Thursday, March 4, 2010


I used to paint. Notice it’s a past tense. Yes, I’ve picked up the brush a time or two in the past 8 years, but never actually put my heart into anything I’ve done. The last time I remember doing that, I was 18. What stopped me? Words.

I took a few art classes my freshman year of college, and I wasn’t the best student. I had no formal training, but had painted a lot and been told I had a gift. I look back on that year and the emotional hell my boyfriend put me through, the financial burden my education was causing my parents, and my already heavy depression sent me to new depths. I hadn’t the money for the supplies that others used in art classes. I had to explain to my professors that I couldn’t afford this or that (embarrassing!). When my jackass boyfriend told me that he saw my art and it was “just ok”, I was devastated. I never took another art class.

It was 10 years later, when I was married, that my husband bought me a set of paints, and all of the accessories. Having not painted in 10 years, the brush felt foreign, and I struggled. I began painting a tree, I believe. My husband walked by and said, “You’re going to paint THAT?” And then later, he made a comment, “I can paint like that.” I got up, gave him the brush and walked away. I didn’t pick up the brush again.

It’s been nearly 8 years since my divorce, and I have made a few attempts since, only to get frustrated with myself. I have this mental block that keeps me from moving forward with a paintbrush.

Today, a coworker explained to me that she’s written 2 complete novels, which were “sophomoric” once she re-read them. So she began others, and the last one she poured herself into and had it half finished. She took it to a local editor for input before she went any further. He told her that it sounded like Jean Auel’s writing, and if she can fix that, then she should bring it back and he’ll re-read it. That was in the late 80’s or early 90’s. She has not written a word since. The half finished novel is in a box.

We have these walls we build in our own minds. We both took a gift we were working on, and received the feedback we were not prepared to handle. We shut down. We didn’t believe in ourselves to begin with, apparently.

I had heard a friend of mine painted, but no one has seen her work. She keeps it locked away in her house. She finally showed us some photos of it last night. It was fantastic. She has 25 pieces of amazing art. Why hasn’t she shared them? Fear of rejection. Fear of critical input. She paints them, and then she puts them away. No input means no mental stifling. We are now encouraging her to have confidence in herself as an artist. I hope I never stifle someone the way I was.

I also hope I have the courage to try again…….

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Kristi's Lullaby

“Life is short but this time it was bigger
Than the strength he had to get up off his knees”

Those are lyrics from Whiskey Lullaby, about a lover who drinks himself to death. Sometimes lyrics hit us at the heart, and this phrase really smacks of truth for me. I’ve been depressed a lot. I’ve even attempted to end my life. But I always managed to have the strength to get up off my knees. Sometimes, I had the resolve to go on and made up my mind to do so. Other times, I thought I had lost my resolve and tried to give up, but my spirit wouldn’t let go of me. And so, I hear those lyrics and I am thankful for the chances I have had to continue on.

Since my surgery, I’ve been a mess. I haven’t been able to properly express the turmoil in my head. It’s like my life is continuing, and I’m functioning, but my mind isn’t in it. It’s trying to figure out who I am now that my body is altered and my future has changed.

I was chatting with my sister online the other night, and I finally managed to express in words what’s in my head: the future is up to me, and I’m scared to death. I have spent years waiting on God to send me Mr. Right. When I got Mr. Right, I was going to have beautiful babies. Ha! I put a lot of things on hold, in case he came along. My house. My hobbies. My social life. Children. Vacations. Careers. I’ve had this sense of being temporary for quite some time. 7 years to be exact. Everything would be permanent when he comes and the children come. I put a lot of hope and expectation on God, you see. He was supposed to do what I was taught that he does—bring me a man who will help me, whom I could help, and whom I could share my life with.

And now that the child thing is no longer an option, the husband thing seems less important. I guess he was a means to an end? Anyway, I am now faced with the reality that the future is unwritten. It’s up to me to live. It was always up to me to live, but I didn’t perceive it that way. I expected God to fill in more voids than he did. Stupid religion!

So, I’m scared. Can I trust myself to not screw up the rest of my life? How do I proceed with this new life? How do I become the person I want to be? Or even bigger—who do I want to be?

At one point a few weeks ago, I didn’t feel like I had it in me to go on. But my spirit wouldn’t let me quit. Now, I have the resolve, because I understand myself better.