This was the worst year of my life.
​It’s been said by many people, about 2020, now 2021. And for valid reasons. Many lost their jobs, some their loved ones. Others were stuck at home with their kids pulling their hair out from frustration. Frontline workers were stressed to their max. People heard of youth dying by suicide. I haven’t even mentioned the political chaos and the collective wariness that brought along, nor the growing awareness of the racism that is still very present, and the fear it brings.

And yes, there are the personal “worsts”: the canceled weddings, the closing of businesses, the disconnection, the anger witnessed and received in clinics and grocery stores, the missing of family, the cutting off from friends due to differences, the breaking points in relationships.

It’s been a year since my engagement ended. The life I so carefully crafted, and with it, the dreams I held for the relationship, came to a sudden halt. 

For months, not a day or night passed during which I didn’t cry, bawl, desperate tears. I wanted my life back, and I couldn’t see a path forward. Friends and family listened, let me cry, brought food, unpacked for me, or distracted me. I’ll be forever grateful for them. Some people in my life disappeared quietly, which, from experience, I knew would happen, but it wasn’t any less hurtful. Of course, the pandemic didn’t help. I couldn’t write anymore, and I put my thesis on hold.

​I came to understand that I was grieving a loss. The loss of a person I loved, and the love I received. But I also grieved the life we had built and the future we had. The missing was a physical pain I felt in my chest and the veins in my arms. At times the hurt was so intense I started to understand why someone would want to actively stop the pain. I’ve started praying again, even though I didn’t believe, wishing I could.

So, it’s been a year. I live in survival mode or panic mode. I realize my deepest fears have become reality, and I’m still here. I’ve had to look inwards and ask myself the hard questions: What were my mistakes? What changes do I need to make? 

It’s been a year, and I’m not crying anymore. Even though I feel rudderless, I have this somewhat unrealistic hope that good things are coming. I’ve been job hunting, which has been a trial in itself. I tell myself again and again: Something will stick. 

​On bad days, I reason I deserve all this. I think, why would good come my way, when others have it worse? - the arrogance! But for us humans, we keep on going, don’t we? It must be the survival instinct in us; to stand up, dust ourselves off, and keep on trudging along.

​Zozobra is coming up in Santa Fe. During this festive ritual, the local community in Santa Fe writes down their worries and disappointments on a piece of paper which are added to a 50ft marionette known as Old Man Gloom built out of wood, wire, and cotton. In early September Old Man Gloom will be set on fire taking all the bad thoughts with him before the fall season starts.

Last year I watched the burning on TV while I heard the shouts from outside “burn!” I echoed the sentiment as the fireworks went off, not knowing where I would be in a year. My mom would have a stroke but recover. My niece would give birth to a little girl. My daughter’s friend would die by suicide. A friend would lose her husband. COVID would still rule our lives.

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​It’s been a year. “Burn!” I say.

The Sunflowers reproduction prints could be seen in many a Dutch home. The paintings left me with a sad impression as a young girl. I observed the strokes that represented wilting petals. Weren’t sunflowers and paintings supposed to bring in the light, colors and decorative delight?
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Now, Starry Night spoke more to me; all the big swirls of yellow and white colors in the blue night sky above a sleepy town. I could envision Van Gogh painting it, while the whole world around him was at rest. "When I have a terrible need of - shall I say the word - religion, then I go out and paint the stars" Van Gogh was quoted. It turns out he painted the master piece Starry Night while being a patient at the psychiatric asylum at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence.

Vincent van Gogh was spoken of as a sensitive boy, almost too sensitive for this world. It was not until I watched Loving Vincent this week in the theater that the portrayal of his life and his pain really hit home.

​Sure, there was a certain national pride knowing the famous Van Gogh was Dutch. When Americans were referencing the Dutch painter I was quick to educate them on how to correctly pronounce Van Gogh; make the g-sound back in your throat.
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We all have heard the somewhat idealistic stereotype of the tortured artist. Van Gogh’s sad tale is that he only sold one painting during his lifetime. Although Monet recognized his talent, Van Gogh’s fame only took off posthumously. Loving Vincent plays with the idea whether Van Gogh really committed suicide or if he were a victim of a shooting (it is unusual for someone to shoot themselves in the stomach). Perhaps the cutting of his ear was the result of a quarrel and was not self-inflicted after all? Maybe Van Gogh was not so ‘crazy’ as has been claimed? Vincent’s letters and the accounts of the people around him confirm that he did suffer from what was called in those days ‘melancholy’ or depression. Today he may have been diagnosed with Bipolar - or Borderline Personality Disorder.

Art is to console those who are broken by life,” Vincent said. He was a man disillusioned by life, bored by the Dutch mundane lifestyle. He found himself inspired by nature, people walking by rivers and stars more colorful than appear at first glance.

Sitting in the theater my throat tightened as Vincent thought of himself as a burden to his family. His mind tortured him; depression does that – it takes the brain hostage and tempts to drown you. Better to run you think; better to go than to burden those around you.

Theo, Vincent’s brother relates to their sister Vincent’s last words “La tristesse durera toujours” - The sadness will last forever.
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We may never fully understand Vincent van Gogh’s story – because can we ever truly know someone?

I was surprised to recognize characters from Vincent’s paintings. It was mesmerizing to see them come to life, move from scene to scene, painting to painting. Not only can we admire Loving Vincent as a work of art, we can appreciate how the movie is able to let us in to the heart of the characters and the story of Vincent van Gogh. It is hard not to leave the theater without wanting to look up all of Van Gogh’s paintings.
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I skipped the Van Gogh museum last time I visited Amsterdam, with the excuse of it being so sunny out. I don’t think I will next time. When I go I would like to bring my kids along and tell them of Van Gogh’s intentions: “I want to touch people with my art. I want them to say 'he feels deeply, he feels tenderly'.”