"Write drunk; edit sober." -Hemingway
When I first came across this quote I got really excited - I've been looking for something writing related for a new tattoo and nothing was quite fitting the idea of what I wanted . . . until I saw this, that is.
Write drunk; edit sober - it is quite a noble concept, for me. I am a firm believer in the idea of one's drunk words being their sober thoughts. Anyone who knows me well, and has been lucky enough to be a witness to the shenanigans alcohol provides for me, will tell you that I am a much, much, much more forward version of myself in every aspect. I loosely hand out my number, I dance without inhibition, I've confessed secret, ridiculous crushes, and we are not going to even get into what the drunk texting may or may not have looked like on those weekends where I should've said no to just one more shot of tequila. But isn't that somewhat refreshing every once and a while? Anyone with me out there? Shouldn't everyone get to go out on a weekend with their friends and just be? No concern of how I may or may not look, no concern of who may or may not see me dancing in this way, no concern, period, other than to have a good time.
I've thought about this quote, and thought about this quote, and thought about this quote some more; I've considered the idea that this quote is simply about alcohol consumption - that, perhaps, Hemingway created his brilliance in the haze of an amber colored drink, but this just doesn't sit well with me. Perhaps he did - I guess it's logical that he very well may have written while totally shit-faced for most of his career, but is that what this is really about?
As someone who has a degree in writing, and most recently, has become a published writer through a local newspaper, I find myself at odds with the inner voice that just. won't. go. away. She's always telling me I don't know what I'm doing - even though I've a degree and portfolio to demonstrate otherwise; she's always telling me I'll never succeed in this field - even though I've a paper sitting on my kitchen table this minute with MY name and work on the front page; she's always just yammering - on, and on, and on about how I think I may know what I'm doing, but, really, bitch? Do you really know what you're doing? And so, thanks to this little voice that incessantly spoon feeds self-doubt straight to my heart, I spend every second I am before a blank notebook page or before this computer screen questioning everything I'm pumping out - does that make sense? Will I offend someone? Is anyone going to even frigging read this?! And then I come back to Hemingway's words, I come back to the idea that this could just be a quote from a drunk man about drunk writing that happened to make him a legend - and then I fluff up my shoulders, I bitch slap that little voice in my head, and I say no!
Hemingway may have, in part, meant his words to be a token of advice for entire generations of writers to come, but that isn't everything I take away from them.
If I can take a couple of shots and start to be forthright with my feelings then perhaps I can start to become forthright with the deepest seeds of what my writing needs to put on the page.
I sit with my pencil, or with my fingers hovering over keyboard keys, and I think compulsively about what I'm about to put out in the universe before I do it and, more often than not, I end up not putting it out there for fear of what it may reveal about me, what it may say about my upbringing, how it could affect the people that read it. But, what if I wrote "drunk?" Not throwing back drinks drunk, but what if I just did what was on my heart? What if I just laid it all out on the page to just lay it out and then go back and edit? Why am I editing my thoughts and actions before they even become thoughts and actions?
Writing drunk isn't just writing - it's living. I'm not talking alcoholism, here, I'm talking about living the life that makes you feel best, saying what your heart needs to say, and just being what you need to be. This is your life, this is my life - and it's our only one.
So I'll get this tattooed on my body - to remind myself of the kind of writer I wish to be, to remind myself that writing, and living "drunk" isn't as scary or harmful as I once thought it was, to remind myself that this life isn't going to wait for me to step up and start living it.
Cheers to that . . .
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Sunday, November 4, 2012
A Defining Moment
Working with kids is hard. Some of you are parents, so you know how trying these little beings can be. I was a nanny for about six years before I graduated college, but I truly was blessed with children that listened when I spoke, did what I asked them, and showered me with love and affection.
I took a job with East End Community Services in August that would allow me to go to an elementary school everyday and serve bright eyed seven year olds all day. I walked in thinking I had the experience that was required - I would even go as far as to say I was cocky about the experience I was walking in with. It took about thirty minutes for that cocky facade to be shot right in the center and continue to splinter, and splinter, and splinter. I repeat - working with kids is hard.
In my first week I was quickly informed of what students were being raised by grandparents due to incarceration or death of biological parents. I was quickly informed of which of these beautiful babies was going through therapy or being medicated for molestation. I was quickly informed of which students might need some more love, some extra care because of the lack of safety they were coming from. In my first week I realized I was no longer in the middle of cornfields and a town of farmers.
