Prologue: “The Road Not Taken”
Robert Frost. 1875–
67. The Road Not Taken
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 20
Letting go of someone you lost without control or influence is like pulling off a Band-Aid. Year by year you tug at another corner, hoping to loosen up the adhesive goo, to wear it down until one day perhaps the Band-Aid will fall off of it’s own volition.
Year by year, I lift a corner here or there, thinking I might act like it’s gone, but that’s the point of flesh-color bandages: if you squint under the right light, you can’t make out where the Band-Aid ends and you begin.
Every once in a while I expose it to the air and sun and it stings, it burns, so I cover it back up. Now I take a deep breath, take a swig of my Chardonnay and rip off the Band-Aid one final time.
The anticipation makes me dizzy for underneath there’s a goodbye as permanent as the scar it leaves behind. It’s been so long now; I can barely remember the hurt that it’s hiding—the scar that runs vein deep.
In reality, we have to let stories and plots fray and unravel in order to maintain the greater tapestry. But somewhere, the soul needs choice. The soul needs a place to play out the moments that almost were or at least almost could be.
A writer possesses the power to rewrite history. With a stroke on the keyboard or a swipe of my pen I can reinterpret certain events to play out the choice I was never given. With a strike of the deletion key I can erase my mistakes, erase my humiliation and pain. The question is where do I want to rewrite it? Where do I want to stop reality to play out the way I wonder things could have been or to play out the gut-wrenching decision I didn’t have to make? Until I know what decision I would make, I will always doubt myself.
Robert Frost speaks of his two roads. Walking one afternoon, he came across two roads that were in essence equals, two paths, one “as just as fair/ And having perhaps the better claim/ Because it was grassy and wanted wear.” Many readers interpret the poem to be about Carpe Diem—seize the day…the “road less travelled”…taking the high road. But, I think that Frost’s roads were equal in their traffic, equal in their travelling, and arrived at virtually the same location. The choice became a matter of gut, of instinct, of initial preference.
How noble it is to think back on these two roads and determine that one was the more difficult, that we were in fact blazing a new path! As the drama of our lives unfold, perhaps we realize that there was very little drama indeed and that’s when we decide those two roads were in fact unequal paths to our future selves.
We make our decision to embark on one path, reminding ourselves that the other will always be available once we are past our youth, “Oh, I marked the first for another day!\Yet knowing how way leads on to way\ I doubted if I should ever come back.” Then again, when will we ever be back at that specific crossroad?
In our youth we make choices that set us on our own “road well traveled.” It’s only once we pass the point of no return that we begin to remember fondly the “road not taken.” Not until the moment passes us by, the moment of decision, of direction, of destiny that we fabricate that second, lesser road. What is it that we wish to redeem in ourselves? Is it a matter of pride that we deem, five, ten, twenty years later that we made a morally defendable choice in our youth?
Is it a defense mechanism? Perhaps if we think back to that point when we faced two indistinguishable paths when we understood very little about the consequences of life and situation, then we feel the urging sensation to deflect that moment of ignorance and now pretend that we knew all along how this well-traversed path would deliver us.
Is it a romantic ideal? Who doesn’t want to be the hero or heroine of his or her own story? By placing ourselves in a moment of crisis of conscience, then perhaps we empower ourselves to say, “I made the right choice. I chose the best path and I’m better for it.” When in fact, we secretly acknowledge that no path is truly better than another; it’s just different.
To rewrite history is to be powerful. To claim the choices and consequences as our own doing is to become 100% in control of our current situations.
What would happen, though, if, when we did think back and say with a sigh, “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,\ I took the one less traveled by,\ And that has made all the difference.”
Did it? Did it really make all the difference or did the difference appear once we reached the end? Did the “difference” manifest out of repressed disappointments and fears, unresolved feelings and reoccurring dreams? Or was there ever really a difference worth mentioning.
