Thursday, June 12, 2008

I Don't Know How I Feel


I often don't know what I think about an issue until I write about it. This may be why I write so much, I am just used to going on and on as I uncover my own thoughts. I have over sixty full journals where I have self reflected and worked out issues and outlined my true desires. Writing is a great tool, and a vital one for me, to help the thought processes.

But something just occurred to me yesterday... I may write to learn about what I think, but I often do not know how I FEEL until I paint.

This is an interesting discovery. I have been both writing and drawing as long as I can remember. They feel like normal outlets of my brain. Over the last few years, years that not coincidentally coincided with pregnancies and raising infants, those parts of myself have silenced quite a bit.

No wonder I have had a hard time moving, not just through the day, but through my life. Because it's like I have had blinders on. How do I feel about all of this???

I don't know! I haven't been painting!!!

I suppose poetry could also serve the same purpose, since it is kind of like painting with words, but I haven't been writing poetry, either.

I tell you, it's about time for a Renaissance, even if it seems as if I only have time for fifteen minutes of creativity at a time. Even if the kids are pulling at my ankles and there is, in fact, a little baby trying to get up on my lap as I type. Is making dinner and doing laundry and sweeping the floor (again!) really an excuse for half living?

I don't know how I will achieve this rebirth, because all of my old techniques to pull myself up by my bootstraps entail vast amounts of time to myself, a journal, art supplies, lots of coffee, a bit of wine and a seat at some cafe with a moody view out the window of a bustling city street.

How will I manage it now? My tools at hand consist of a toddler and a preschooler, mounds of scattered cheerios, cartoons, my uncle's computer, a neglected journal, and art supplies that have sadly, and rather symbolically, all dried out.

Well. In the mean time, let me show you a painting that I started in my journal. It is how I feel. The word is "aglow" but I am not sure if those are tentacles or vines growing into the picture. They feel ominous, but maybe they will blossom with the light and with time... I don't know.

Maybe by the time I finish the painting, I will know.

6 comments:

Sugar said...

"Is making dinner and doing laundry and sweeping the floor (again!) really an excuse for half living?"

I LOVE THAT! That's such a good question to ask! The painting is beutiful. I love the colors and the growing leaves springing up to reach the sky.

If you get a chance, I'd love to hear your thoughts about getting your joy back. I only ask because it's sort of in line with your post here. http://asksugarjones.blogspot.com/

I wish you were going to BlogHer... it would be so neat to meet you!

Sugar said...

And please excuse the typo... I meant "beautiful" YIKES!

Mama Zen said...

It's all too easy to just lose yourself, isn't it?

Natasha said...

When did you paint the beautiful leaf or tentacle on the left side of the page? It has such a different feel from the others...it's more lucid, less ominous...there is something hopeful about it

Rowena said...

natasha, I painted it all in one sitting. I meant it to be a kind of transformation of the tentacles on the right, as if it was about to become a flowering vine or something.

It was conscious. Sometimes it takes that part of my head that makes art to get perspective on the living.

And Sugar, I am in a constant state of getting my joy back-- like mama zen said, it really is easy to lose yourself. I work so hard on it. Listing my joyful things is one of the big ones.
wg

D'Arcy said...

absolutely beautiful. i love it. it's reflective, peaceful, searching, and harmonious. The colors just work. everything works.

I went and bought watercolor paper today. I'll be putting the acrylics aside for awhile to concentrate on lighter, softer peaces.


art is art is art is me.

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