There have been significant times in my adult life in which I've considered what I might say to my younger self, had I been armed with the correct knowledge. What might I say to the little seven year old who had to wear sports bras because precocious puberty had snatched her childish frame away from her? What words of wisdom would I have for the thirteen year old child who let a boy verbally berate her at every turn? What could I give to the sixteen year old who thought for sure she couldn't learn anymore about herself than in that specific year?
I come back to these moments so much more now that I am watching seven year olds find themselves and learn how to be. I watch young girls flex their muscles at being the queen bees and the wannabes. I am a witness to young crushes and hurt feelings when those crushes aren't reciprocated. I see attitudes form and flourish as nothing more than mechanisms of defense for what they face at home. I see personalities developing, internal wars being waged, burdens being shifted so they may become lighter and I start to think - what can I say to them that will make this all seem easier? What wisdom can I impart to show them this isn't it? What could I give them to ease some pain?
The same thing I would have said to myself all those years ago when I was seven, the same thing I would have said to myself a few years later when I was thirteen, what I should have said to myself at twenty-one : there's more, you'll find strength, life is about change.
I wish I could take these precious kids home with me and love on them until they realized how precious and treasured they are, but I can't. So I will set out everyday trying to make them realize that today does not define you, tomorrow does not define you, this moment will not define you.
You define you.
I took a job with East End Community Services in August that would allow me to go to an elementary school everyday and serve bright eyed seven year olds all day. I walked in thinking I had the experience that was required - I would even go as far as to say I was cocky about the experience I was walking in with. It took about thirty minutes for that cocky facade to be shot right in the center and continue to splinter, and splinter, and splinter. I repeat - working with kids is hard.
In my first week I was quickly informed of what students were being raised by grandparents due to incarceration or death of biological parents. I was quickly informed of which of these beautiful babies was going through therapy or being medicated for molestation. I was quickly informed of which students might need some more love, some extra care because of the lack of safety they were coming from. In my first week I realized I was no longer in the middle of cornfields and a town of farmers.
There have been significant times in my adult life in which I've considered what I might say to my younger self, had I been armed with the correct knowledge. What might I say to the little seven year old who had to wear sports bras because precocious puberty had snatched her childish frame away from her? What words of wisdom would I have for the thirteen year old child who let a boy verbally berate her at every turn? What could I give to the sixteen year old who thought for sure she couldn't learn anymore about herself than in that specific year?
I come back to these moments so much more now that I am watching seven year olds find themselves and learn how to be. I watch young girls flex their muscles at being the queen bees and the wannabes. I am a witness to young crushes and hurt feelings when those crushes aren't reciprocated. I see attitudes form and flourish as nothing more than mechanisms of defense for what they face at home. I see personalities developing, internal wars being waged, burdens being shifted so they may become lighter and I start to think - what can I say to them that will make this all seem easier? What wisdom can I impart to show them this isn't it? What could I give them to ease some pain?
The same thing I would have said to myself all those years ago when I was seven, the same thing I would have said to myself a few years later when I was thirteen, what I should have said to myself at twenty-one : there's more, you'll find strength, life is about change.
I wish I could take these precious kids home with me and love on them until they realized how precious and treasured they are, but I can't. So I will set out everyday trying to make them realize that today does not define you, tomorrow does not define you, this moment will not define you.
You define you.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
The Great Divide
The Continental Divide of the Americas, or merely the Continental Gulf of Division or Great Divide, is the name given to the principal, and largely mountainous, hydrological divide of the Americas, that is, the continental divide that separates the watersheds that drain into the Pacific Ocean from those river systems that drain into the Atlantic Ocean.
I suppose I've probably been aware of the Continental Divide since I started learning about geography in school, but I don't think I've been aware of the sort of majesty that occurs within the Divide until this year.
I was listening to the radio one day, it was K-Love on this particular day, and the DJs were talking about the Continental Divide and the ways in which it mirrored how people of faith often found themselves; we can grow up in a community of faith with another person, or a group of people, and we will find ourselves in the exact same place at the exact same time and with one event, in a split second, we will diverge from where we once stood together. The water is at once a united body and in seconds will move toward the Pacific or toward the Atlantic. I found myself considering the multitude of reasons this would happen - is it the direction in which the wind blows that moves the water one way or another? Is it a death or a misstep that takes a person of faith from the path they are on into a diverged arena?
Let's take this concept and remove the faith part. It is quite possible that in this very moment, you and I are in the same arenas of our lives - 25, college graduate, single, and hard working; what will happen tonight or in the early hours before the sun stretches her arms over the hill that will take one of us out of that particular game?
