operation was a success, I would eventually begin to use a wheelchair, and I was having an easier time in my various forms of therapy.
It was also encouraging to see people leaving Greenoaks. Some of my paraplegic friends had been rehabilitated and were free to go home and find their way back into the world. This seemed exciting to me—so much so that I plunged into my own rehab with renewed determination.
Chris Brown was eager to tap this new energy and enthusiasm. “Why not do something artistic now, since you can write pretty well using your mouth?”
“Artistic?” I asked.
“Yes. You’ve shown me drawings you did in the past. You enjoy creative things. You can paint these ceramic discs. They make nice gifts,” she explained.
I watched as another quadriplegic held a paint brush in her mouth and slopped paint on one of the clay pieces. It seemed useless—like a kindergarten game.
“I don’t know—” I said quietly.
“Oh, come on, try it,” Chris urged.
“All right.”
I tried the painting, spilling globs of color and splashing clumsy designs on the clay discs. It was discouraging and frustrating. At first, I hated every minute of it. But when the discs came out of the kiln, they looked half-way acceptable. And as I practiced—as with writing—I improved.
After a few weeks, I had created several Christmas gifts for my family and friends. I didn’t know what they’d think of the nut or candy dishes, but I thought they were pretty good—considering. And it gave me satisfaction to know that I had done them myself.
One day, Chris brought me some moist clay.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“I want you to draw a picture on it.”
“How? With a pencil in my mouth?”
“Try this stylus.”
“What should I make? Should I write something?”
“Why not do something to express yourself? Make something that you like,” she suggested.
Carefully I gauged the distance from my mouth to the soft clay, tested the consistency of it with the pointed stick, then tried to etch something.
I told Chris, “The last time I drew something was on our trip out West before my accident. All during my childhood daddy encouraged me to draw. He’s a self-taught artist.” I also recalled that I had particularly enjoyed making charcoal sketches of scenes. Out West, I had filled my sketch pad with drawings of mountains, horses, people, and animals.
I remembered these scenes now and tried to remember the unconscious process of drawing—how the mental image was communicated to my hands, which moved to transfer the scene to paper. My hands held the key to my talent as an artist. Or did they?
I looked down at the simple sketch I had just done. It was a line drawing of a cowboy and horse etched in the soft clay. It wasn’t terribly creative or impressive, but it was a beginning.
Chris seemed amazed at my first attempt. “Joni, that’s great! You’ve got real talent.” She grinned and said, “You should have done this before. You need to get back to your art.”
“But that was when I had hands,” I protested.
She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. Hands are tools. That’s all. The skill, the talent, is in the brain. Once you’ve practiced, you can do as well with your mouth as you did with your hands!”
“Wow—really?” I asked.
“Yeah! Want to try?”
“Sure! Let’s do it.”
It was an enormously satisfying day for me. For the first time in almost a year and a half, I was able to express myself in a productive, creative way. It was exciting and gave me renewed hope.
My spiritual temperature was improving too. Earlier, my anger and confusion had turned to resentment. I thought, How can a loving God—if such exists—allow this desperate situation? Mysearch into other areas didn’t turn up a reasonable answer, so when I turned back to the Bible, my bitterness was softened.
I was angry that my life had been reduced to the basics of eating, breathing, and sleeping—day in and day out. But
It was also encouraging to see people leaving Greenoaks. Some of my paraplegic friends had been rehabilitated and were free to go home and find their way back into the world. This seemed exciting to me—so much so that I plunged into my own rehab with renewed determination.
Chris Brown was eager to tap this new energy and enthusiasm. “Why not do something artistic now, since you can write pretty well using your mouth?”
“Artistic?” I asked.
“Yes. You’ve shown me drawings you did in the past. You enjoy creative things. You can paint these ceramic discs. They make nice gifts,” she explained.
I watched as another quadriplegic held a paint brush in her mouth and slopped paint on one of the clay pieces. It seemed useless—like a kindergarten game.
“I don’t know—” I said quietly.
“Oh, come on, try it,” Chris urged.
“All right.”
I tried the painting, spilling globs of color and splashing clumsy designs on the clay discs. It was discouraging and frustrating. At first, I hated every minute of it. But when the discs came out of the kiln, they looked half-way acceptable. And as I practiced—as with writing—I improved.
After a few weeks, I had created several Christmas gifts for my family and friends. I didn’t know what they’d think of the nut or candy dishes, but I thought they were pretty good—considering. And it gave me satisfaction to know that I had done them myself.
One day, Chris brought me some moist clay.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“I want you to draw a picture on it.”
“How? With a pencil in my mouth?”
“Try this stylus.”
“What should I make? Should I write something?”
“Why not do something to express yourself? Make something that you like,” she suggested.
Carefully I gauged the distance from my mouth to the soft clay, tested the consistency of it with the pointed stick, then tried to etch something.
I told Chris, “The last time I drew something was on our trip out West before my accident. All during my childhood daddy encouraged me to draw. He’s a self-taught artist.” I also recalled that I had particularly enjoyed making charcoal sketches of scenes. Out West, I had filled my sketch pad with drawings of mountains, horses, people, and animals.
I remembered these scenes now and tried to remember the unconscious process of drawing—how the mental image was communicated to my hands, which moved to transfer the scene to paper. My hands held the key to my talent as an artist. Or did they?
I looked down at the simple sketch I had just done. It was a line drawing of a cowboy and horse etched in the soft clay. It wasn’t terribly creative or impressive, but it was a beginning.
Chris seemed amazed at my first attempt. “Joni, that’s great! You’ve got real talent.” She grinned and said, “You should have done this before. You need to get back to your art.”
“But that was when I had hands,” I protested.
She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. Hands are tools. That’s all. The skill, the talent, is in the brain. Once you’ve practiced, you can do as well with your mouth as you did with your hands!”
“Wow—really?” I asked.
“Yeah! Want to try?”
“Sure! Let’s do it.”
It was an enormously satisfying day for me. For the first time in almost a year and a half, I was able to express myself in a productive, creative way. It was exciting and gave me renewed hope.
My spiritual temperature was improving too. Earlier, my anger and confusion had turned to resentment. I thought, How can a loving God—if such exists—allow this desperate situation? Mysearch into other areas didn’t turn up a reasonable answer, so when I turned back to the Bible, my bitterness was softened.
I was angry that my life had been reduced to the basics of eating, breathing, and sleeping—day in and day out. But
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