Part of coming of a certain age (insert number here) involves a fair amount of self realization. Who am I? Who do I want to become? How? The demise of the federal government, the shredding of the documents that define it, and the continued white washing of our nation’s history shout at the first question.
I was born in a crease in time where my generation was too young for Woodstock and Vietnam. I was aware of the events. My older brothers were at Woodstock. My older sister had a pen pal in the trenches of Vietnam. I, miffed that I couldn’t go to a “concert” and jealous when my sister received a beautiful doll from a grateful solider, was making clothes for Barbie and combing troll doll hair. I was a child of the crease.
When it became time to make grown up choices I and the world were just waking up to women having choices. While I had been earning my own money since the age of 10; baby sitting, house cleaning, paper route, I could not put that money in the bank on my own until I was 13. This was for no good reason except that I was a female.
My parents expected I should go to college, but more to find someone (read husband) to take care of me than to learn to take care of myself. While pushing me to pursue higher education they never asked who I wanted to be; who I wanted to become or why. They never took my who-ness seriously. I started college to study my one true passion, art. I was going to design costumes for the circus. Lofty goals, no high wire pun intended.
I quit college after a semester to follow my heart. Things changed and my path with it. The who became a wanderer still looking to become. I traveled. Spent time in a different country. And the paths, never expected, always creative, merged with the who I wanted to be and some becoming happened.
The creative process is different for everyone. Some may say (instert parents here) that I was lazy, a loser, a wasteral, but all the while, through all the wandering I have come to this place. I am here. I finally understand that my wandering IS the creative process. It has taken me a lifetime to see that when I listen and let the materials dictate my use and direction I create from a deeper place in myself.
These days the need to speak my truth through art conflicts with my need to be kind and understanding. Fear, I think, is wrecking havoc with my struggle to see the beauty. The available materials are screaming but the self doesn’t want to listen. Fatigue has taken hold.
But every day Hope sneaks a peek. I am a glass half full kinda girl. Cheers. And FDT.
swansroost 