As I completed my drive that morning I thought about the Continental Divide and how, whether anyone else may think of it this way or not, it was this sort of mystical, natural happening that most people probably never gave much thought to. And then I realized . . . our entire lives are stretching over, on, and around continental divides everyday; there are the physical Continental divides that exist that people may live near, but we are continually detouring our lives around emotional continental divides.
Growing up I remember my mom saying she would never forget where she was when JFK was assassinated; in those moments it seemed an odd thing to remember, but then my generation experienced 9/11 and it all became so clear; now we had a specific moment in history in which we will never be allotted the opportunity to forget where we were when the sky went black while the sun still shone. Eight grade American History with Mr. Greher was never the same. This was a continental divide. Up until that point I had never been confronted with tragedy and for days, weeks even, after, I felt this impending devastation over lost lives of which I wouldn't know existed had the attacks not happened in the first place. Not only will I never forget that day because of what it meant for our country, but I will never forget it because it was in those quick minutes that I realized life was not untouchable and that everything can change in a matter of seconds.
Everyday I find myself faced with the opportunity to learn something new, gain wisdom, teach a lesson, show someone compassion. Everyday I am on the precipice of a divide - which way will the water flow? Which direction will my choices lead me? What sort of person will I become as a result of this divide?
Growing up I remember thinking if this person isn't in my life forever I don't know what I'll do and then I grew up some more and in some instances, those people weren't a part of my life anymore, and it was sad and it was hard and I still don't always understand it, but if those people hadn't made an exit, the divide would have gone a different way and I wouldn't be who I am in this moment.
Change scares me - I am not one to shy away from admitting that, but in the past year and a half I have realized that if change didn't occur, if divides did not transpire, then I would be this stagnant version of myself in my life; I wouldn't have the friends I have now, I wouldn't have the beliefs that make me who I am, I wouldn't be the type of friend, daughter, sister, or mentor that the people around me have come to expect.
As I type this there is a continental divide moving one body of water into two and there are moments looming in my future that will both make me and break me. But that's the beauty of it, right? If nothing changed, if nothing transformed, if nothing was broken - there would be no growth, there would be no revelation, there would be no healing.
The Continental Divide. The Great Divide. These moments of tragedy, of trial, of devastation - they diverge into greatness. How these moments divide us? It's our choice.
I suppose I've probably been aware of the Continental Divide since I started learning about geography in school, but I don't think I've been aware of the sort of majesty that occurs within the Divide until this year.
I was listening to the radio one day, it was K-Love on this particular day, and the DJs were talking about the Continental Divide and the ways in which it mirrored how people of faith often found themselves; we can grow up in a community of faith with another person, or a group of people, and we will find ourselves in the exact same place at the exact same time and with one event, in a split second, we will diverge from where we once stood together. The water is at once a united body and in seconds will move toward the Pacific or toward the Atlantic. I found myself considering the multitude of reasons this would happen - is it the direction in which the wind blows that moves the water one way or another? Is it a death or a misstep that takes a person of faith from the path they are on into a diverged arena?
Let's take this concept and remove the faith part. It is quite possible that in this very moment, you and I are in the same arenas of our lives - 25, college graduate, single, and hard working; what will happen tonight or in the early hours before the sun stretches her arms over the hill that will take one of us out of that particular game?
As I completed my drive that morning I thought about the Continental Divide and how, whether anyone else may think of it this way or not, it was this sort of mystical, natural happening that most people probably never gave much thought to. And then I realized . . . our entire lives are stretching over, on, and around continental divides everyday; there are the physical Continental divides that exist that people may live near, but we are continually detouring our lives around emotional continental divides.
Growing up I remember my mom saying she would never forget where she was when JFK was assassinated; in those moments it seemed an odd thing to remember, but then my generation experienced 9/11 and it all became so clear; now we had a specific moment in history in which we will never be allotted the opportunity to forget where we were when the sky went black while the sun still shone. Eight grade American History with Mr. Greher was never the same. This was a continental divide. Up until that point I had never been confronted with tragedy and for days, weeks even, after, I felt this impending devastation over lost lives of which I wouldn't know existed had the attacks not happened in the first place. Not only will I never forget that day because of what it meant for our country, but I will never forget it because it was in those quick minutes that I realized life was not untouchable and that everything can change in a matter of seconds.
Everyday I find myself faced with the opportunity to learn something new, gain wisdom, teach a lesson, show someone compassion. Everyday I am on the precipice of a divide - which way will the water flow? Which direction will my choices lead me? What sort of person will I become as a result of this divide?
Growing up I remember thinking if this person isn't in my life forever I don't know what I'll do and then I grew up some more and in some instances, those people weren't a part of my life anymore, and it was sad and it was hard and I still don't always understand it, but if those people hadn't made an exit, the divide would have gone a different way and I wouldn't be who I am in this moment.
