I had the brilliant idea that I would stitch this beautiful design and frame it and give it to my friend Ellen who had encouraged me to spend the same amount of money on myself in the name of self-care as I was for self-harm. I imagined her crying and opening the lovely gift knowing all of the hours I didn't spend eating or drinking and it would be lovely and good for us both.
But then it took me 20 minutes to get the stupid fabric attached to the wheel the right way. Another 10 to thread the needle, and then I realized how much math and counting went into cross-stitching. I stupidly read some of the instructions and tips after I had started an outline of the jar and realized I was supposed to do that last.
"F*ck this!" I threw it on the floor that night exasperated and feeling foolish. How could I think something like cross-stitching was ever going to be my thing? Would anything bring me to life and vibrancy again? I felt like I was dying a slow and miserable death in the corner of my bedroom each night with a drink and a snack, until I finally felt sleepy enough to go to bed.
A few weeks later, I found myself at Hobby Lobby again with my boys, perusing the craft aisles waiting for something to speak to me. I was trying to not buy porcelain pumpkins or Christmas ornaments and found myself in the painting section surrounded my acrylics and oils, pastels and brushes, and blank canvases ready for art and beauty. Some watercolor pencils drew my attention and I remembered being in the seventh grade, sketching out designs with those pencils and watching it come to life with water and a brush. I wondered if I might be any good at it. What did I know about watercolors or painting or art for that matter?
I made my purchases that day of watercolors and watercolor pencils, a thick pad made for that kind of paint, and a few brushes I didn't know much about but that looked important. Pinterest offered ideas and tips for getting started, different techniques and some basics for beginners and I sat there in awe of others created beauties doubting I could ever create anything that beautiful. Comparison always there to steal joy and possibility and hope and it was there with me as I sat there with my unopened art supplies. I didn't get started right away. I was afraid it was going to end in a pile on my bedroom floor like my forsaken cross-stitching project and maybe it was better not to try again.
Two weeks later I sat at the Brave On conference for Red Tent Living and listened to my friend Libby speak about the heart and soul, how poetry has been her outlet for both pain and beauty. I was captivated at her words and remembering my untouched watercolors at home. I knew I needed to go home and try again. Maybe it would be a big mess and I would have no clue what I was doing, and it would like like a seventh grader's art work and I would find yet another place to speak harshly to myself rather than speak of care or kindness.
Finally, the day came when I felt brave enough to set up all my supplies and try my hand at watercolor for the first time in 24 years. I turned on some light piano music in the background and sat for a moment at the blank paper and colors that surrounded me. And then I began. Using some of the pencils and some of the brushes with my palette of water colors I began drawing out trees in the four seasons. The golds and reds of autumns, the bare branches of winter, the new life of spring and the vibrant green of summer.
With every stroke of color, I could literally feel something inside of me both settle and come to life at the same time. I realized how forgiving watercolor is. The whole point of it is to be a little messy and unfinished. There are few hard lines and little structure as the water and paints bleed and run into complete loveliness. I felt like a girl again, creating something beautiful for no reason other than because I could. As my trees took shape and color, I remembered that I am an artist. I may be a bookkeeper for a living, and be a little obsessive about meal-planning and scheduling our calendars, but I am an artist. My days might be full of work and mothering, and tending to a home that never stays tidy or clean, but I am an artist. I may have dreams that died long ago and part of me that died with them, but I'm still here and I am an artist.
My beauty and brokenness painted all over a page and I didn't want to stop. I called my piece Sunday Morning Worship because it felt like just that. Offering my heart up to God in both my praise and heartache, of thankfulness and longing. Remembering how good He is in every season, even if I forget that He is.
"Take your shame and your pain, and turn it into a freaking work of art." And I did just that. I plan to do it again.
How could you turn your shame and pain into a work of art?
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