When I was very little, perhaps two or three, my father grabbed my coloring book from me—I had been working very intently—and shredded it in a rage. I have not ever been able to shake this memory. I have had people say it was so long ago, get over it. I am done trying to explain that this is not how hauntings work.
When I was ten, my fourth grade art teacher erased a line in a drawing I was working on. He informed me I was doing art wrong. Perhaps because I was already so rattled by my home life, I took him at his word rather than pushing back. I gave up on making art, easily convinced I sucked at it.
I seek no pity sharing these tales. I am, as I most often try to do with these memories, reminding you and me both what a very fucked up game childhood can be. The child, empty vessel, being filled up by the big people all around. Some of us wind up surrounded by pretty fucked up big people and spend the rest of our lives trying to undo the damage they inflicted upon us.
I do think these two events ruined art for me. For nearly fifty years. Then a few years ago I give myself permission to pick up a paint brush and give art another try. I did this in memory of my friend John Byrne, an excellent painter who died too soon. To my amazement, I discovered I love making art.
There’s a notion in the world of sobriety that goes like this: when one sobers up, one begins operating from the age one was when one first stepped into addiction. For me, that was fourteen. Toward that end and to this day, when I am extremely rattled, it is not at all unusual for me to see the world through the lens of an enraged teenager and react accordingly. I don’t love this about myself, but realizing it and acknowledging it has been useful in getting the kind of help that decreases the incidences of occurrence.
So I don’t think it’s random that I paint like a ten year-old. And for the record, I am not self-deprecating when I announce this. I enjoy painting like a ten year-old. It is very freeing for me. The rare times I catch myself imposing expectations on myself when I am making art, if I am unable to silence the inner critic, I will put my brush down and walk away. I don’t want art to ever be ruined for me again.
I strongly believe that my foray into making art, which I now do almost daily, hinged upon learning to give myself permission. Permission to fail. Also permission to succeed. But most of all permission to try.
I’ve been mulling the notion of permission for a long time. When I was a child, I was not free to make any choices on my own. Most often, decisions were made for me—my father chose when and how to cut our hair (which he did himself) and what we were and were not allowed to wear, to read, to eat, to watch. Rare times I hoped to make a choice for myself I was forced into a complicated, anxiety-inducing ritual known as “asking for permission.” If, say, I wanted to attend a high school dance, I would have to screw up all of my courage and then ask the overlord if I might attend. Any questions like this were invariably answered with, “We’ll see,” which was his sadistic way of sending me into massive fretting over what the answer might be, the answer sometimes not arriving until the last minute.
Though I really do wish I’d never started drinking, especially not when I was fourteen, I can see plenty of reasons I went down that path. First there was the immediate relief of blanketing extreme and constant anxiety. Then there was the attendant freedom from anything resembling self-restraint. The good news was that being wasted facilitated a lot of self-permission. The bad news is that the things I permitted myself to do mostly landed on the Regrets Reel.
I’m not sure when I first consciously recognized my own right to make choices for myself. There was no singular moment. Surely therapy helped. As did getting older. And yet there are still parts of my subconscious that try to shut me down when I consider undertaking some new endeavor.
Lockdown fucked with my head in many ways. But there were also positive outcomes. Maybe living under such dire circumstances—knowing you actually could die from breathing in an invisible plague—freed me up. Whatever the case, I felt free to pursue art in a way I never had before.
My writing, which I have been engaging in for fully half a century, has served me so well. Catharsis is healing. And this form will always be my first love. But getting to expand, to move from flat black symbols on a blank white page to vibrant palettes and an array of textures (how I love smearing thick oil on good canvas) has opened up something wide inside of me. Whether I am doing a watercolor sketch of a tree, an acrylic self-portrait, an oil painting the moon, I am transported. I get in the zone. I am happy.
While mostly self-taught, I have taken some classes. Objectivity around art is impossible and yet still, it is a truth that—if we measure by conventional standards—I am often the “worst” student in the class. The rare times I stop to contemplate this, I do not feel the frustration of a child trying to be “as good as the others.” I see that I am engaged in what Buddhism refers to as Beginner’s Mind or Child’s Mind. I dwell in a place of wonder. I feel bad for classmates who are clearly perfectionists. For while they might wind up with something “prettier,” it seems the emotional cost to them is great.
How wonderful we have so many opportunities to be rank amateurs at new pursuits. What a bummer so many of us have been conditioned to loathe imperfection, or, worse, to refuse to try that which we feel we have zero chance of “mastering.” That we can’t help but hear ancient incorrect voices continuing to lie to us, convince us not to try.
In a couple of weeks, to my great amusement, I will be teaching an art class. It is a one-off, two hour adventure in sketching. If you saw my sketches, you might think I am precisely the wrong person to lead others in this pursuit. Or you might lean on the old saw about how those who can do, those who can’t teach.
But I know better. I will lead this class as I have led so many other classes I’ve taught—on writing, on meditation, on knitting, on processing grief. I will emphasize that I can’t actually teach any of these things (well, okay, maybe knitting) so much as I can work to give students permission to try in the hopes they will learn to give themselves permission to try. To this I will also add that you can’t really do any of these things wrong (well, okay, maybe knitting). And I will gently try to convince them what I believe—it is the trying, it is the process that can be most rewarding.
This skill, self-permission, has been a lifesaver for me. Once you get the hang of it, you can apply it to other areas. Toward that end, the past week was a major emotional challenge for me. The untimely death of Thelma the dog tipped me into a deep pool of sorrow and grief. Other bad news arrived and plenty of it, calling to mind that bit about how when it rains sometimes it truly pours. By Friday I was a complete mess and I knew it and I hated it and I also knew that hating it was not going to make it dissipate.
So I gave myself permission to sit with the pain, examine it, acknowledge it, and try to accept it. This is a lesson I received from Thich Nhat Hanh—invite in your sorrow, your anger, whatever it is that is taking you down. Treat rage like a stomachache. Do not become angry at your anger. Ask your anger, as you would ask your heaving stomach: What can I do right now to help you? How can I soothe you? Give yourself permission to seek the emotional equivalent of ginger ale and saltines (which for me, yesterday, took the form of a long deep tissue massage and full on permission to stay in bed and be very still and quiet).
Do you struggle with self-permission? Are there things you’ve wanted to try but can’t quite get there? Tell me about it. I really want to know.
NOTES:
Thank you for the outpouring of love when Thelma died. I still hurt every day over this profound loss but your condolences helped me hold the space for myself and the rest of the pack.
If you want to sign up for my FREE SKETCHING CLASS at the O. Henry Museum, click this link. It’s just two hours, you most certainly will not be judged, and we even provide all of the supplies. No excuses! Give yourself permission. You are safe in my classroom.
The next Tiny T Tiny Flea Market is April 22, 2023 from 9 am til 2 pm. I have room for more vendors. If you want to be a vendor, message me. I hope y’all will help me get the word out and tell all your friends. It’s all free and family friendly—meet the animals, bring a picnic, buy cool stuff. 3409 Caldwell Lane, Garfield, TX 78617.
I am bringing LIVE MUSIC back to the ranch. On May 20, 2023 the West Texas Exiles & special guests will play a rollicking show. There will also be an art market and a food truck. And a limited number of folks can camp out if you so wish. You can get tickets here: TICKET LINK
Thank you so much for following this adventure in words. If you’re in a position to do a paid subscription, I hope you’ll consider it. Sharing this substack also helps and it’s something you can do for free. Tips always gratefully accepted via Venmo @spike-gillespie. All proceeds from my writing go toward feeding the animals. The animals sustain my spirit always.