Change scares me - I am not one to shy away from admitting that, but in the past year and a half I have realized that if change didn't occur, if divides did not transpire, then I would be this stagnant version of myself in my life; I wouldn't have the friends I have now, I wouldn't have the beliefs that make me who I am, I wouldn't be the type of friend, daughter, sister, or mentor that the people around me have come to expect.
As I type this there is a continental divide moving one body of water into two and there are moments looming in my future that will both make me and break me. But that's the beauty of it, right? If nothing changed, if nothing transformed, if nothing was broken - there would be no growth, there would be no revelation, there would be no healing.
The Continental Divide. The Great Divide. These moments of tragedy, of trial, of devastation - they diverge into greatness. How these moments divide us? It's our choice.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Where I Come From
In a world that is consistently going, going, gone it is difficult to remember the blessings we've been given, the chances we've been afforded, the gifts of life that couldn't possibly come wrapped in a bow. Now, more than ever, I am counting my blessings, thanking Him regularly for what I've been undeservedly bestowed, and smiling at the fortune I receive on a daily basis in the form of seven year old babies that just want to read to me, of family members that not only plant, but water my dreams and ambitions, and of friendships that haven't been going on since birth, but that I hope to last for eternity.
It is on clear days like today, when the wind blows and causes my hair to tickle my face, when the sun shines so bright and warm you're almost tricked into thinking winter isn't looming down the street and around the corner, when the sky is so blue you have to search for those clouds making the magic X that I am most grateful, most eternally thankful, and most proud to be in the family I am in. I've written a lot about my family and I don't see the end of that anywhere in sight - they're my roots, my history, my backbone, and my heart. So on days like today, when it's bright and blue and there's the perfect amount of chill I remember this man named Max Duff - how he slapped his knees when he thought something was really funny, how, when he was serious, he straightened his hand out and pointed it at you and said, "now, God damnit!," how blue and white railroad striped overalls were his signature look, along with high lighters and a pocket watch, and how his heart and its giving nature could never have possibly be measured by any weight, time, or space.
It is on clear days like today that I am sure that where I am going is only happening because of where I've been, that being a Duff will never be something I am ashamed, afraid, or scared to admit, that the 6th of October has to be the most beautiful, vibrant day of the year because it honors the life of the most beautiful, vibrant man of my existence.
It's been eight years, Grandpy . . . I sure do hope you're proud to call me yours.
It is on clear days like today, when the wind blows and causes my hair to tickle my face, when the sun shines so bright and warm you're almost tricked into thinking winter isn't looming down the street and around the corner, when the sky is so blue you have to search for those clouds making the magic X that I am most grateful, most eternally thankful, and most proud to be in the family I am in. I've written a lot about my family and I don't see the end of that anywhere in sight - they're my roots, my history, my backbone, and my heart. So on days like today, when it's bright and blue and there's the perfect amount of chill I remember this man named Max Duff - how he slapped his knees when he thought something was really funny, how, when he was serious, he straightened his hand out and pointed it at you and said, "now, God damnit!," how blue and white railroad striped overalls were his signature look, along with high lighters and a pocket watch, and how his heart and its giving nature could never have possibly be measured by any weight, time, or space.
It is on clear days like today that I am sure that where I am going is only happening because of where I've been, that being a Duff will never be something I am ashamed, afraid, or scared to admit, that the 6th of October has to be the most beautiful, vibrant day of the year because it honors the life of the most beautiful, vibrant man of my existence.
It's been eight years, Grandpy . . . I sure do hope you're proud to call me yours.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Quarter Life Crisis
For approximately the last six months I have been thinking about the ways in which I would have my quarter-life crisis; I have considered what I might wear for this impending event - how I might style my hair; whether or not to wear jewelry (clearly pearls are the only option if I decide that, yes, jewels are necessary); if mascara might be a good or bad idea for this particular occasion.
In the last week I started to warn the people I love; it went something like this. "As you may know, my birthday is looming; I have a quarter-life crisis scheduled for 9 AM on my birth morning . . . chances are you may hear me from wherever you are. You have been warned." For those of you who may know me well, you realize I am only half joking about this; for those of you who know me well, you realize that I sometimes worry a little. And by sometimes, I mean always, and by a little, I mean a lot; large, hovering, scary, gargantuan amounts of lot.
So here I am, sitting before this screen, typing to you and being a whole hour into my 25th year. Could you hear me from wherever you were today? Any sobbing, screaming, panicking mumblings over your current jam on the radio? No? I know, I'm ridiculously shocked by this revelation as well.