The great losses and joys in my life led me to this crossroad—these two divergent paths. The highways, dark and tortuous as they may have been, brought me here and held the signs that I needed---but in the blur I couldn’t read them. So which path did I choose?
My roads appear behind me as indistinguishable from another as one highway is to the next. But, what if suddenly, one road became a greater struggle than the other? What if one path, “the road not taken,” became the object of closer examination? What then would I discover about myself when offered the choice I was never presented?
Now, “ages and ages hence,” “I will tell this with a sigh” mine was not the path “less travelled by.” It was simply a path no greater or lesser than another, just different.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Jump Start on November
I'm dedicated to writing a novel in the month of November....The idea is that you join a huge group of wanna-be-writers in dedicating yourself to writing a 50,000 word novel in one month. Check out the website http://www.nanowrimo.org/
I am doing this! I will write! Come what may! It will be crap and that's okay! So, to get a jump start on things here's a little somethin', somethin' I've been working on for a good two or three years: (p.s., I have no idea where this "novel" thing will take me, but for once in my life I'm jumping in with both feet and no plan!) I'm not ignoring the fact that this is a very risky endeavor....I acknowledge the great personal stakes involved, mostly directed towards my pride. But, if I don't do it now then will when I do it? If I can't "publish" pieces at a time, how will I ever publish in its entirety?
Bedouin Fires and Suburban Street Lamps”
I saw myself retreat whenever he asked, "What are you thinking?" because he truly wanted to know what was in my mind and heart. I saw his fingers grip a pencil or a brush as they danced in a well-choreographed ballet over pages and canvases, mirroring the same motion from more private moments.
Love is the recognition of ourselves in others. I saw myself in the tension of the fist of his left hand as it balled-up when he had something to say but held his tongue. The way he pressed his lips together tightly, forbidding himself to say what he really thought. I saw myself on a desert plain in a strange land, illuminated by dying embers in white sand and blazing stars.
I saw myself in his deep-set ember eyes peering out and taking in.
"It's like nothing you would have ever thought. It's not dead--it's more full of life than any place I've ever seen." Two friends sat outside of the party at the mayor's house whose daughter, in her WASP rebellion, had invited just a few too many inebriates to really establish a "chill" atmosphere. We were children together in our yearning for adventure. I sat, 15 and inspired, on the cement curb under the glow of a hissing street lamp. He filled my mind with images of camels and desert mounds. As he described the scene from his summer spent half way across the world, I could just make out the shadow puppets of camels and shepherds illuminated on a field of yellow suburban street light, dancing in the shadows of the temped September night.
"Did you know astronauts say they can see the Bedouin fires from space? Imagine being an insignificant Israeli shepherd who built a fire one cold night to protect his flock of sheep that reached out to the universe." These were the types of "imaginings" I became addicted to. Imagining we were the only two people in the world who recognized the beauty of an anthill. Imagining we were experiencing the same earth-shattering connection that no one other than we could understand.
"I can only imagine,” was all I could say. And I could, only imagine. I had seen stars in a black sky as a child, driving out to an obscure corner of the world only to peer through the eyes of a microscope the size of a quarter to catch a fleeting glimpse at the smudge in the sky that was Halley's comet. I had seen stars from an Arizona plateau--infinite and spiraling in multi- dimensional constellations. I had seen fire--but I had never seen anything as beautiful as what he described now.
"We hiked. We swam in the Dead Sea. We rode camels even. Being in Israel is being in another world where people know where they come from and where they are going."
"Yeah," chuckling at the irony of his sentiments. Flashes of footage on the Gaza strip and protests at the Wailing Wall sprinted across my mind's eye. More like being at one with perpetual turmoil and unrest over a bunch of sand. I was 15 and I knew everything.
"It's not like here where people drive by sunsets that are magnificent every day and don't give them a second glance. People are too blind, especially in Texas, to see what's around them." He always had a way of revealing to me what was right in front of my eyes. It was in this moment that I so desperately wanted, needed to see through his eyes.
