Hello! Welcome to a Guest Post written by one of my sisters; Daphne! Daphne has grown into a beautiful woman and I am so glad to have reconnected with her these last few years. We grew up in the same house, but walked away from it with very different perspectives. Below are her words and her images.
...But there was a time when I didn't seem to be.
My 'Creative History' starts, in my memory, with me loving crafts.
I remember the joy of finishing a craft book. I remember the joy of getting a new one. I remember getting maybe a quarter through it.
And then something terrible happened.
I'm not being dramatic.
There was a page with two Thanksgiving pilgrims. A boy and a girl, naturally. I proudly finished them.
I was so happy
I remember the feelings I felt.
They were perfect. Oh, they were perfect just the way they were! And then my mom suggested adding hair to the girl. I wanted her to explain. But instead of explaining she just did it – she ruined that girl. She drew half a line, and my spirit was crushed.
I remember the instant inner pain my heart felt. I remember crying “NO!” as tears spurted from my eyes.
My mom apologized, she comforted me.
But the damage was irreversible.
Looking back, it was then that something deep inside was destroyed.
Do I blame my mom? No. It was foolish of her, but I harbour no ill will toward her from that event. As a parent myself now, I know you make mistakes sometimes. Sometimes you don't understand your own child's feelings or passions. It was a simple mistake.
But it destroyed me.
I remember sadly finishing the hair on the girl, because it couldn't be left incomplete, which would have been uglier than having my mom's idea of hair on her.
The pilgrims were posted on my bedroom wall as all my other crafts were.
But I remember only feeling deep sadness every time I looked at that boy and girl. And I remember feeling guilty for hating them. It wasn't their fault.
I never did a craft again unless I had to. And I hated them. One I cared about, but a girl ignorantly ruined it, too. And, like the damaged pilgrims, that hurt me. When I did art, it was nothing more than a copy of my instructor's – and usually this was my mom's.
My creativity was dead.
...Looking back, though, it never really died.
Through my teen years in particular, my creativity shifted outlets and showed itself through music. That, and journalling, I suspect may have been big contributors to saving my life during those dark years, actually. But that's another story.
When I began working in an early childhood centre after I married, this memory of my mom alternating – ruining – my work was something I had to work through, as arts and crafts are a must when you work with children.
And since then, since then...
My creativity has slowly, carefully, taken flight.
It continues to gain confidence and strength as I continue in my field of work, in particular. And as time and space allow, it soars on strong winds at home, too.
Today I bought a unique variation of an adult colouring book. It contains space for colouring, drawing, ideas, notes, quotes, and is anti-stress. On the second page is written:
“This notebook will inspire you to colour, write, doodle and draw. There are quotes to ponder and plenty of blank spaces for you to fill in any way you wish.”Art Therapy an Inspiration Notebook
I am so excited about it. Something was broken long ago. For years it lay dormant. And I cannot bring those years back. But my creativity is part of me – always was, always will be – and I'm excited to let it fly now.
I'm thankful for the opportunities I have in my life that do nothing but provide the perfect wind that I may just rise more and more in this area.
God did that. Maybe He always knew I'd be an early childhood educator. He knew he'd give me a husband who would facilitate my creativity, a piano, my house, and upcoming space in my basement being dedicated solely to my crafts.
God knew – knows – the hurt my young heart felt when I was a small girl.
And it is exactly why I am such a stickler and so protective of children's art now. Names are preferably written on the backside of a child's art piece even before they begin. If a child insists on help, I do hand-over-hand. This is because the second I touch their art work and alternate their canvas in any way, it is no longer theirs.
And it is not for anyone to take away or ruin another's art work.
I'm a lifestyle blogger, covering deep subjects including body images, battles with food, and overcoming how I was raised. I try to be as authentic as possible and I don’t sugar coat how I see things.