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Rosanne Coury, M.A.E.A., is a Religious Studies teacher. A member of Kappa Delta Pi, she has been recognized in Who’s Who Among American High School Teachers and nominated for the Golden Apple Award.

Photo by Carol Freeman

I am not a painter. I cannot draw or sketch. But I am a landscape artist. My medium is me.

I thought about this recently on a trip to the Galena Territory of northwest Illinois. I decided to leave behind the flat, dull, daily grind and claim a few days of quiet in a new place. I left early, ready for the drive. I had collected my maps, charged the cell phone, and filled the coffee thermos. The sun rose on my adventure, and passed the zenith around noon. Mile after concrete highway mile spun out behind me. Finally I left the expressway and took to the arrow-straight two-lane roads. Then, as I left the town of Stockton I crested a hill, only to see an amazing vista of rolling land, farms and trees open wide below. Above me I spied clouds feathered out, trying to brush the edges of the sky. The earth appeared suddenly transformed in just a few scant miles. Enchanted, I braked, turned the car around, and retraced my route back up to the hilltop. There I pulled over, got out of the car and took another look: first back towards the way I had come, then ahead towards Galena. Those two views seemed startlingly different. Yet it was the same person—me—who was seeing two different views. Views? At that moment it felt more like different worlds. I was aware of a shift inside me, a deep rush of energy. This was what I had hoped to find, to feel. . .

The past year had been a difficult one. After a long and painful illness my mother died. I did what I could for her and for the rest of my family. Together we explored this new terrain of death, suddenly poised in the midst of our lives. We struggled together, holding each other up, taking turns as grief came upon us, sometimes surprising us. I wanted to be the strong, brave daughter, the “rock” of the family. I thought I did a reasonable imitation of one, until a few months after Mom died. Then my body—the true barometer of my state of being—seemed to fall apart. I had to have surgery. Then I needed another procedure. Then there was “stomach trouble” followed by pneumonia. The hospital was rapidly becoming a second home. I realized I wasn’t a rock at all. In fact, I was close to leaving the planet altogether.

During convalescence I had to face some painful facts. My life had irrevocably changed. I was motherless. I felt frail. I was not rock-like at all. At fifty-something I could no longer tackle life as a twenty-something. I needed to reconnoiter my personal landscape, create a new ground plan for living, complete with serious alterations and adaptations. If I didn’t, my future would quickly become my past.

That’s when a transformation began.

I decided to view my life as a landscape with myself as the resident artist. I made myself a promise to carefully identify the significant elements of my life. I would put them into new perspective, as new composition. I would become the central feature of this artwork, a kind of bridge connecting the different landmarks that emphasized particular features of my life.

How did I do this? I wish I could say it was the result of personal brilliance, but I would be lying. In fact my physical fatigue and continued grief blurred perspective and sapped energy. Other people pointed the way. Through their eyes I uncovered wisdom I had long forgotten. I reread Robert Frost’s poem, The Road Not Taken. I reflected on my life as a path marked by crossings and turnings. Further readings reacquainted me with other images and ideas. Then I struck gold! It was as if The Road Not Taken suddenly appeared before my feet.

I had rediscovered life graphing. Sometimes called life mapping, this process involves identifying life’s milestones. Those milestones are comprised of meaningful events, experiences that shape identity and express dreams. I thought if I could somehow map out my past life, I might be able to see what needed revision. Perhaps I could detect what I most needed and desired to reshape my life, to make it livable.

So I embarked on an inner journey, armed with markers and memory. I purchased a yardstick and a roll of paper. Unrolling the paper on the floor, I laid out a general timeline from birth through the present. Along the top of the line I recorded what I considered self-changing events. Underneath each event I noted the year. For the first time since high school I purposely looked over the vista of my life. At fifty there was so much more to see! I laughed and wept as I labeled each milestone on the way.

Of course my half-century of living offered more numerous experiences from those of my young adulthood. What surprised me, however, were the patterns. I realized how often I repeatedly made choices that left me exhausted and unhappy. With blinding clarity I also recognized those experiences and relationships vital to maintaining a healthy, possible and meaningful life.

As I reviewed my finished life graph, I stood amazed. The view from my fifty-year hilltop took my breath away. And for the first time in a long time, I happily anticipated finding wonderful and new panoramas in the years to come.

My life is a landscape. The frame is worn in places, but the colors are as vibrant as ever. From time to time I stand back and view the scenery with a compassionately critical eye. I may even rearrange the elements from time to time; after all, it is my landscape. At long last I am learning to love it. I am also learning how to live it.

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