How did I look to him? For the first time in my young life, I wished I were a Bedouin fire, noticeable for its untamed beauty in his vast world. To be something so miraculous, so vibrant to anyone would be...would be...Well, it just would be earth shattering. I was envious of a Bedouin shepherd I had never given a second thought toward halfway around the world, who evoked such curiosity and amazement in his mind.
That night I dreamt of sand and warmth. I dreamt of the smell of leather, salt, and water, and I felt the earthy warmth of a desert fire that reaches into the depth of a midnight sky.
I am doing this! I will write! Come what may! It will be crap and that's okay! So, to get a jump start on things here's a little somethin', somethin' I've been working on for a good two or three years: (p.s., I have no idea where this "novel" thing will take me, but for once in my life I'm jumping in with both feet and no plan!) I'm not ignoring the fact that this is a very risky endeavor....I acknowledge the great personal stakes involved, mostly directed towards my pride. But, if I don't do it now then will when I do it? If I can't "publish" pieces at a time, how will I ever publish in its entirety?
Bedouin Fires and Suburban Street Lamps”
I saw myself retreat whenever he asked, "What are you thinking?" because he truly wanted to know what was in my mind and heart. I saw his fingers grip a pencil or a brush as they danced in a well-choreographed ballet over pages and canvases, mirroring the same motion from more private moments.
Love is the recognition of ourselves in others. I saw myself in the tension of the fist of his left hand as it balled-up when he had something to say but held his tongue. The way he pressed his lips together tightly, forbidding himself to say what he really thought. I saw myself on a desert plain in a strange land, illuminated by dying embers in white sand and blazing stars.
I saw myself in his deep-set ember eyes peering out and taking in.
"It's like nothing you would have ever thought. It's not dead--it's more full of life than any place I've ever seen." Two friends sat outside of the party at the mayor's house whose daughter, in her WASP rebellion, had invited just a few too many inebriates to really establish a "chill" atmosphere. We were children together in our yearning for adventure. I sat, 15 and inspired, on the cement curb under the glow of a hissing street lamp. He filled my mind with images of camels and desert mounds. As he described the scene from his summer spent half way across the world, I could just make out the shadow puppets of camels and shepherds illuminated on a field of yellow suburban street light, dancing in the shadows of the temped September night.
"Did you know astronauts say they can see the Bedouin fires from space? Imagine being an insignificant Israeli shepherd who built a fire one cold night to protect his flock of sheep that reached out to the universe." These were the types of "imaginings" I became addicted to. Imagining we were the only two people in the world who recognized the beauty of an anthill. Imagining we were experiencing the same earth-shattering connection that no one other than we could understand.
"I can only imagine,” was all I could say. And I could, only imagine. I had seen stars in a black sky as a child, driving out to an obscure corner of the world only to peer through the eyes of a microscope the size of a quarter to catch a fleeting glimpse at the smudge in the sky that was Halley's comet. I had seen stars from an Arizona plateau--infinite and spiraling in multi- dimensional constellations. I had seen fire--but I had never seen anything as beautiful as what he described now.
"We hiked. We swam in the Dead Sea. We rode camels even. Being in Israel is being in another world where people know where they come from and where they are going."
"Yeah," chuckling at the irony of his sentiments. Flashes of footage on the Gaza strip and protests at the Wailing Wall sprinted across my mind's eye. More like being at one with perpetual turmoil and unrest over a bunch of sand. I was 15 and I knew everything.
"It's not like here where people drive by sunsets that are magnificent every day and don't give them a second glance. People are too blind, especially in Texas, to see what's around them." He always had a way of revealing to me what was right in front of my eyes. It was in this moment that I so desperately wanted, needed to see through his eyes.
How did I look to him? For the first time in my young life, I wished I were a Bedouin fire, noticeable for its untamed beauty in his vast world. To be something so miraculous, so vibrant to anyone would be...would be...Well, it just would be earth shattering. I was envious of a Bedouin shepherd I had never given a second thought toward halfway around the world, who evoked such curiosity and amazement in his mind.
