others, sexual assaults by those closest to strangers, alcohol and meth addictions externally, and work and food addictions internally, betrayals near and far,... It would all accumulate to a lifetime full of wincing at how little I would believe in myself, in others, and in humanity to do better after so much injustice and pain. But if I could push through and hold onto who I truly was, no matter how far I wandered to get back, then there had to be hope for others and humanity, too, right? Is repair possible even in the most harmed dynamics? At the very least, in pockets, places, and people hiding in plain sight as sanctuaries had to exist within the chaos.
I have spent many years (most of them) focusing on healing myself to be enough for others, to the point that I lost sight of the fact that it was about being enough for me. Were my values and standards being met by myself? Not were they accepted by others.
What came into my experience was always letting me know I was on the right track, but for the wrong reasons. So every betrayal was always meant to fail, to teach me. So I had to acknowledge my struggle and have compassion for myself, instead of it always going to people who hurt me first, out of guilt I was made to feel through their rejections, how they rejected my needs for respect, kindness, truly listening, empathy, and protection. Needs I had that required a genuine desire to meet from their core, not as a means to meet their needs while disregarding mine. All our jobs were to be willing to let go for more compatible people, places, and opportunities.
I also felt so incredibly lucky that, despite all that this little child staring back at me in acrylics would grow to combat, she never allowed herself to be fully extinguished, even though there were countless times when there was little more than glowing embers waiting for a wind of change to light up again enough to have the warmth required to cut through the chill of disconnect and find meaning where it seemed impossible.
This piece was a callback home, focusing on nurturing myself, for there was no way I could be strong enough to continue without it. There had been too many years, too many tolls taken.
She would find a way to always land on her feet, to start over, to dare to believe in herself. She would learn not to apologize for the times she overshared or let her insecurities show, but to have compassion and understanding for the strength it took to be seen, even when that meant a lifetime of bullying for her appearance, her thoughts, her failures, and her faux pas. She would be a messy girl who would grow into an unconventional woman.
By the time she reached middle age, she would never wear makeup daily, carry a purse, or hold down a 9-5 job. She would be more of a cross between a Cinderella and Mary Poppins instead. She would not be married or have children, nor would she have piercings or tattoos. She would not graduate with a college degree (though she would take some courses), have much money of her own, or receive recognition equal to her efforts, as many would see her value only if it came with a title, paycheck, and interests that were relatable, respectable, and profitable. Some told her that people liked her and her work, but not many followed up with her directly. She was valuable, but not treated as such, except by a very select few, who also ebbed and flowed as they changed.
Everything she was and had to offer came with a brain and body that did not work in a way that fit in line, or that was understood; her sensitivities were not acknowledged in society in time before damage was irreversible. In the end, it did not matter either; her true rarity was not meant for everyone to understand, or for them to fix. It was up to her to find a different way to stand on her own.
She would be the invisible support behind the curtain of those with the social dexterity required to "play the game" of life in a way she never learned to obtain naturally; years of trying proved fruitless. She would, however, save lives and change lives from that quiet place. She would teach herself valuable skills (both internal and external), study people and herself in hopes of connection through psychology and the esoteric arts, commune with plants and animals as friends who caretake one another, and help children feel seen in ways she never felt seen. She would be a "good woman," doing her best until the bridle of expectations grew too tight; then she would be "a problem" for standing up for her own autonomy.
She would repair, fix, and make beautiful what others deemed as useless or not worth the effort when she could. She internalized every external fragmented part of herself in hopes of something better. A world where she could feel safe to not only shine a flash, but also recover in peace from the disappointment felt from one too many, "You made that?" questions in response to another creation made of her soul and skills. The doubts about her art mirrored doubts about her writing, going back to childhood, when some of her family had believed someone else must have written the words she wrote. She tried to make it a game and watch for the surprise that followed after underestimation, but if she was utterly honest, it always hurt. She learned not to rely too heavily on her humor, which grew out of a need to cope (laugh, or you will cry). She learned to find balance with her jovial side while finally taking herself seriously. Mostly, she wished to be safe long enough to be steady, so that she did not have to shine and hide, but could just be.
I spent hours doing parts-work of reflections (highlighted in italic) as I sculpted clay on a simple wooden frame, creating a tangible glimpse into a realm of abundance I could only access through my hands and relish with my eyes. Paint dried, gemstones protected by their watchful, energetic fields, and I finally made a card version, for potential use by strangers at an unknown time. There would be no guarantees, but there would be no need for them. No higher priority than being herself.
She was as courageous as a lion, lived on a wish and a prayer like seeds blowing in the wind, and awaited her time in the sun, warm, trusting, and free to grow. It is now my job to act as her protective steward, sharing her story and creations with care.