When I was young, I used to paint. When I say young, I mean that I started painting when I was two years old- with real, honest-to-god paint. There are mothers out there that I'm pretty sure can feel their uterus turn over and their pocketbook quiver at this idea. But I was good- I never painted on anything that wasn't paper. Not even once.
When I was a little younger than two, I discovered the Magna-Doodle in a Wal-Mart in Las Vegas. I started drawing clowns- big floppy shoes, big curly hair, pom-poms down their suits. It was a good picture in that an art professor from UNLV told my mother that she should get me into art lessons as soon as possible because I had a natural talent.
Fast forward 20-odd years. I don't paint anymore. I don't work with pastels, chalks, pens, or pencils. I don't make jewelry, clothes, pottery, crochet, make sand art, or refurbish furniture anymore. Sometimes I think it's a shame, because I was good. Mom enrolled me in every school she could find that had an excellent art department, paid for me to have extra lessons. I feel bad because I feel like I wasted her money. She always wanted me to go to art school. I chose to be a scientist. Is it the plight of all daughters to become what their mothers never anticipated?
I've decided that from now on I do a piece of art each week. I'll start small and work my way up. I remember I quit doing art when I was burned out. Maybe this will get me back into it. Sometimes it's good to revisit who you once were. In one year, I was entered into 23 art shows- and I placed in all of them. I remember my soul felt better then. I was happier, I was more peaceful. It's time to be there again.