I’ve been using art – what I create and what I have the privilege of seeing incredibly talented people create – as a method of coping with my illness; and more specifically my chronic pain, for a few years now. However, in recent weeks, probably more like months, I’ve had difficulty completing the things I start creating. Whether it’s because I lose interest in what I start, the constant mental and physical fatigue I feel, or my inability to work through my pain, I seem to be building a collection of unfinished pages with countless works in progress.

As old as I am, I’m still learning – and trying very hard – not to read too much into things, whether they be small every day occurrences or big moments. Yet, not finishing so many of the pages I start tugs at me in a way that is uncomfortable; nearly to the level that my incessant pain is omnipresent. It’s probably because I don’t produce much else since I no longer work nor do I have the energy to invest in consistently doing other activities. Therefore, these works in progress, which I will admit I sometimes return to complete, seem to be representative of what I’ve become: incompletely healed with work continuing within, on, and around my body.

This leads me to a question it pains me to ask aloud, but must: How long can work, whether it be creative or clinical, physical healing, exist as work(s) in progress before it is either successfully completed or abandoned in frustration?

Engaging with this question caused an old memory to surface. When I was in high school, what feels like a million years ago, I had an English teacher who also played the role of public speaking coach for a handful of senior students. Mr. G did not suffer fools. He was very strict about practice, promptness, and word enunciation. As much as the thought of disappointing him struck fear in all of his students, he was one of my favourite teachers; and he taught me something I still carry with me today: a poem is never finished.

What he meant by this is that there is always room for more work because we are always growing and our perspectives are constantly being changed by our experiences. Moreover, we can continuously build upon our original ideas. Since this is the memory that surfaced, I’m hoping the answer to the question that now weighs on me lies within the wisdom Mr. G used in coaching and teaching me. His frequent reminder to me when he returned pieces of my writing he had reviewed is a lesson that shaped my work ethic and rewarded me with unexpected surprises over the years.

I hope what he taught me about work(s) in progress in relation to writing – something I love dearly still because of him – is the answer I’ve been seeking. Because if it’s the latter (frustrated abandonment), I’m not sure why I’m continuing to create things for myself in my art journal(s). Nor am I certain about why I’m continuing to pursue one failed treatment after another for my illness and chronic pain.