In the first days of the millennium, my oldest daughter had a stroke when she was just sixteen.
Six months later, after learning to talk and walk again and use her non dominant left hand for everything, her consultant said that the best we could hope for now was "adaptation". Brain repair as such was as good as could be expected and learning to live with it was the only likely option.
Adaptation rang hollowly then.
Adaptation was no more than a consolation prize.
Adaptation was the badge of honour on childhood sport's days proclaiming: "Well done for taking part!" when everyone knew you just weren't a very good runner.
I thought that it seemed such a small offering then, some amorphous invitation to embrace change in the wake of what had rampaged and dashed.
But this is not really about my daughter, though her story is monumental and complicated.
Rather, with the passing of so much time and life, I reflect and view adaptation instead, as one of the most desirable human conditions. The ability to accept change as inevitable and to bend with it allows us to develop in unexpected and delightful ways. Adaptation, as well as necessary for survival, can be gloriously empowering.
I don't believe in Fate or any grand plan.
There are no guarantees and there's no such thing as "fair".
I believe I make personal choices for how I deal with all this life stuff. Sometimes I make mistakes and feel stupid and hurt. But nothing remains the same for ever. Adaptation allows me to explore new ways of living so long as I remember to breathe as I limbo dance through challenges.
And remind myself to be grateful.
And the art stuff is just another part of that.
This is what this blog is about.