Here I am, a whole hour into my 25th year and, for the most part, I am smitten. Don't ask me who "he" is, because there isn't a he; I am smitten with my life.
In June I graduated from Wright State University and let out one hurricane powered sigh of relief at finally being done with my undergraduate degree. Once that sigh of relief was released I did a rather impressive squat and re-situated the weight of the world upon my shoulders in order to find a job, and a good one, and get insurance, really good insurance, and move out, immediately. Of course, none of this happened in my time frame (*sigh*) and I dove even further into panic and self doubt; it was a beautiful time, folks.
With the 25th birthday looming and no job, insurance, or humble abode of my own in sight, I was flirty pretty handedly with being a hot mess. Then, depending on what your beliefs may be, my prayers were answered, a light was found at the end of one dark tunnel, and I found a freaking pot of gold at the end of that prismatic rainbow.
Into my first hour of my 25th year I am not only a Wright State University graduate; I am not just a waitress at Holly's Cafe & Carryout; I am not simply a 25 year old girl; I am all of those things PLUS a mentor service coordinator for East End Community Services through AmeriCorps and I start on September 4th. Also? I am FREAKING ECSTATIC!
Looking back now on all the times I was panicking over turning 25 and not having a "big girl" job, not having a steady boyfriend, not having the funds to live on my own I realize how trivial I was truly being. There is a plan for me and, although I don't always like it, it's not always (read never) on my time; only His.
So I sit here before you - 25, future employee of AmeriCorps, current employee of Holly's Cafe & Carryout, single, and feeling more loved and blessed than I've ever felt in my life.
That quarter life crisis? I made it my bitch - and I'm smiling about it.
-Stephi D.
In the last week I started to warn the people I love; it went something like this. "As you may know, my birthday is looming; I have a quarter-life crisis scheduled for 9 AM on my birth morning . . . chances are you may hear me from wherever you are. You have been warned." For those of you who may know me well, you realize I am only half joking about this; for those of you who know me well, you realize that I sometimes worry a little. And by sometimes, I mean always, and by a little, I mean a lot; large, hovering, scary, gargantuan amounts of lot.
So here I am, sitting before this screen, typing to you and being a whole hour into my 25th year. Could you hear me from wherever you were today? Any sobbing, screaming, panicking mumblings over your current jam on the radio? No? I know, I'm ridiculously shocked by this revelation as well.
Here I am, a whole hour into my 25th year and, for the most part, I am smitten. Don't ask me who "he" is, because there isn't a he; I am smitten with my life.
In June I graduated from Wright State University and let out one hurricane powered sigh of relief at finally being done with my undergraduate degree. Once that sigh of relief was released I did a rather impressive squat and re-situated the weight of the world upon my shoulders in order to find a job, and a good one, and get insurance, really good insurance, and move out, immediately. Of course, none of this happened in my time frame (*sigh*) and I dove even further into panic and self doubt; it was a beautiful time, folks.
With the 25th birthday looming and no job, insurance, or humble abode of my own in sight, I was flirty pretty handedly with being a hot mess. Then, depending on what your beliefs may be, my prayers were answered, a light was found at the end of one dark tunnel, and I found a freaking pot of gold at the end of that prismatic rainbow.
Into my first hour of my 25th year I am not only a Wright State University graduate; I am not just a waitress at Holly's Cafe & Carryout; I am not simply a 25 year old girl; I am all of those things PLUS a mentor service coordinator for East End Community Services through AmeriCorps and I start on September 4th. Also? I am FREAKING ECSTATIC!
Looking back now on all the times I was panicking over turning 25 and not having a "big girl" job, not having a steady boyfriend, not having the funds to live on my own I realize how trivial I was truly being. There is a plan for me and, although I don't always like it, it's not always (read never) on my time; only His.
So I sit here before you - 25, future employee of AmeriCorps, current employee of Holly's Cafe & Carryout, single, and feeling more loved and blessed than I've ever felt in my life.
That quarter life crisis? I made it my bitch - and I'm smiling about it.
-Stephi D.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
A Love Letter to My Body
After reading a fellow blogger and former classmate's blog earlier today, and taking a note from her, I've decided to write a love letter to my body. Jade was a graduate student in my Creative Non-Fiction class and she did a presentation on writing your body and I really gained a lot of inspiration from her as a writer. It's something I've been working on - writing my body - and it is much harder than it first appeared; it is, however, a wonderful practice in finding beauty and peace where I didn't first expect to see it. Please feel free to check out Jade's blog here. I, like Jade, have decided to contribute my letter to the SheLoves synchroblog, A Love Letter to My Body. I also would encourage anyone interested to check out Lucy Grealy's book Autobiography of a Face for an exceptional example of writing the body; to read a preview of the book check this out.
