Sandra Jones
A lifelong runner and avid hiker, Parkinson’s was not on my radar. I was in excellent shape for a 53 year old, well with the exception of a curling left foot and a slight left hand tremor. In 2021, after a ten minute exam, a neurologist with the compassion of a rock stated bluntly, “You have Parkinson’s.” Left with little more than a prescription, I was sent on my way to contemplate this horrific news alone.
And for the next few weeks, my psyche was running at warp speed, the ability to bring order to my world, to make sense of the ten billion neurons that were firing infinite thoughts and emotions every waking moment had stifled two of the three mediums I had previously used to deal with the shi$ in my life, namely writing and praying. The third go to medium, running, was difficult at best, as it takes from ten to fifteen minutes for my stiff, curling left foot to become pliable and relaxed enough to enable me to possibly get ever so close to that coveted “Runner’s Zone.” Trudging through this mire was exhausting; I needed an outlet.
I didn’t even ask, and yet, in short order, I was gifted with an outlet. It all started with a sheep.
My husband, Kurt, and I were cruising west out of Flagstaff towards Joshua Tree National Park. It was a Sunday, not just any old Sunday; it was Good Shepherd Sunday. Pondering the relationship between a shepherd and the flock, I told Kurt, “I think I want to try to draw a sheep.”
I have to admit, he looked at me as if I was about two sandwiches shy of a picnic. But I didn’t care. I was going to draw a sheep, and, in fact, my first one was so cute, I decided he needed a little friend!
I know that these first drawings will probably never cover the walls of Crystal Bridges, (I mean, seriously, I didn’t even draw their tails!) but they signify something vitally important to me. One of the early signs of Parkinson’s is a tremor, or involuntary shake, in one arm. My Parkinson’s started with a tremor in my left arm, which is kind of a bummer because I am left handed. Forcing myself to use this appendage, for me, is kind of like telling Parkinson’s, “Fu** you! I’m using this arm dammit!” Moreover, my right hand decided it wanted in on the fun, so I draw with the left hand, but paint with the right.
I began my journey with pencils and crayons, then graduated to markers. My daughter and mother gifted me with a set of colored pencils and oil pastels in 2022, and then in 2023, my husband gave me a set of acrylics. The paints remained in the box for a year, patiently waiting for the magic to happen. Every step of the way, the mean voice in my head screams, “There is no way you can draw THAT!” Every step of the way, I tell myself to be brave and to just try.
I try to create something at least once or twice a week, and, over the course of five years, I have definitely seen improvement. This type of expression has been healing, gratifying and transforming. I know that there are artists who have been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. With gratitude, I consider myself a person with Parkinson’s who became an artist.
