I discovered my love for art when I was around 12 years old. It started innocently with an admiration for Teen Titan fan art, chibi style cartoons and my favorite fantasy creatures. I remember my first original drawing that wasn’t half bad. I sat down on my bed and drew a picture of a fairy. The profile of her face was puckered as she gently blew a bubble from the palm of her hand. I titled it “Bubbles”, as more orbs gently floated around the leaf she was sitting on. I’m not sure what inspired that concept, likely the fairy novelties on figurines and blankets I collected, but I do remember the pride I felt when it was finished, showing her off to my dad and brother and thinking, “wow, I did this!”.
As my drawing practice deepened, so did the meaning behind the lines and shading I was creating. I practiced drawing portraits of dampened expressions, charcoal eyes filling pages over and over, some dripping with tears, some dry and full of wonder. The most edgy and enticing expressions I could find in my “17” magazine would be mirrored in my drawing pads, and through this process I would feel connected to the feelings the model was deceptively portraying. I felt accomplishment with replicating the curves, the shadows, the gleams and most importantly, the emotions behind the person’s eyes.
8×10 / Charcoal pencil on paper
From the 6th grade on, my answer to the insistent question of “what do you want to do with your life” was always the same. I want to be a FAMOUS artist.
Why famous? I’m not sure. Maybe I was inspired by hearing the names of people over and over who’s work was so iconic that it was taught all over the world, in every school as a foundation for what art was. Maybe the Leo in me craves a spotlight and to experience fame in this life. Maybe I just want my art work known so people see the true potential of following their bliss and exposing the creativity within us all that’s begging to be unleashed.
But to (some) dismay I have yet to pursue that life of fame and fortune. To expose my most intimate creations with the world, hell to even try and sell my first painting!
That doesn’t make me too upset though. Just frustrated that I haven’t really tried. That I feel channels of molten talent within me ready to erupt but I continue putting myself on ice, letting myself vent in little bursts of productivity just to ease the pressure.
Sometimes I feel like I belong in a different world. I’m meant for daydreaming and leisurely exploring streams and fields. Watching the light change and the way clouds cast shadows on the hills for hours and hours. Listening to the messages carried in the wind and whispering something sweet back. But of course we have to factor in work, and playing with every art medium known to man for 8 hours a day is exactly how I envision my ideal way of making a living.
The toll of the go, go, go of this modern culture has been going against the grain of my instincts for years and when I look in the mirror, its like the face of who I once was has been sanded away, left dull and lifeless under the dust. I have reached the end of the chain holding me back from the creative life I want to live; the life where I can wander freely throughout my day, acting based on my emotions and not someone else’s schedule of events, breaking for inspiration and not mindless doses of caffeine to try and summon some unattainable motivation; I’m desperately looking for a saw.
So here I am, almost 2 decades since identifying my life’s purpose, coming to the motivating realization that I’m not here very long. I don’t have to settle in any area of my existence. I told myself after dating a few low-lives in high school that I would not settle on meeting my next long term partner. Shortly after I made that personal commitment, I happened to meet the love of my life. So I guess the struggle really begins when we’re trying to change something that’s not right. Getting out of that relationship. Leaving the toxic job. Stopping an unhealthy habit. Waiting for the next thing can be easy, severing ties from something familiar and close to us is really hard.
After meeting E and moving out of my dad’s, logically I checked-in to the ruse of full time employment. Rock concerts and paying my own bills was way more appealing than my long term career plan and so began nearly a decade of neglecting my creative potential. My physical and mental efforts were exchanged for a “fair” amount of compensation day in, day out and despite “elevating” industries each job was ultimately the same. My stability was at the will of my employer and like a monkey, I danced. I have anxiously withstood years and years of mind numbing tasks, following incompetent leadership barking asinine orders. It wasn’t all bad, I’ve learned a lot, but this has been my general take away from a decade in corporate America. I began to associate my self-worth with a bar graph. I’ve conditioned myself to only raising my bar as high as my employer set it for me, which needless to say has been a degrading and demotivating experience. Yet I still show up, give it my all, only to find out that those making an effort are considered less of a priority than those causing a problem. And I now recognize part of my problem is me. I’m not interested in climbing ladders unless it leads to a house in the trees where there’s no glass ceiling, only blue skies and leaves.
I think I just want to be good at what I’m doing and I’m always looking for acknowledgement. I recognized recently that I am incredibly reliable when it comes to meeting deadlines and keeping promises… for other people. If my manager pops an unannounced project due date, I will bend over backwards to meet it. If I commit to an elaborate gift for my husband and am intimidated by the lavish to do list I created for myself, I think of the joy I’ll see in his eyes and there’s no longer doubt that the effort is worth it.
When it comes to my dreams however, they’ve always taken the backseat. I guess it’s the malleable people pleaser in me. Stability and caring for others comes first. It always has. Making people associating with me happy, makes me happy. But it’s a fleeting sense of satisfaction that uncovers an empty sense of purpose so when the smile appears I immediately begin seeking out the next thing to nurture. All the while my self-worth is buried under a mountain of self-induced resentment.
But if I could simply keep commitments to myself, would it change anything? If I were to set a goal for myself and follow through with it as though it was as obligatory as meeting someone else’s expectations, would it make a difference? Respecting myself as much- no, MORE than those I’ve given control of my self-esteem over to for years sounds reasonable, … obvious. Necessary. Yes- necessary. Mandatory!
And yes… It has changed everything.
I’m writing this in my half-demo’ed sunroom where I’ve sat down in leisure twice now. The first was 3 weeks ago to entertain my niece while E and his sister toured the rest of our new home. I began writing these thoughts down on a tattered notepad this morning as I have yet to find the journal I specifically dedicated to my blog posts in trips to the garage- where we’ve been stumbling and trudging through boxes of remnants from our old lives as renters.
At the beginning of July I created a timeline for myself. A deadline to take one tangible step in the direction of my dreams. I wrote it down with conviction. I made it as convincing as if my next paycheck depended on it. As if it was going to make everyone I knew as happy as they’d ever been. As if it was the most important thing I’d ever do in my whole life. And it was just in time for my birthday.
In reality, it felt more like a flatfooted inching with my arms glued to my sides. But low and behold, my mantras and check list worked. I gave myself 3 weeks to take 1 step towards my career. Week 1, I researched. Week 2, I built my website. Week 3, I compiled and wrote my first blog post. All while in the midst of preparing for a new life in a new home. Regardless of the stressful toll of closing on our house, renovating and moving, and despite another pregnancy loss in between, I knew that feeling of accomplishment- knowing that I gave myself something no one else could, and knowing that it was what I truly wanted, would be entirely worth it.
So on my 28th birthday I sat with the love of my life, sipping strong margaritas, mentally exhausted but buzzing with accomplishment and pride from achieving my goal. I no longer put my dreams last on my to do list. I no longer label an immediate paycheck more important than my long-term career. I don’t break my promises, and starting now that rule extends especially to myself.