So here is my love letter - I hope y'all send yourselves some love, too.
To my weathered canvas:
I have hated you - I have hated the white lines squiggling in precarious places when the summer sun turns most of you golden.
I have painted you - I have painted you in morning regimes of lotion, in inks of various colors, in bite marks from forgotten faces.
I have mistreated the cover you provide me with. I have abhorred you, I have detested the ways in which you shake and curve in unsavory ways.
I have refused to see you in anyway.
I have refused.
To my curvaceous, unseemly flesh:
I have tried to cover you, to contort you, to convert you.
I've picked you apart in the face of a mirror, I've wished for different skin, I've overlooked what you may bring to the world, what you may reveal to me.
I've overlooked.
To the parts that make the whole:
The bad-mouthing began at a green age, the disdain not far behind.
But here we are -
After bumps in the road, after cracks in our surfaces, after tromping of certain organs:
Breathing, smiling, living.
I don't refuse so much,
I've overlooked less often.
I see acceptance in the horizon, instead of the rear view.
I whisper (okay) not (you can't)
Acceptance . . . okay, okay, okay.
So here is my love letter - I hope y'all send yourselves some love, too.
To my weathered canvas:
I have hated you - I have hated the white lines squiggling in precarious places when the summer sun turns most of you golden.
I have painted you - I have painted you in morning regimes of lotion, in inks of various colors, in bite marks from forgotten faces.
I have mistreated the cover you provide me with. I have abhorred you, I have detested the ways in which you shake and curve in unsavory ways.
I have refused to see you in anyway.
I have refused.
To my curvaceous, unseemly flesh:
I have tried to cover you, to contort you, to convert you.
I've picked you apart in the face of a mirror, I've wished for different skin, I've overlooked what you may bring to the world, what you may reveal to me.
I've overlooked.
To the parts that make the whole:
The bad-mouthing began at a green age, the disdain not far behind.
But here we are -
After bumps in the road, after cracks in our surfaces, after tromping of certain organs:
Breathing, smiling, living.
I don't refuse so much,
I've overlooked less often.
I see acceptance in the horizon, instead of the rear view.
I whisper (okay) not (you can't)
Acceptance . . . okay, okay, okay.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Labeled As Is
Her big, brown eyes grew wide as she whispered her confession across the art gallery.
"I don't really like this sort of thing - I find it kind of boring."
I didn't share my mom's sentiment, but this tiny art gallery in the throbbing metropolis of Troy hadn't really clasped my heart strings the way galleries usually do. It was a warm, clear day - we had stopped in - my grandma, Aunt Rita, cousin Jon, mom, and I - to see a painting of the barn on my grandparents' property. The painting was pretty; it captured perfectly the landscape that had come to define my childhood.
The towering, red barn had once housed squirming, squealing piglets, but now stood before the blue sky and green grass empty of breathing vessels, but filled with two generations of childhood memories. It was in this barn that my brown-eyed brother wore his first miniature Carhartt uniform; where he first grew those roots of becoming a country boy to his core. It was outside this barn that I fell in the affectionately coined 'poop pit.'
I was wearing new shoes and had stopped by grandma's with my mom; when you walked back behind this specific barn there was, what appeared to be, a small brown puddle right in front of the fencing. It was very innocent looking, as far as poop pits go, but if you had the misfortune of stepping into the murky puddle you were instantly made to feel as though you were trapped in quicksand. My new shoes never recovered from the pit of quicksand. Today one can go back in search of it, but they will only find dried clumps of poop. My new shoes sat in the door of the garage for some time, never again to see the light of day while on my feet.
The painting didn't give the audience any history of that depth; it wasn't able to whisper the childhood secrets to admiring strangers, either. It was merely a colorful and well-painted portrait of a barn that will only ever belong to my family. We had come to see the barn painting and now that we had I moved toward the back of the gallery. It was on a clear day with sadness in my heart, over impending goodbyes, when I first saw the large piece hanging on that back wall.
Harry Ally's Figure with Flowers #2 hung on the back wall of the small gallery - it is a physical dress molded to a canvas; it has tones of green and creme and turquoise and has sporadically placed pink carnations around the dress. My breath was stolen from my body as I looked on at this art piece. My mom and I stepped closer to further examine it and I immediately felt like Maggie Gyllenhall's character in Mona Lisa Smile looking over a large, paint covered canvas. As we walked away I looked back at it one last time and my mom whispered, with tears in her eyes, "Do you feel like a dress hanging alone?"
