The View from Down Here

It had been a while since I had seen the familiar paper. The sheets made whooshing sounds, quiet and white as snow. My supplies were fanned out around my desk. It was the same, and yet completely different.

It was because of Pax that I was even out here at all. Without him I would still be in my room, not in the basement that we had converted into a studio. A basement sounds like a dreary place to work, but it's not. It's just different.

I picked up my favorite colored pencil, a coral color that I had used so many times it was almost a stub. I tried to force my hand to start an outline, but it was shaking so bad I had to put down the pencil and force my breath in and out.

I missed my old studio. I was near the horses, and I often used them as my inspirations for my pieces. Their cream or flaxen or chocolate coats against the sunrise would bring art flowing out of my fingertips. At least, it used to.

I picked the pencil back up, braving myself to try again. I was not holding it tight enough, however, and it flung out of my grasp and rolled onto the floor. I groaned. Clumsily, I reached down to pull my wheelchair out from the desk, and backed it up as close to the pencil as possible. I bent over on my right side, straining to reach the pencil and instead just brushing it lightly with the tops of my fingertips. I threw my weight to one side, hoping to grab it and then right myself, but instead I tipped myself out of the chair and fell on to the ground. I just about screamed in frustration. While the fire took many things from me, it also took my freedom to move out and about as I wished. I relied on Pax for just about everything now. I had been so stupid, falling asleep with my kiln still on and open. It exploded, and the roof caved onto my back. I hadn't touched a single pencil or paintbrush since the fire. And now, it's different. I lost my studio, all of my art, a lot of my supplies, and my life in one fell swoop. When the paramedics found me, they thought I was a goner. People whispered above me in the hospital, murmuring prayers and quiet wishes. Pax barely left my side to eat or sleep. When I woke up, I tried to get out of bed and realized I couldn't move my legs. I was paralyzed from the waist down. I was so scared every moment. I wanted all of the pain to go away, for people to stop making me try. I couldn't even think about art, even though I knew Pax brought along one of the sketchbooks that survived and a tin full of colored pencils everytime he visited. And people call me lucky. I mean, I guess I'm lucky I survived. But I didn't feel lucky. I was miserable, and scared to try doing my art again. I wasn't used to fear being correllated with art. I was used to the freedom it brought. But my freedom was gone.

I looked at the pencil. It was so close to me, and yet so far. I used my arms to push myself onto my stomach, and tried to army crawl to the pencil. My useless legs dragged behind me, knocking over stacks of artist's journals and a tray of paints. I grabbed the pencil, and paused, out of breath. And, almost suddenely, the world slowed.

From my angle on the floor, I could see the light shining onto the ground. I could see the individual dust particles floating above my head. I could see a graceful ant, nimbly crossing the floor with a leftover crumb from our cinnamon bun breakfast. The world, which had previously rushed around me like water crashing over my head, had stilled in my wake. I watched.

I don't know how long I layed there on the ground, watching the world from my stomach, before Pax came and helped me back into my chair. He started to return me to the house, but I stopped him. I pushed myself back to the desk, coral pencil poised in my hand, and got to work.

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I stayed there day and night, capturing piece after piece about my world in a wheelchair. I caputured the floor after a tumble, I captured the endless sea of rearends that greeted me when I stepped outside, I captured the hospital, a hug with Pax, my face buried in his waist. I captured it all.

My paints rushed around me in an endless world. Color was brought back to my life. I made piece after piece, sometimes going days without eating or sleeping. Suddenely, the world felt significant and right in my grasp. I did more with Pax, like picnics downtown, trips to the movies, and hot air balloon rides. I watched the sunrise just like I used to, looking at the shiny and beautiful colors reflect off of the horses coats. I was happy for the first time that I could remember. Color retuned to my cheeks, and I felt alive.

Months later, Pax and I arrived at the art gallery in town. It was my first showing since the accident. Old friends came, squeezing my shoulder or giving me sideways hugs while telling me how amazing this new collection was. Tourists looked at pieces and inquired about prices. They were astonished by them, and the reality that they brought. A young girl in a wheelchair approached me, giggling and told me that I had gotten it completely right and thanked me for showing her friends and family what it was like. I couldn't stop smiling. Every piece captured an intimate part of my life, and put it on display for the whole world. I felt free again.

I looked up above the crowd, and saw the title over the collection. Beaming, I read "The View from Down Here".