In remembrance and honour of Selma Meerbaum-Eisinger
A selection of poems from A Harvest of Blossoms is here, permission granted for educational purposes only.
Underneath the stars an old woman knits
She has passed beyond need or mourning
She neither frowns nor smiles, nor asks why?
She is re-working our fate. She is re-making history
She is patterning our future. She is embroidering
Our destiny. We shall hear her across the river
We wear every garment she threads
Each evening we wash them. And by night
Hang them out. They dry under the stars
Swathed in her image, we lie naked till morning
This piece reminds me of Richard, a man with severe learning disabilities, with Autism who used to become suddenly and unpredictably violent towards himself and others for no apparent cause.
I first met Richard in a locked mental health clinic in 2007 and everyone involved in his care, including nurses, took great steps to avoid him whenever he paced the ward looking for attention. I felt very intimidate by him too, he was a large man and clearly an angry man, more so when his mother came to see him.
The nurses heavily sedated Richard for it was seen as the only means to protect this man from seriously harming someone. However the sedation only slowed him down but didn’t touch the cause of his anger. His inner pain. He grabbed others by the wrist and squeeze so tight they would lose feelings in the fingers.
One afternoon visiting the ward, Richard grabbed me. He wanted something from me and I didn’t know what. Richard led me to a locked store cupboard and with his eyes stared into the cupboard, there was something in there he remembered or believe was kept there. I opened the door and inside was some old books, catalogues, and a few boxes.
At first I thought Richard wanted to look at the magazines, and I showed him a few to illicit his interest, but his grip became stronger, he was getting angrier and I more afraid. I pull out boxes in haste and opened them. Inside was paint bottles, some never been opened. Intuition and adrenaline kicked in. I opened the bottle and poured some paint into his free hand. He then let go of my arm and rubbed his hands together and smiled.
Richard liked the texture, smell, colour and began to paint on the adjacent wall, using his hands as palette and fingers as a brush. For a few minutes I waited and watched Richard wipe different colours on to the wall. He held my hand lightly as if to invite me into his world. I took up the paints and did likewise.
Our mutual brush strokes, finger strokes were intermingled with smiles and glances of approval from Richard. He laughed when my sweeping lines overlapped his. He showed tremendous patience with me too when I took a step back, but each time he beckoned me back to continue with the piece, so onwards we went together. This went on for about half an hour. Then he suddenly stopped painting and walked off to his bedroom. He had finished with the painting.
I stood before the painting transfixed with the mural of colour we had made. One of the other patients commented that it was the longest they had seen Richard become engrossed by something. A nurse came out a said jokingly, “I suppose that’s what you call art therapy”. I paused and said “I call it conversation… it feels like we’ve had a conversation”
Richard’s Autism meant that he couldn’t communicate his thoughts in any other language than paintings. Recognisable by himself as to what it meant, recognisable by me as to what it did. It changed the way I related to Richard, to myself, to the nature of self, the nature of communication and how Richard, like all people, needed to share what was on his mind. A mind full of colour.