In a moment of complete honesty I will admit that drawing is something I've always wished was in my arsenal of talents. "Artist" is a term I've long come to understand will not be one to define me. Going into art aisles at the local Hobby Lobby and JoAnn Fabrics found me lusting after sketch pads and colored pencils that would only be filled with different colored cubes and oddly shaped daisies, if in my possession. I hesitate at labeling myself much outside of the familial or emotional relationships I occupy. I have been creatively writing since I was twelve years old and yet when people ask what it is I do waitress always comes to mind, never writer. It has become clear I have my "W's" all wrong.
In 1987 I became a daughter; a green eyed brunette emergency C-section. Daughter hood has been an interesting ride; my temperament is similar to my father's, which has proven to complicate even the most civil situations. While tumultuous situations have reigned supreme with my hot-tempered pop and I, my mother has been the single fighting force behind every right move I've ever made.
In 1990 I become a sister to my polar opposite. I think it's likely a universal truth that with initial birth of a younger sibling, the older sibling becomes elated and goes into overdrive on helpfulness to the parents; this was accurate for Zachary and I, but it promptly ended when I realized he was better looking than me and was easier in mannerisms and temperament, as well.
In January of 2003 that all changed; our family suffered a great loss when our fifteen year old blood relative was killed in a car accident. It was during the funeral service when Nick's sister got up and tearfully recounted memories of her brother; I was being given an opportunity and I wasn't going to let it pass me up. As I sat there listening to the brave hearts get up in front of the mourning crowd and share memories, I was having a quiet one of my own. Zachary and I were eight and five and at the mall with our saved allowances. In my selfish eight-year-old ways I was looking to buy for me - my brother, however, was also buying for me.
He got me a stuffed Winnie the Pooh bear. As I sat in the midst of rolling tears and repressed sobs it occurred to me that my baby brother had loved me all along. Since that day I have come to treasure my title of sister - it's become one of my most favored identifiers.
In a world filled with labels, with titles, with focus on the importance of a name I find myself both in search of my title and hiding in dark corners to avoid the title finding me. In Eat, Pray, Love Elizabeth Gilbert is in Italy and talking with friends over dinner about what "word" they are; each city has a word, each person has a word, and Elizabeth says, "Well, my word would be writer." A male friend responds, "That's what you do, not who you are."
Shortly after finishing this book I became obsessed with my "word." Simultaneously searching and hiding from that inevitable word, from that tempting title. What if I don't like the word I am? What if I don't like what my word might say about me, how it may or may not define me?
This society we live in insists upon branding, which seems to be producing a great need for definition in both our personal and professional lives. I am guilty of being in this category - I long for titles of writer, award winning author, lover, wife, successful. It becomes a question of at what length will I go to to fully embody these titles? At what point will one or two be enough or too much?
Going back to that art gallery and looking at the painting of a barn that helped me grow, looking at Ally's Figure with Flowers #2 it occurs to me that great things, great beings are not always initially deigned with a proper identifier. As "they" say - Rome wasn't built in one day and I've heard Jane Austen was a bigger success after she met her prize than before . . .
I step closer to the large, white canvas and look up at the thin straps of the bodiless figure before me. My mom's words come back to me : "Do you feel like a dress hanging alone?" Writer or waitress, writer or waitress? Sister, daughter, sister, daughter and just what is my word, Elizabeth Gilbert? I reach out to touch the canvas and then stop myself - leaving all as is.
Figure with Flowers #2
"I don't really like this sort of thing - I find it kind of boring."
I didn't share my mom's sentiment, but this tiny art gallery in the throbbing metropolis of Troy hadn't really clasped my heart strings the way galleries usually do. It was a warm, clear day - we had stopped in - my grandma, Aunt Rita, cousin Jon, mom, and I - to see a painting of the barn on my grandparents' property. The painting was pretty; it captured perfectly the landscape that had come to define my childhood.
The towering, red barn had once housed squirming, squealing piglets, but now stood before the blue sky and green grass empty of breathing vessels, but filled with two generations of childhood memories. It was in this barn that my brown-eyed brother wore his first miniature Carhartt uniform; where he first grew those roots of becoming a country boy to his core. It was outside this barn that I fell in the affectionately coined 'poop pit.'
I was wearing new shoes and had stopped by grandma's with my mom; when you walked back behind this specific barn there was, what appeared to be, a small brown puddle right in front of the fencing. It was very innocent looking, as far as poop pits go, but if you had the misfortune of stepping into the murky puddle you were instantly made to feel as though you were trapped in quicksand. My new shoes never recovered from the pit of quicksand. Today one can go back in search of it, but they will only find dried clumps of poop. My new shoes sat in the door of the garage for some time, never again to see the light of day while on my feet.
