A shift in perspective

 

A shift in perspective

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This morning Leo brought me a box of twenty-four jumbo Crayola Crayones and a pad with a dozen dry cakes of water colors. Along with the requisite brush. Just like we used back in first grade. Oh, also a tube of school glue. Little girl stuff.

Things change. When I was six, our water paints came in a tin.

The crayones smell similar but I know from coloring with my grandchildren that some essential ingredient is missing because the colors are not as vibrant as they used to be and the crayons do not slide across the paper with the same ease.

And we used jars of white paste that the boys licked off their fingers. Scissors? Check. String? Check. Plus a book with thick glossy pages I am willing to destroy and donate to the cause.

Funny you should ask. Yes, I do have a project in mind. I’ve been ‘guilted’ back into a stab at the visual arts. Tongue in cheek, I thank you, Nancie for asking why I’m not painting and thank you, Pam, for sending me Carolyn’s newsletter. Grrr. Ouch. Bit my tongue.

First, let me rewind time and tell you a little story from long ago. I had survived a rough and rocky patch of life, not unscathed. When I emerged, I could not tell you who I had become, what I wanted, what I liked, what I believed. I could only tell you what I thought you wanted to hear. I had erased the woman I was, with help, but that is beside the point.

I’ve no idea how the solution came to me. Sometimes we receive gifts from an Unknown Source. I thought back to when I was eight years old. I took a look at how that little girl spent her time. I saw what clothes she liked to wear, watched her with her friends.

Taking clues from that girl at eight, ten, and twelve, remembering how I felt then, I rebuilt my life. Not all at once. It is a process, still on-going in fits and starts. Lifetime warranty.

I made simple changes. Dressed for comfort rather than to impress. Quit trying to make my straight hair curl. Took more walks along rivers and in the woods. Found new friends.  That kind of thing. Little girl stuff.

Fast forward to this summer. When I moved to Mexico, I brought along art supplies. I pictured me painting in my retirement. The artist supplies never came out of retirement. Until one day this summer I dragged the boxes out of my bodega, set up my easel on the patio, cleaned my brushes and created a space in which to dabble.

To say my first effort was a travesty is a kindness. It was so bad that I threw the canvas in the trash, re-boxed my supplies, and stowed everything away in the bodega. I gave up.

This reaction isn’t like me. I’m a great believer in making mistakes, doing a job poorly, learn, make a new plan and go at it again. Something about the experience felt vaguely familiar, in an icky way.

Gifts are strange and sneaky things, they are. Some arrive, no extra charge, whether we want them or not.

 Even guilt can be a gift. My guilt came in the back door, niggling doubts about my raft of reasons for throwing my canvas in the trash and quitting. That ‘essential tremor’, a misnomer if I’ve ever heard one, had flared up. True. I had sewing projects I wanted to finish and one led to another. Also true. I’m not good enough so why bother. True but what does that have to do with anything? I am really not interested in painting right now, maybe later. Right? That excuse didn’t convince me either.

My rationalizations all held a bit of truth and a measure of dishonesty. I’ve had the tremor for years and it doesn’t stop me from threading needles. I’ll always have sewing projects, none on a timeline. This summer I threw away two that didn’t work and each time, cut out the next length of fabric and kept going. ‘Good’ has nothing to do with enjoyment. And “I don’t want to paint” sounds like a toddler’s tantrum.

Hence, back to the crayons and children’s art supplies, to do something that does not have to be ‘good’, does not have to meet any criteria of excellence. Little girl stuff.

Now and then I misplace my sense of humor. I get full of myself, my ideas, judgements, opinions and desires. My problems and solutions, big or little, in the end, don’t matter.

I always fall into a trap when I take myself seriously instead of being content to take life as it comes, scribbles and all.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

October 22, 2020

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