I leave a hairbrush and box of cheerios in my car.
3 out of 5 work days require stop light primping, which has been reduced to wrestling hair back into a 4 day old bun while trying to get a fistful of cheerios into my mouth. I used all my sick days by October. I have worn a long swimsuit cover up as a dress at least twice this past month and have yet to open the hamper holding my weather appropriate clothing hostage. I have attempted to implement an 11 o' clock bedtime since September, yet still find myself waking up six minutes before I have to leave, and sorely disappointed that my morning cocktail of Synthroid and diet coke doesn't actually wake me up. I bought a blender and make a weekly Whole Foods trip to buy spinach, chia seeds, and pea protein, but can't bring myself to actually make, let alone drink a green smoothie. I obsess over the 2 teachers who have made it their life mission to put the art program on school improvement agendas and send me Pinterest suggestions. I find myself grappling with whether or not I should succumb to their incessant demands for George Washington stamp art in order to please them. But then I remember the last time I worked this hard for acceptance... I was 12... I compromised my curls in order to obtain the "Britney" falling victim to a flat iron's fiery jaws of hell. 6 inches of hair gone... Personal pedagogical beliefs and hair length are not to be reckoned with.
As I toe the line between hot mess and dedicated teacher, I rationalize I must be dedicated, seeing as I have compromised hygiene, nutrition and sleep in order to do this job. Whether or not I spend hours cursing students under my breath as I painstakingly remove the thumb tacks they hid in my sponges, or the fact that I call them "diva-snaps" to their faces is irrelevant....
As January is the month of personal inventory mixed with a touch of Seasonal Affective Disorder and hints of despair, I have spent a fair amount of time taking well lit selfies and wondering what I am doing with my life. Although in years past wearing swimsuit cover ups and unwashed hair for days might be evidence of my thriving in an artistic frenzy, this is not presently the case. I have gotten lost. Over the past few weeks I have reviewed all the usual resolutions women make in order to feel more like "themselves." Perhaps if I were to give up sugar...maybe if I exercised frequently...when I get more sleep...if I socialize more... As I reviewed the staples of the self care bible, I didn't find much more than myself sliding knee deep into a pit of shame and consumerism...
What part of me had I lost this year? As trite and perhaps nauseatingly sweet as it may be, I came to an inspirational meme like conclusion. In all my efforts to help young people realize their creative potential, I stopped creating, and more importantly I stopped listening. I might be a stick a gum drop up your nose, annoyingly idealistic, millennial gypsy, but, I wholeheartedly believe when you dedicate yourself to being a maker you are in touch with the divine. As I forsook my own need to do what I love, I couldn't hear where I needed to be or what I needed to do. I have spent many years researching, teaching and crusading for the transformative impact of making. Art changes people for a myriad of reasons. There is beautiful and astounding evidence to support the neurological, chemical, physiological and social benefit of being a creator. For me, above all, being a creator reminds me of a divine heritage. It reminds me I am made up of the molecules of majesty. It brings me closer to a loving God, giving me glorious glimpses of him and my infinite potential as a creator.
“You must write, and read, as if your life depended on it.” -Adrienne Rich
This year, I resolve to read, write, and make as though my life depended on it, for surely it does.
Beautiful. You are creating through this artfully written piece. Thanks for the inspiration.
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