That night I dreamt of sand and warmth. I dreamt of the smell of leather, salt, and water, and I felt the earthy warmth of a desert fire that reaches into the depth of a midnight sky.
"I could"
I could climb to a roof top and sing or scream or jump.
I could pull out my hair and bite my lip til it bleeds.
I could implode. I could. But, I don't.
I could cry...I could. I could hide.
I could smile. Smile and not show.
Show the breaking and bending as hot iron and steal
Pops and crackles and spits.
I could.
Belt. Belt it loud. Ridiculously loud until my ear drums ring.
Ringing, and Singing, and Crying, Jumping.
But...
I don't.
I could let this knot in my throat dissolve.
I could let this searing cease.
I could scream it, or sing it, or write it, or sign it.
But I don't...and I won't.
Because.
You could. But you don't. And you won't.
I could...
I could pull out my hair and bite my lip til it bleeds.
I could implode. I could. But, I don't.
I could cry...I could. I could hide.
I could smile. Smile and not show.
Show the breaking and bending as hot iron and steal
Pops and crackles and spits.
I could.
Belt. Belt it loud. Ridiculously loud until my ear drums ring.
Ringing, and Singing, and Crying, Jumping.
But...
I don't.
I could let this knot in my throat dissolve.
I could let this searing cease.
I could scream it, or sing it, or write it, or sign it.
But I don't...and I won't.
Because.
You could. But you don't. And you won't.
I could...
Second Adolescence?
A second adolescence?
I’ve always been proud of the idea that I am a strong, confident woman. Always thought how lucky I am to know who I am and possess super self-confidence, blah, blah, blah...As a teenager, even, I don’t remember going through the extreme angst of peer acceptance/ rejection or crisis due to body image or others’ perceptions of me. I seemed to have glided through my teenage years quite comfortable with who I was, my friends, my situation.
So....why now, as a 26 year old successful happy woman, am I beginning to have thoughts about how fat I am, how I want to be perceived as hip and cool by the adults around me, and I am ridiculously hormonal....I mean, seriously, I’ve become nearly obsessive about nutritional labels and light beer, counting calories, and weighing in religiously every Monday night as I fluctuate between 164 and 162, longing for the day when the scale will say 150 again or even 155. I’m spending 8 hrs a week working my ass off at the gym, not because it’s the healthy thing to do, but because I’m going to Mexico in July and want to look like I did on my honeymoon in my cute little tropical bikini.
I swing from silly and happy to sullen and moody in the time it takes for a bag of popcorn to be ready. I tear up at the thought of a sad movie or song on the radio. I flat out ball my eyes out when I get frustrated.
Jealousy has entered my mind. Suspicion. Doubt....like so many of the teenage girls I see everyday. Dude...I expected it to get more difficult to feel good about myself as I got older, but I didn’t perceive this until I was in my late 30’s and 40’s, not at twenty freakin’ six!
I’m insatiable when it comes to fashion and labels. Dying for a designer handbag and new pair of Jimmy Choos. Isn’t it supposed to be the opposite. Shouldn’t I be feelinhg more secure about myself and my body, less concerned with what people think of me, and more confident in my relationships? Are my teenage students wearing off my me finally or have I entered into some kind of quarter life adolescence?
I’ve always been proud of the idea that I am a strong, confident woman. Always thought how lucky I am to know who I am and possess super self-confidence, blah, blah, blah...As a teenager, even, I don’t remember going through the extreme angst of peer acceptance/ rejection or crisis due to body image or others’ perceptions of me. I seemed to have glided through my teenage years quite comfortable with who I was, my friends, my situation.
