bri landwersiek

When I was six-years-old, my parents took me to the doctor because I cried too much.

“She never stops, it’s overwhelming for such a little girl.”

 

By middle school, my drawings in study hall caught the attention of an aide.

“I’m here to talk if anything feels like it’s too much right now.”

 

In high school, my sculpture teacher pulled me aside,

“Have you ever considered therapy too?”

I guess my hands were molding my pain too much.

 

Those hands betrayed me in the old days,

letting what was held down inside, out.

 

Until I just let my hands go.

 

And they picked up paintbrushes for forgiving and pens for thoughts. They photographed experiences not for memory, but for moving on. They printed layers of ink on top of ink for meditation, for mood, for piece of mind.

 

I tend to feel in abundances.

But I’m learning how

creating calms my mind

and slows the time.

 

Whether it be

an abundance of blood on my canvas,

of paranoia in my prints,

of words on my paper,

 

it’s no longer

too

much

 

but just enough.