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Musings for Today
The energies are demanding that I do a lot of memory
clearing and forgiving, so I choose writing as a method of this clearing!
And I find myself at
a crossroads, with a conundrum brewing.
A little explanation is needed.
I have always been creative, am an artist at heart to the
core.
Although, my parents didn’t formally nurture this inherent
ability, nor was I exposed to art and museums, I read a lot, and poured over
the pictures in the books that were in our house, looking for interesting
pictures of textures and design, pleasing landscapes; always enjoyed looking at
the fabrics my Mom bought to make clothes or crafts; and always found it an
exciting mystery to open left-over cans of paints from construction jobs that
my Daddy had sitting around in his workshop.
He would let me make abstract painting onto scrap pieces of
wood with these left-over paints, while using old stiff paint brushes or sticks
of wood to deliver the paint onto my substrate, incorporating found objects,
saw dust and shavings from his table saw, bits of hay and straw, and
interesting floral bits into the finished piece. I never kept these works of art though. Generally, because I had used smooth flat
pieces, Daddy had to use them for one of his jobs. After he had cleaned off my work of art. He was such a practical person. As was my Mom.
This must be where I began my love of Mixed Media and
Collage.
Both parents were creative in their own way: my Mom sewed
and did a lot of crafts although, oddly enough, she never invited me to join
her. Hmmm.
I did learn to sew from watching her and from being in 4-H.
And my Daddy had studied carpentry and architecture at one
time, before WWII began. And since I tagged along after him most of the time
when I was a kid, always in the outdoor, I learned instinctively a lot about
natural structures, colors, designs, textures, etc.
We never had enough money to buy special art supplies, so I
carefully saved my crayons, paste, and paints from school each year, and
hoarded discarded papers. This explains
why I am such a packrat today.
Plus, Mom always saved my school art work, and I continued
the tradition by saving every piece of our kids school art work.
I drew pictures in the southern Indiana, dry, red clay dirt
during the summers.
Made and decorated snow angels in the winter.
Scratched out designs on the ice of our ponds when the
weather was cold, cold, cold. I remember
kneeling on the frozen ice until my little knees hurt and my fingers grew stiff
with cold; my head swaddled in heavy woolen scarves, and layered with sweaters
under my one wool coat. My toes would grown numb inside my rubber golaches.
But, there was no one to nurture and guide my creative gift.
Unknowingly, until now that I am an adult with access to art
supplies and classes, I watched the change of the seasons, the changes of the
growth cycle of trees and weeds, marveled at the woods and fields as they
changed during the seasons through drought, rain, and snow.
When in high school, I was content and in artistic bliss! I was finally doing and learning the
techniques and methods to make the ideas in my head a creative reality.
I loved
my art teacher. Literally.
And I had also found that I could write, and was encouraged
by my sophomore English teacher (not my Mom), to express myself.
Which, by the way, had previously not been encouraged by my
folks: you know, children are made to be seen and not heard.
My senior year, I wanted to go the college and study Art.
But, my folks were not supportive of that idea.
Art was a lucrative profession for a woman. This was in the early
1970’s. (I later did a homes study course in Conservation, but again, this was
a dangerous and unacceptable profession for a women.)
I had the choice, if you can call it a choice, of studying
English and becoming an English teacher, or getting a job at a factory.
Guess which choice I chose.
Nope, not the English teacher path.
I worked in a variety of factories, always with the
trepidation of injuring my fingers, (our son is a professional Clarinetist and
also has this dread of injuring his fingers) particularly when I was working as
an off bearer at a huge table saw in a cabinet factory, and when I was sewing
the eyelet tab on tennis shoes with a huge fast moving needle.
Both places were hot and noisy.
But I learned a lot about people.
Then, I worked with my Daddy and brother building
houses. I was the mud mixer, the
foundation concrete block layer, the interior finisher, and the go-fer.
Under my Daddy’s ever-watchful eye and tutelage, I learned
the ethic of hard work, doing expert work with no mistakes, (Daddy was a
task-master regarding this. He would
never allow slipshod work), that feeling that comes from finishing a project
and knowing it is well done, and working with people: co-workers and those people
who had hired our Daddy and his crew.
I enjoyed young adult bliss with my own apartment, parties
and friends.
But I was restless.
And oddly enough, I was tired of people.
People always seemed to not measure up to my standards. They
always seemed to disappoint, starting with my non-supportive parents.