So....why now, as a 26 year old successful happy woman, am I beginning to have thoughts about how fat I am, how I want to be perceived as hip and cool by the adults around me, and I am ridiculously hormonal....I mean, seriously, I’ve become nearly obsessive about nutritional labels and light beer, counting calories, and weighing in religiously every Monday night as I fluctuate between 164 and 162, longing for the day when the scale will say 150 again or even 155. I’m spending 8 hrs a week working my ass off at the gym, not because it’s the healthy thing to do, but because I’m going to Mexico in July and want to look like I did on my honeymoon in my cute little tropical bikini.
I swing from silly and happy to sullen and moody in the time it takes for a bag of popcorn to be ready. I tear up at the thought of a sad movie or song on the radio. I flat out ball my eyes out when I get frustrated.
Jealousy has entered my mind. Suspicion. Doubt....like so many of the teenage girls I see everyday. Dude...I expected it to get more difficult to feel good about myself as I got older, but I didn’t perceive this until I was in my late 30’s and 40’s, not at twenty freakin’ six!
I’m insatiable when it comes to fashion and labels. Dying for a designer handbag and new pair of Jimmy Choos. Isn’t it supposed to be the opposite. Shouldn’t I be feelinhg more secure about myself and my body, less concerned with what people think of me, and more confident in my relationships? Are my teenage students wearing off my me finally or have I entered into some kind of quarter life adolescence?
Ache
In response to a dear friend’s thoughts..."Ache"
I like to think, or try at least, that there is purpose for the ache. You know the whole...that which does not kill us, blah, blah....And, whereas right now in my life I have no reason to ache, throb, burn, etc...I have to admit that I do in certain (many) situations or moods (whenever a memory or emotion strikes). I could say that the ache is to serve as a contrast to the warm fuzzies and only heighten the love I am surrounded with. But, most of the time I think that's just bull shit. I am one, too, who fills my time with "activity" so that I can't have time to reflect. (Hello, I did my masters in less than 2 years!). I feel with ya there sista!
Nonetheless, I feel like sometimes the ache stems from this giant hole somewhere around my sternum that is so obvious to those around me. Like in cartoons when the coyote is hit with a canon ball and it leaves a hole the size of the ball that you can see through--that kind of obvious. Over the years the hole has become smaller...and smaller...and now is more of a phantom pain I think. My hole and I have become friends and when it does appear it's kind of like "Hi! Where have you been? I missed you...don't go away again." Sadistic? Yes. My ache and I have a long standing, tumultuous love affair.
I like to think, or try at least, that there is purpose for the ache. You know the whole...that which does not kill us, blah, blah....And, whereas right now in my life I have no reason to ache, throb, burn, etc...I have to admit that I do in certain (many) situations or moods (whenever a memory or emotion strikes). I could say that the ache is to serve as a contrast to the warm fuzzies and only heighten the love I am surrounded with. But, most of the time I think that's just bull shit. I am one, too, who fills my time with "activity" so that I can't have time to reflect. (Hello, I did my masters in less than 2 years!). I feel with ya there sista!
Nonetheless, I feel like sometimes the ache stems from this giant hole somewhere around my sternum that is so obvious to those around me. Like in cartoons when the coyote is hit with a canon ball and it leaves a hole the size of the ball that you can see through--that kind of obvious. Over the years the hole has become smaller...and smaller...and now is more of a phantom pain I think. My hole and I have become friends and when it does appear it's kind of like "Hi! Where have you been? I missed you...don't go away again." Sadistic? Yes. My ache and I have a long standing, tumultuous love affair.
"Our Deepest Fear"
In response to "Our Deepest Fear" from A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of a Course in Miracles by Marianne Williamson
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
Our deepest fear…our deepest fear. When our deepest fears are realized, when we overcome other's attempts to "shrink" us—to make us feel less than we are—we have truly accomplished something great. Where does the courage lie to stand up and say, "I am brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? From what source does the courage flow? To be liberated, to be free of this fear is truly divine—but at what cost is self-actualization achieved? At the cost of a belief? Perhaps at the loss of something "more precious than gold." Sometimes I wonder: does the release of our fear outweigh the cost?
