I'm not Painter

(or, proud of myself)

When the envelope arrived, I didn’t tell anyone. It was a standard-sized envelope from the University of Maryland, which meant, as far as I was concerned, one thing: rejection.

Once I finally ripped it open and saw the first words, “We’re sorry...,” I knew I was right. I was devastated. Furious too. Furious enough to call the admissions office and ask, essentially, how they could have made such an obvious mistake.

I was sure they wanted me.

They didn’t.

I remember feeling certain that this meant I would never get out of my hometown, which was dramatic considering I had applied to two other schools and had not heard back yet. Still, that is how rejection works when identity gets involved. It does not stay contained. It spreads.

Maybe Maryland’s no is what pushed me to walk on to Sacred Heart’s Division I field hockey team. Maryland was elite. Once they passed, I gave up any fantasy of belonging anywhere near that program except in the stands. So I turned the rejection into a private training mission. If they were not going to tell me I was a field hockey player, I would prove it myself.

Turns out, I was.

That has been one of the central tensions of my life: what to do when the parts of me I most want confirmed are not fully in my control.

Lately, I have been trying to loosen my grip on that whole pattern. To stop approaching everything through the ache of exceeding expectations and instead show up without immediately ranking myself.

This is almost impossible for me to do with writing.

I identify too deeply as a writer and storyteller. Word choice matters to me. Tempo matters. Scene, point of view, rhythm, revision. I do not spill things out and call them done. Even these pieces are worked and reworked before I post them. That does not mean they are flawless. It means I care.

So when I tried to think of a creative practice I could enter without needing to be good at it, I got stuck. Then I remembered all the paint left over from when Briggs was little and I wanted him to experiment.

I am not a painter. I have never taken a class. I have not studied technique. I did not even have canvases, only a few hundred blank, cardboard-like cards that looked usable enough.

I also hate washing brushes. So I decided to use whatever I wanted: paper towels, my hands, aluminum foil, parchment paper, plastic bags, burned-down incense, plastic bottles.

Now I spend a few minutes most days painting small pictures. Some days, like yesterday, I make more than one.

It still feels unnatural not to judge what I have made. But in giving myself permission to do something that does not have to rank, or earn, or justify itself, I can feel something in me loosening.

I have beaten myself up for as long as I can remember. Now I put the paintings on the wall as soon as they are dry.

I am an artist. It has taken me 45 years to say that without negotiation.

I am proud of myself.

One of the daily pieces. Todd thought it was “dark,” I think it’s cheerful. What do you think?