People always had too many faults and foibles.
Except for my best friend Sara Rae.
We were two of a kind.
Two opposites: I was wild and carefree; she had family
responsibilities.
And then, I moved away and left the best woman I have ever
know.
And then I became a practicing Christian. My folks had raised us Christian, but were nominal at best. Gave up most of my vices. For many
years.
If I hadn’t walked this path, I would not have met my
wonderful husband, nor had our wonderful kids.
I was the best Christian I could be. The best Wife I could
be. The best Mother I could be.
And then, Christians (not my husband and kids) let me down
too.
Told me I was not good enough to be a Christian. That I was wicked because I wore jewelry, and ate meat, and had too creative of ideas that challenged the members.
If I had not left this church, I would not be where I am
today.
I am Spiritual and not religious.
I follow both the Goddess and God.
Eclectic religiosity. I can chose how I express my
Spirituality.
And somewhere, during all this time, my artistic heart went
into hibernation.
My married family life was stable, pleasant, predictable,
safe, and I was then free to explore my artist heart. But I could not find what had been.
My husband is/was a dedicated husband, father, and teacher. And
a talented and unfulfilled musician. He has a degree in Music. He used to write music and play trumpet. But
our town has no outlet for musicians.
(You may ask why we just haven’t moved to a location where
there is a true artistic community.
Well, we wanted stability for the children, and financially, we could
never afford to move.)
He is/was the bread-winner
of the family.
And we thrived as a family, and still thrive as a family, on one pay check
a month.
I worked off and on when we needed extra money for
emergencies.
Still, I could never afford art supplies, nor classes.
And beside, the home-grown artists in this town that did/do
teach classes are odd in that they don’t accept very well, outsiders. And I am an outsider.
I am too shy to expose my talent, and my lack of talent, to
those who I am afraid will judge my ability harshly.
Oh, such a fragile person I have become.
Fabric to make the kids clothes, I could figure into our
budget because it was a necessity. To me
it was a luxury because I could hoard the beautiful fabric scraps.
I treasured the art projects my kids did in school. And
still have some of their elementary art pieces hanging on our walls. Andhave most of their projects stored in boxes.
I still use the coiled baskets my daughter made in art.
Finally, an older friend and I took oil painting classes
from a wonderful craftswoman from another town.
Such bliss I hadn’t felt in years!
I could oil paint!!!! This discovery began to open my
artistic heart.
My older friend also quilted, and I discovered I could
quilt!
Bliss again! My heart is opening further.
But alas, this older friend, soon her husband passed over,
left this world, and me.
During the time I was becoming an oil painter and quilter, I
met a woman, and later we became brief friends, who has an extraordinary
artistic gift.
If a person can be artistically autistic, then she would be
an example.
As hard as she tried to do what was expected of her as a
wife and mother, she always fell short, her intrinsic art gift always taking
over her life. Actually, it was her life, her Soul, her Anam Cara.
Not in a million years, could her talents rub off on
me.
I could only watch from afar, and wish I had a pinch of her
talent.
And then, she moved away nearly ten years ago.
I have been bereft of female companionship since then.
Sometimes, I am glad of this because most women are critical
(as my Mom was), sometimes heartless, demanding their own way, and not fully
attuned to being a friend.
This town ruins a person (although I dodged this bullet) in that, newcomers are outsiders if they hang out with outsiders. So, new women in town don't want to be an outsider. Hence, don't hang out with me.
I, on the other hand, try to seek out newcomers and welcome them to be outsiders. Thus far, I have failed.
It seems each woman, who becomes my acquaintance,
disappoints me in some way.
During my pneumonia illness, I was nearly bedridden. To pass the time, I found a delightful craft
podcast on my iPhone.
And damn, if the woman through her love of crafting and art,
did not inspire me, encourage me, put a longing spark inside me, to want to
share art with people again.
The longing to find a compassionate woman who would be
friend and teacher; someone with whom to share artistic idea
And that is my conundrum.
Where in this community are there women like that? A person
who will accept an outsider?
And my knee-jerk reaction to becoming friends with another
woman, who will ultimately, in the end, disappoint, and then leave me.
Sounds like I have Mother Issues!!!!!!
But, this has been cathartic to write all this.
Now, read and enjoy and explore and discover.
Share your thoughts and comments with me.
But only if they are compassionate. For I am a fragile
person it seems.
