My conundrum of late

-->

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.