UNSURE

A few weeks ago I signed for a screen printing class. It was just one session, a couple hours one evening to get familiar with a brand new studio that opened in the neighborhood. Upon registering, I received an email about our pre-class assignment. Create an image for a "thank you" card and email it to the instructor. Easy enough, right?

Well, when I sat down and opened my sketchbook, I promptly froze. How do I make ONE thank you card? Because this obviously has to be the best-thank-you-card-ever. One image. One shot to get it right. This was my one chance to overcome all of the ugly thank you cards I had seen in stores and thought, "Oh I could do better." The pressure sent me into a panic, and I ended up closing my sketchbook.

The next morning, my shame of not turning in an assignment (the horror!) triumphed over my panic. I quickly wrote three thank-you's, declared myself the least creative person ever and emailed it along. I wanted to hide my wobbly handwritten "thank you's" as class began, while undoubtedly everyone else's design were more interesting than mine.

But eventually I forgot about them. I loved being back in a studio environment, setting up my station, lining up the paper, pulling the ink through the screen and revealing the results. I experimented with different techniques and remembered why I had signed up in the first place, just to create for fun.

The design was the smallest piece, and I had almost let it stop me from creating at all. I had mistaken being UNSURE as a negative roadblock, instead of a critical part of a positive process. The evening was a great reminder that pushing through the resistance is the best way to ensure it is not a permanent state. What lies on the other side of being UNSURE is the good stuff in life.

UNPERFECT*

I could see the yellow in my mind. It covered the walls of the room where I studied abroad in Copenhagen. I would say bedroom, but in reality I ate, slept, drank, studied, cried, laughed all within one room. Time and memory have probably altered it, but my yellow is still clear as day in my mind.

So when I decided to replicate the yellow on a wall in my house, it seemed like quite a task. How would I know if I got it right? Who would verify it? What if my yellow isn't made by the paint companies? Can they color match something that doesn't physically exist?

I knew if I brought home paint swatches or even worse, those tiny sample cans of paint, it would all be derailed. I'd create a rainbow of yellows on a patch of wall and analyze them into oblivion. No, I went to the store, looked at the choices and saw the yellow. Or maybe it wasn't, but now it is on the wall and it is my yellow once again.

*My inner perfectionist made me add this note to say I know this is not a real word. The rest of me is telling her to shush for once.

UNCEREMONIOUSLY

Free of pomp and circumstance,

void of a Big Announcement,

purposefully lacking any strategy,

other than joy.

When I saw this sunrise, I remember thinking what a shame it was that everyone else in the beach house was still asleep and missing these gorgeous colors. But then I realized the sun didn't care, so why should I? The sun was just doing it's thing UNCEREMONIOUSLY, and I felt lucky to just be standing there. 

Like a loose string that’s been poking out of my sweater, this idea of the UNSUNG has been stubbornly hanging around my brain for over a year. It’s time to finally pull on that string and see where it leads. I had a tough time getting this first post out into the world. The paralysis of perfectionism is a familiar feeling, whether it means a blank canvas, a fresh square of clay, or a bright white computer screen. 

One story that my sculpture professor in college told has stuck in my mind and helped me break through the terror of beginning on my occasions. My professor was in the midst of potty training his young son, when the boy finally pooped in the toilet for the first time. His son was so proud of himself, and he and his father cheered in celebration. But when his dad told him to flush the toilet, the boy cried and cried. He had finally done it, why would he get rid of it only to start again? After this story, I often think about my professor's answer: If you can do it once, you can do it again and probably even better next time.  

Well now that we’ve started things off with a toilet story, things can only go up from here. Here's to hoping I can do it better next time.