Isn't fear a natural force meant to protect and serve us? And, I am perplexed at the possibility that when we lose the fear that we are not powerful—when it suddenly goes out like a pulsating neon bar light, leaving us suddenly in the dark—does that invite the insecurity to creep in, which hisses in our ear, "you may be shining. You may be liberated. You may be fabulous…but you will never reach that potential—you will fall short." I may, in my greatest moments scream back at the voice "I am. I am. I am. I will!" Yet, the voice screams louder, too, until I am hoarse with exhaustion and dejected. Which is more loathsome: to possess the fear that we are powerful or the worry that we will not realize that power?
I am hopeful at the last thought—my liberation may release others from their own oppression—and that is the price worth paying. That is the source of the courage and will that courses through me even when my heart breaks, even when I may be left standing in the dark. I may not be empowered to run around switching off neon signs in everyone's metaphysical barroom—but perhaps through my experience, others can learn to cut off the source of energy to their own flashing signs and learn to illuminate the darkness from within.
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
Our deepest fear…our deepest fear. When our deepest fears are realized, when we overcome other's attempts to "shrink" us—to make us feel less than we are—we have truly accomplished something great. Where does the courage lie to stand up and say, "I am brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? From what source does the courage flow? To be liberated, to be free of this fear is truly divine—but at what cost is self-actualization achieved? At the cost of a belief? Perhaps at the loss of something "more precious than gold." Sometimes I wonder: does the release of our fear outweigh the cost?
Isn't fear a natural force meant to protect and serve us? And, I am perplexed at the possibility that when we lose the fear that we are not powerful—when it suddenly goes out like a pulsating neon bar light, leaving us suddenly in the dark—does that invite the insecurity to creep in, which hisses in our ear, "you may be shining. You may be liberated. You may be fabulous…but you will never reach that potential—you will fall short." I may, in my greatest moments scream back at the voice "I am. I am. I am. I will!" Yet, the voice screams louder, too, until I am hoarse with exhaustion and dejected. Which is more loathsome: to possess the fear that we are powerful or the worry that we will not realize that power?
I am hopeful at the last thought—my liberation may release others from their own oppression—and that is the price worth paying. That is the source of the courage and will that courses through me even when my heart breaks, even when I may be left standing in the dark. I may not be empowered to run around switching off neon signs in everyone's metaphysical barroom—but perhaps through my experience, others can learn to cut off the source of energy to their own flashing signs and learn to illuminate the darkness from within.
Imposter Painter
My grandmother had beautiful hands. Her hands were unreasonably soft when considering the daily toil she spent cooking for her family, cleaning crappie, and tending her gardens of asparagus, red potatoes, okra, squash, and tomatoes. Her fingers were long and well-tapered with slim ovals at her nails that were always clean and simply filed just beyond the tip of her finger. Despite the fact that her knuckles were swollen and twisted with arthritis, her fingers were multi-talented. She hand quilted queen-size comforters for each of her four grandchildren each year, crocheted throws, and painted.
When my sister and I visited we knew to anticipate the dawn fishing trips to the crappie barge where we would spend the day surrounding a 4x4 hole in a tin can, staring at pee-yellow water and swatting flies. At the hottest part of the day we would reel in our lines and head in. On the porch of my grandparents' modest trailer the hot summer breeze smelled of honeysuckle and peach blossoms. There, we would paint. Well, my sister and grandmother would paint and I would dabble.
Sometimes, we'd gather around the kitchen table with leftover sourdough biscuits and chocolate chip cookies made with shortening and other samplings of Mema's cooking. She'd take out the tackle box where cracked and pinched tubes of acryllic paints were lined like the colors of the rainbow. Our inspiration usually stemmed from the back issues of Texas Highways magazines: fields of bluebonnets, a setting sun, windmills, hummingbirds, and lakes--her favorite Texas landscapes. I was always so envious of my sister as she went straight to the paints, mixing, blending, creating a perfect replica of whichever image was before her.