The painting didn't give the audience any history of that depth; it wasn't able to whisper the childhood secrets to admiring strangers, either. It was merely a colorful and well-painted portrait of a barn that will only ever belong to my family. We had come to see the barn painting and now that we had I moved toward the back of the gallery. It was on a clear day with sadness in my heart, over impending goodbyes, when I first saw the large piece hanging on that back wall.
Harry Ally's Figure with Flowers #2 hung on the back wall of the small gallery - it is a physical dress molded to a canvas; it has tones of green and creme and turquoise and has sporadically placed pink carnations around the dress. My breath was stolen from my body as I looked on at this art piece. My mom and I stepped closer to further examine it and I immediately felt like Maggie Gyllenhall's character in Mona Lisa Smile looking over a large, paint covered canvas. As we walked away I looked back at it one last time and my mom whispered, with tears in her eyes, "Do you feel like a dress hanging alone?"
In a moment of complete honesty I will admit that drawing is something I've always wished was in my arsenal of talents. "Artist" is a term I've long come to understand will not be one to define me. Going into art aisles at the local Hobby Lobby and JoAnn Fabrics found me lusting after sketch pads and colored pencils that would only be filled with different colored cubes and oddly shaped daisies, if in my possession. I hesitate at labeling myself much outside of the familial or emotional relationships I occupy. I have been creatively writing since I was twelve years old and yet when people ask what it is I do waitress always comes to mind, never writer. It has become clear I have my "W's" all wrong.
In 1987 I became a daughter; a green eyed brunette emergency C-section. Daughter hood has been an interesting ride; my temperament is similar to my father's, which has proven to complicate even the most civil situations. While tumultuous situations have reigned supreme with my hot-tempered pop and I, my mother has been the single fighting force behind every right move I've ever made.
In 1990 I become a sister to my polar opposite. I think it's likely a universal truth that with initial birth of a younger sibling, the older sibling becomes elated and goes into overdrive on helpfulness to the parents; this was accurate for Zachary and I, but it promptly ended when I realized he was better looking than me and was easier in mannerisms and temperament, as well.
In January of 2003 that all changed; our family suffered a great loss when our fifteen year old blood relative was killed in a car accident. It was during the funeral service when Nick's sister got up and tearfully recounted memories of her brother; I was being given an opportunity and I wasn't going to let it pass me up. As I sat there listening to the brave hearts get up in front of the mourning crowd and share memories, I was having a quiet one of my own. Zachary and I were eight and five and at the mall with our saved allowances. In my selfish eight-year-old ways I was looking to buy for me - my brother, however, was also buying for me.
He got me a stuffed Winnie the Pooh bear. As I sat in the midst of rolling tears and repressed sobs it occurred to me that my baby brother had loved me all along. Since that day I have come to treasure my title of sister - it's become one of my most favored identifiers.
In a world filled with labels, with titles, with focus on the importance of a name I find myself both in search of my title and hiding in dark corners to avoid the title finding me. In Eat, Pray, Love Elizabeth Gilbert is in Italy and talking with friends over dinner about what "word" they are; each city has a word, each person has a word, and Elizabeth says, "Well, my word would be writer." A male friend responds, "That's what you do, not who you are."
Shortly after finishing this book I became obsessed with my "word." Simultaneously searching and hiding from that inevitable word, from that tempting title. What if I don't like the word I am? What if I don't like what my word might say about me, how it may or may not define me?
This society we live in insists upon branding, which seems to be producing a great need for definition in both our personal and professional lives. I am guilty of being in this category - I long for titles of writer, award winning author, lover, wife, successful. It becomes a question of at what length will I go to to fully embody these titles? At what point will one or two be enough or too much?
Going back to that art gallery and looking at the painting of a barn that helped me grow, looking at Ally's Figure with Flowers #2 it occurs to me that great things, great beings are not always initially deigned with a proper identifier. As "they" say - Rome wasn't built in one day and I've heard Jane Austen was a bigger success after she met her prize than before . . .
I step closer to the large, white canvas and look up at the thin straps of the bodiless figure before me. My mom's words come back to me : "Do you feel like a dress hanging alone?" Writer or waitress, writer or waitress? Sister, daughter, sister, daughter and just what is my word, Elizabeth Gilbert? I reach out to touch the canvas and then stop myself - leaving all as is.
Figure with Flowers #2
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)