Art Therapy

I’ve always been a writer. Actually, it would be more accurate to say I’ve always been a reader. From Bunnicula the Vampire Bunny who sucked the juices from garden vegetables, to the Babysitters Club series, to Jane Austen and C. S. Lewis, Anna Karenina, and lowbrow murder mysteries, I have always gotten lost in books. And the books taught me how to write. And the writing is both a means of catharsis, and a way of connecting.

But this season of life has left me largely tongue-tied – wanting to speak, but needing to respect the privacy of the other players in my life. Wanting to process things “out loud” but being afraid of making them more real. Looking so many of life’s biggest questions in the eye, but still needing to flinch and turn away sometimes. And if I write it, I’m looking right at it.

To skirt the edges, I can say: my kids have not been getting what they need. I love this town with all my heart, but it’s a difficult place to raise a family and meet the needs of all ages from 2 to 86. My attention and energy is so divided, basically landing on whichever person is having the most urgent crisis. At the moment, after everyone going through yet another round of flu/cold/who knows what, it’s all the same and awful, my dad has landed in the hospital. He seemed to be recovering well, sat down and ate dinner Tuesday night, then couldn’t stand up. That’s always the way it goes with him, and consequently every tiny illness is a nailbiter. Hospital stays always wreak havoc on dementia patients, so between that and the meds he needs to keep his agitation at bay, he has no idea what’s happening around him. When I saw him yesterday, it made no difference to him that I came, and he had no desire to go home simply because he didn’t know where he was, or that he wasn’t already there. I didn’t cry about it until the middle of the night.

I can’t dwell on that, though, because in the daylight hours, Cosmo is falling off his chair for no reason and hitting his head; Miranda needs a dress to go with her friend to prom and there are no stores within 2 hours of here; Evelyn is crying because her online school website isn’t logging in her time properly; Steven has lost his phone charger and his phone is dead; and one of the dogs is making gagging noises.

But in the midst of all these things going on, the Lord reminded me that I love art. Being creative makes me happy and looking at happy art makes me happy.

I reconnected with a friend in Florida who learned to paint during the initial covid pandemic, and now at 74, she is gaining tremendous acclaim for her impressionist oil paintings. When I mentioned I had always wanted to learn oils, she offered to teach me. And this was the beginning of a journey, at one of the mist challenging and preoccupying times in my life, to do something on my bucket list. Something I have longed to try for decades but I’ve never taken the first step. I’ve not even used watercolor paints since kindergarten, let alone opened a brand new tube of Winsor & Newton Griffin Alkyd oil paint. I was quite terrified.

My first painting started out like this. It looked like something Cosmo could have just about drawn in crayons.

But after a couple of days of off-and-on work and following instructions, it became this.

It was such an obvious yet profound spiritual lesson to see the painfully amateur brushstrokes transform into something vibrant, layered, interesting, and beautiful. I was right there mixing the paint colors and dabbing them onto the canvas, and yet I could not tell you how or when it became a rich, red apple. It seemed to create itself.

I lost myself in the colors and smells and textures of the process. I thought of nothing else but what was right there in front of me. And what was right in front of me was beautiful. It was sparkling with light.

So friends, you may not see too many words from me right now. But you may see more art. I hope it can speak to me and for me in a new way.

And for those of you who are interested, my friend’s paintings can be seen at www.cindyzeigler.com.