Happy Little Clouds

 

Mrs. Dixon was the name of my ninth grade art teacher.  I don't have a ton of great high school memories, so that means something to me. In those days, I was far more preoccupied with the social (or more fittingly, antisocial) aspects of high school than I was academics, so I remember being surprised at liking art class. Mrs. Dixon was engaging and interesting, and she led us to explore color and shapes through drawing and painting, with frequent reminders that we all see and create differently. It was as close as I got back then to “critical thinking.” I remember that though I wasn't the best at drawing, she still encouraged me to pursue other avenues of creative expression, thus suggesting that I had some creative talents. I remember working on one large sketch for several weeks with colored pencils, and we did another with charcoal. I remember fondly that acrylic painting we did with geometric shapes lined in repetition--a few shapes bursting out of order in disarray (all too analogous to how I felt among my peers). I can still see the pastel still life I completed of a rope, net and life preserver. Looking back, it was the only class I really enjoyed… and in truth, one of the few I regularly attended.

Like so many people, my dreams of becoming an artist have been – well, dreams. Quiet dreams.  And while the idea of being a renowned painter may be slightly more attainable than my other great fantasy of being the next Bob Dylan (that’s just not going to happen), somewhere in my gut of guts, I think there’s a piece of me that always wondered if I could “do art.” For many years now, I’ve been viewed as an intellectual, a writer, an activist. I’ve been a teacher and counselor. A free spirit yogi. The one who married an artist. But I certainly haven’t been seen as someone bursting with artistry or someone with creative potential in that way. 

When we don’t practice remembering, we forget. When we label the pursuit of our dreams as menial or unattainable, our dreams become our regrets. At the beginning of this summer I set an intention to be more creative and to believe in my potential to create. And guess what? I have. Until these last few months, I had gone years without remembering Mrs. Dixon’s class. I forgot that I began college as a Fine Arts major who ended up with a minor in Photography. I forgot that somewhere in my house there has always been a set of crayons, pastels and paints. I forgot that I often make holiday and birthday cards instead of buying them and that I’ve collaged and given handmade jewelry as gifts. I forgot that I have a knack for creating an energy and tone for my home through decorating, color and shape combinations (even though I moved pretty regularly for many years).

I forgot that I’m talented. (And as an aside—I really wanted to be wishy-washy in that last statement. I wanted to say “I forgot that I might be talented.” Or “I forgot that I may have talent waiting to be unmasked.” It’s so hard to be direct. Making clear, active statements about my talents—not potential talents, but talents—is hard. But intentions require specificity and self-love. I’m learning to embrace this.)

This past weekend, I took a painting class and though it wasn't my first, it felt as if it was.  It was my first class with oils—Introduction to Oil Painting—and in pure Bob Ross style I created a mountain landscape with a sun-streaked cloudy sky, large boulders, a bald mountain top, and trees, bushes and rhododendrons. Unlike high school, I didn’t care if the class was cool, and unlike the me before, I didn’t care if the end result was any good. My painting was by no means a masterpiece…. But it was a master step.

This creative longing inside is building in a way that makes my bones ache, and I’m starting to recognize that it’s an aged longing. I’m being pulled toward this guiding sense of freedom that started many years ago—and along that path I see my way lined with paint tubes, bristles, color and exploration (as well as hundreds of other things!).  I don’t know where this all will lead—but that’s OK, because I’m not in it for answers. I’m just going. Feeling. Following the pull. And If I’m being honest—I’m also really, really excited. 

Over the last year, I’ve made life changes and sacrifices that have created more time and space for “me.” Sometimes the space isn’t pretty—actually, it’s quite often not pretty—but I am starting to understand why it’s important.  I’m starting to witness to the regularity of which I’ve begun conversations with my body, intuition, spirit and gut. And for the first time in a long time, I hear this collective speaking loudly—I’m starting to let it call the shots. I’ve given my mind the back seat and am letting body/intuition/spirit/gut take the reins. And it’s working—I know this for sure—because left to her own free will, Brain would have never signed up for that class last Saturday (“We can’t afford it!” “We have too much to do!” “It’s not necessary!” “Blah, blah, blah…”).

So. That’s was my painting class, complete with lessons on focal points, the color wheel, mixing colors, remembering days past and gazing towards my blooming inner wisdom. The combination of these has had a pretty tremendous effect of restoring old memories while providing guidance on how to create new ones. And speaking of creating new memories, my wife—the artist!—was so endeared with joy at my smiling face and completed Bob Ross that I was taken shopping very the next day for my own set of paints and brushes. After our paint supply trip we promptly returned home to rearrange the dining room to make space for our old easel so I have a place to create. So here's to keepin' this artsy vibe goin! Happy little clouds! (The Bob Ross Remix above pretty much sums up my sentiments. Check it out.) 

Thanks, Bob. Thank you, Mrs. Dixon. Thank you, Al... And thank you, inner collective wisdom.