Dbee Robinson Artist - The Fat Struggling Menopausal Artist

  My David No one is ever truly gone until the ripples they cause in the world die away – until the clock they wound winds down, until the wine they made has finished its ferment, until the crop they sowed is harvested, or the tree they planted has reached the end of its seasons and shed its final leaf. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence. My David has reached maximum range and gone below the horizon, and although no longer visible on our screen of life, I am so very proud to say his trace will always remain present in the legacy of his work, and by everyone who knew and loved him. I will carry him with me always, as he continues to carry my heart with him. Not a day passes that he is not loved, missed, and remembered by me, and I thank him for the wonderful life we have had together. He always made me feel loved, beautiful and special. I will miss our banter, my ribbing him and they way he made ...

  Where My Heart Used to Be They say grief comes in waves, but no one tells you the size, how a calm sea can suddenly rise and darken the skies. They say grief comes in waves, crashing into you like a tsunami tide, dragging away everything you knew, everything safe, everything that survived. One moment I'm standing, holding myself together somehow, the next I'm drowning in memories, asking, "What do I do now?" Each wave finds me unexpectedly— while making tea, while folding clothes, while passing a place we used to go. And yes, you can brush your teeth whilst sobbing. You can answer questions whilst breaking. You can smile at the world while your soul is quietly shaking. It's exhausting. Deep-down, bone-aching, spirit-breaking exhausting. The kind that sleep cannot cure, because sleep itself has become a thief; bringing me dreams of my David, then waking me back to grief. Every part of me is yearning for him. Every heartbeat calls his name. Every sunrise feels the...

For the past few months, I've been quietly working on what became known as ' Project Jacket.' Back in February, while rummaging around in the loft looking for the car log book (...don't ask!), we stumbled across some of David's old Navy kit. The log book remains at large and is probably enjoying a holiday somewhere behind the water tank. That discovery sparked an idea. I decided to repurpose one of David's Navy jackets into something special. A cushion? A teddy bear? A jacket for me? Even a lampshade? The possibilities were endless. After much deliberation, I settled on ... a waistcoat. What followed was months of designing, pinning, tacking, cutting, sewing, unpicking, muttering, cursing, re-sewing, more cursing, and occasionally questioning my life choices. There were times when I genuinely felt the jacket was fighting back. The sleeves came off first. I hoped that might be enough, but it just looked like a jacket that had suffered a tragic gardening accident....

  It’s been a rollercoaster of emotions since November last year, and January was just hell. I am pretty much broken and feel I’m in a constant state of panic. However, every day I try to find a little bit of joy to help me through the week.  A coffee in a cafe, the sun on my face, cooking a delicious lunch, finding that perfect jacket when shopping with my Brother, seeing a friend, messages from my grandchildren, time in the garden, my lovely neighbour Mary popping round, listening to the early morning bird song, etc.  My American Sister is texting me hugs every day, and knowing my dearest friend, Barbra and her husband Gary, are there for me feels like a joyful safety net of love. My dear friend Richard in Mauritius messages every day, and I awake to a hello every morning, it is such a joy too.  Friday was pottery evening with my darling daughter Lisa, and although I really didn’t want to go out, time with her is always precious; she is always a joy to be around an...

  I walk through rooms that still breathe your name, quietly, gently, as though nothing has changed. Your dressing gown still hangs on the back of the bathroom door, soft with the memory of your shoulders. Your glass sits empty on the kitchen windowsill, as if you’ve only just stepped away. Your plants— I water them with care, with longing, as though they, too, are waiting for your hands. Your camera and your drone stand still, resting in silence, and your guitar hangs on the wall, patient— waiting for fingers that will not return. Your shoes lie unworn in the cupboard, Your tuxedo hangs faithfully in the wardrobe, and in the drawers, your favourite shirts are folded, pressed— ready, just in case we have somehow got this all wrong. Your car waits on the driveway, facing the road, as though it knows we were meant to go somewhere together. And your side of the bed… still empty. The pillow lies untouched, no echo of your head, no warmth left behind. Your train, ...