I don't remember ever finishing a painting with my grandmother; I started several, but I never knew where to go on the canvas and I obsessed about making it look perfect. I desperately wanted to see the depth and dimension that my sister obviously recognized in the glossy photograph. I strained my eyes to see the subtle hues and shades of colors, the play of light and shadow to create scenes.
I suppose this desperate attempt to be a painter manifested itself in my house. If I look through the door of my bedroom I see 6 different wall colors (not to mention the bathroom I cannot see which actually makes 7). I love color in my home. White walls are not comforting to me. They do not warm or cool me. Traditionally, whenever I have any span of time, I paint. I've just started a two week span where I will be alone in the house, staring at my motley walls, dying to do something daring like paint them all one consistent color. Instead, I went to Hobby Lobby, lost myself in the paint and art supply aisles, and returned home with a very simple acryllic paint set, brushes, and canvas.
I intend to paint....I haven't gotten beyond color...that maybe as far as I do get. But, I'm needing to pull something that is stewing, rending my heart in two, and put it outside myself. I've tried writing--words have served as a less ridiculous pallette for me in the past--but it's not working now. My heart hurts. It's imploding, caving in on itself, crushing me, and the only way I can think to still the rending is to mix color. I won't go so far as to try to actually represent something physical on the canvas even though certain moments and images are etched on the back of my eyelids each time I close them. They may appear...but again, not through anything recognizable.
So, here I am...an imposter painter...feigning a talent that is not mine out of necessity to breathe a little easier.
When my sister and I visited we knew to anticipate the dawn fishing trips to the crappie barge where we would spend the day surrounding a 4x4 hole in a tin can, staring at pee-yellow water and swatting flies. At the hottest part of the day we would reel in our lines and head in. On the porch of my grandparents' modest trailer the hot summer breeze smelled of honeysuckle and peach blossoms. There, we would paint. Well, my sister and grandmother would paint and I would dabble.
Sometimes, we'd gather around the kitchen table with leftover sourdough biscuits and chocolate chip cookies made with shortening and other samplings of Mema's cooking. She'd take out the tackle box where cracked and pinched tubes of acryllic paints were lined like the colors of the rainbow. Our inspiration usually stemmed from the back issues of Texas Highways magazines: fields of bluebonnets, a setting sun, windmills, hummingbirds, and lakes--her favorite Texas landscapes. I was always so envious of my sister as she went straight to the paints, mixing, blending, creating a perfect replica of whichever image was before her.
I don't remember ever finishing a painting with my grandmother; I started several, but I never knew where to go on the canvas and I obsessed about making it look perfect. I desperately wanted to see the depth and dimension that my sister obviously recognized in the glossy photograph. I strained my eyes to see the subtle hues and shades of colors, the play of light and shadow to create scenes.
I suppose this desperate attempt to be a painter manifested itself in my house. If I look through the door of my bedroom I see 6 different wall colors (not to mention the bathroom I cannot see which actually makes 7). I love color in my home. White walls are not comforting to me. They do not warm or cool me. Traditionally, whenever I have any span of time, I paint. I've just started a two week span where I will be alone in the house, staring at my motley walls, dying to do something daring like paint them all one consistent color. Instead, I went to Hobby Lobby, lost myself in the paint and art supply aisles, and returned home with a very simple acryllic paint set, brushes, and canvas.
I intend to paint....I haven't gotten beyond color...that maybe as far as I do get. But, I'm needing to pull something that is stewing, rending my heart in two, and put it outside myself. I've tried writing--words have served as a less ridiculous pallette for me in the past--but it's not working now. My heart hurts. It's imploding, caving in on itself, crushing me, and the only way I can think to still the rending is to mix color. I won't go so far as to try to actually represent something physical on the canvas even though certain moments and images are etched on the back of my eyelids each time I close them. They may appear...but again, not through anything recognizable.
So, here I am...an imposter painter...feigning a talent that is not mine out of necessity to breathe a little easier.
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