The Seed That Grew an Artist

Welcome, friends! I’m excited that you’ve joined our community. I want to share a powerful memory with you, offering some insight into how I became the artist and person I am today—emerging from a pile of childhood inner struggles. Now hear me out.
I wasn’t always so emotionally integrated and often struggled with processing this existence. I have a very loving family and plenty of support, yet I frequently felt miserable inside. In fact, I wasn’t able to recognize the source of my continuous heartache until I lost my mother at 40. But that’s a story for another time.
Even with all my family, love, and support, I often felt alone and detached from others. I always felt like I didn’t belong in this body, like something was wrong. And I was right—this isn’t our natural state. I hear many people talk about having a spiritual experience on this earth, but I now recognize my discomfort comes from the opposite. I know, like I know, like I know, that I’m a spirit having a human experience. And it isn’t fair.
It’s not fair to be separated from the rest of the spirits in these limiting bodies. I somehow remember when we were all just ether—like liquid, pouring in and out of each other, no boundaries, no separateness. Alas, here we remain—humans, for now—separate and not just a little uncomfortable.
I didn’t understand this when I was young. I didn’t know we weren’t supposed to be separate and that’s why all of our existence is spent trying to reconnect. To re-member: to make whole again. This has been my journey. This has become my purpose: to bring us back together, even while we’re still in these physical forms, here on this physical Earth.
I can remember the day my life began to take shape and move towards being an artist. When I was young, Mom bought us a roll of butcher paper on a spool. My sisters and I loved to draw and paint, so this was often in use. One day I was painting on it, minding my own business, when Mom and Dad came into my room to talk to me. I had done something “wrong” and was in trouble. Looking back, they were trying to guide me, but I became quite upset.
I began painting faster and with colors that I would consider angry: reds and blacks and anything that looked and felt dark. I wasn't painting a picture; I was painting my feelings. I was annoyed, angry, and probably a little embarrassed. (I didn’t like to get in trouble. I mean, I was NEVER in trouble at school. Though I work hard to live life without shame, when I did something deemed "wrong," I certainly felt that hot poker of shame.) I was doing everything I could to get those feelings out of my body without getting into more trouble. I was always good at math but had learned early on that two wrongs don’t make a right.
Mom later told me that she watched me take my emotions out on that paper, and it really clicked for her. She could see that I was processing my insides and getting them outside. She witnessed me process my feelings through sharp, frantic mark making—in other words, ART. After that, she made every effort to provide art lessons and related experiences because she knew I needed art. She knew I needed it to be OK.
Ani DiFranco wrote, "People used to make records, as in the record of an event, the event of people playing music, in a room." That’s true for all art. My art is a record, evidence, of what I experienced—everything I couldn’t hold inside any longer. Everything I didn’t want inside of me any longer.
As I’ve grown, I’ve learned to hold the paintbrush like both a weapon and a magic wand. Where my thrashing used to dominate, now my experiences are laid out on beautiful cotton paper, in living color. I often joke that watercolor is my drug of choice, and now that might make sense. It’s not only a way to work through but to escape from. I take it to a place where it’s safe to express. I take it to a place where these bodies are just an illusion again, and I’m back to my natural state: refracted light, liquid gold, a conduit, and my body just a vessel. We become a single, united experience. All the knowledge all at once. This is the real me. This is real art.
Thanks, Mom. Thanks for always making sure I had my outlet, my place to feel safe to process. Thanks for supporting me in all of my artistic endeavors. I feel comforted knowing you look through the veil and finally see that you got it right. Best mom a girl could have.
Your girls love and miss you, Mom.
More than time can tell.
Love, Brookie