I have spent a lot of money over the years on mindless adult coloring books. I have tiny lines books and ones with super intricate pictures all in black and white begging to be splashed with color. I have gorgeous color pencils, really expensive sets of chalk and oil crayons and countless gel pen sets. I have recently invested in water color pallets and stacks of paper. I have multiples glass trays for mixing and brushes in every type. I love art.
But I have a love/ hate relationship with lines.
I get paralyzed with indecision on the adult books. If I actually put pen to paper I am bestowed with regret over my choices and often incapable of moving forward and I have yet to finish anything. I can’t look at the image and see it complete- I see wrong choices. I see failure.
Something so unimportant and supposedly relaxing is decidedly not.
This weekend among the clearance rack at TJmaxx I found a reverse book- this one was full of color pictures without any line details. It was a lot of blobs and some fuzzy flowers- all I had to do was outline the images in black pen. Easy.
But on my first page I drew too thick and the flow wasn’t what was in my head. I wanted to rip it up. I felt tears bubble inside and I thought, wow, I really hate lines.
As I drove the 7 hours home from this trip that took me deep into the mountains I zoned out over the lines of the road and the flow of the sky so perfectly out in front of me- this stark contrasts of lines and order brought me this inner peace I had been searching for. Maybe I love lines after all.
It’s this sense of order and line composition that I covet. But I have had to adapt.
When my stitches go off the side when sewing, or when the shoes get tossed into a large unkempt pile from my three grown kids, I have to breathe through it. And I realize it’s not really any of it, but the greater picture; sense of control. Lines keep us in place, tidy, clean. Orderly.
Yet, when I look across the stage of 40 beautiful ballerinas all lined up perfectly poised with arms in the air and I get to her all leaned to one side, asymmetrically wedged between two girls I get a disorderly feeling and feel a flush rise up my neck.
Turns out I may be biased.
Like everyone, sometimes we all have to dig deep past our own issues to survive this great life. Nothing pleases me more than watching my daughter dance- and she loves to dance. And when she is lopsided or uneven she is more beautiful and carefree than I ever hope to be. It’s my low grade undiagnosed OCD that keeps me stagnant. Paralyzed.
In addition to the reverse book I also bought a water color kit that had splotches of dried paint at the bottom that you have to smudge your water filled brush over to swipe on the paper of a black and white image. It took some effort to release the color from the splotch and to the paper. And water ran down the image. But instead of freezing up I watched the drip roll into a beautiful image that was appearing before me fluid, almost defiant of the lines. And finally I felt calm.
I have thought the lines keep me in place, but I actually think that I cannot achieve order when it’s imperfect. And we are all imperfect. Just some of us can dance around it all like a middle finger to the rigidity of it.
If that’s what I can see then can I let go of this albatross that holds me back? Maybe. Only time will tell.
But in the meantime I think I found my calm. And I get to watch her tiptoe so delicately in first position, second position and so on like a feather in the wind, with order and complete freedom I can only hope to learn from.
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