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What is it about a hot shower that invites internal conflict?
I know that I’m not the only one. One minute I’m basking in peppermint infused steam and body scrub, then the next I’m replaying a sixth grade argument in my head and going over what I should’a, would’a, or could’a said. As a third grader, a substitute teacher who frequented the school but had not covered any class of mine yet, called us to attention and began reading us the book left on the weekly agenda. As the paragraph presented us an idea that our young minds couldn’t quite grasp, we began asking questions. Perhaps frustrated that she didn’t have an answer or maybe she was fighting an invisible personal battle that none of us little ones could understand, she frustratingly yelled at us, calling to attention our apparent incompetence and demanding that we listen, and thus, understand the content. I got up out of my seat, asked her to be excused (I was/am a rule-follower, so at least I asked) and marched straight to the office to tell them what had just happened. “It’s just not right” I remember telling them. The principal respectfully listened to my concerns, and suggested that myself and classmates write the substitute a letter asking if she could be more kind. We did just that, and to our astonishment, she apologized to us. This situation taught me several things at such a young age: First, being assertive (not aggressive) and taking up for what is right is important. Second, an adult had taken the time to listen to my concerns, and that gave me courage and faith in humanity that I have carried throughout my life since. I hope that I extended this courtesy to my own students who I taught for several years of my life. Lastly and arguably most importantly, most solutions to conflict can offer the benefit-of-the-doubt; a chance for people to reflect and redeem. We all deserve that. I still think about this moment in the shower. It stands out because it’s finished business, resolved conflict, forgiven and forgotten. But this fleeting instance of elusive resolve is heavily outweighed by those cringe moments I unfortunately replay every time I step into my claw foot. Like when a once-upon-a-time friend and coworker, with her chin up-turned and her head gyrating slightly with sass as she explained how a mother at her church admitted that she sometimes forgot to play with her children. I assume (and I could be wrong) that what this mother meant is that sometimes the day gets away from her in the midst of work, dishes, hour-long phone calls with insurance companies, etc. “Like how do you forget to play with your kids?!” she snarked, as she walked around my art classroom tidying things up to her own standards. I cowardly agreed with her self-righteous comments instead of taking up for this most likely fatigued and overwhelmed mother. Or like the time that sealed my decision (which I’d already been contemplating for three years) to leave the teaching field. I met my husband in his classroom to have a much anticipated lunch together. I wasn’t two bites into my grilled chicken sandwich when he told me that he had been told to “shut up” by one of the administrators. As he continued telling me about the verbal lashing he had received from the little red man (because his face was often flushed in an angry scarlet that completely engulfed his already red hairline), third grade Heidi was awakened. This situation, along with countless more, wasn’t right. So many times, I had watched this man come bellowing down the hallway like a steam roller to observe some poor, unsuspecting teacher. He would walk with such haste at times, that his upper half seemed to turn corners far before the lower, trying to catch up to his ego that was 100 yards ahead of him I imagine. He reminded me of Gossamer (which both ironically and fittingly means thin or fragile) from Looney Tunes; a big, red, destructive monster who could hide behind a heart-shaped body and facade of decency. Unlike my third grade experience, people listened to concerns too little and definitely too late in this situation, and any chances of reflection or apology left town in moving boxes, red-handed. I think shower arguments can be a time for reflection. Maybe even helpful to our future selves when conflict inevitably arises. However, what if we purposefully incorporate shower APOLOGIES as well? I’d love to turn back time and apologize for judging a dear friend for partying and drinking too much alcohol. I’d also like to thank her for promptly reminding me of my own (and many) inequities. I still cringe at my gross hypocrisy and am so grateful to her for snapping me back to reality. Or the apology that I denied a kind young woman who approached Nick and I in a Gatlinburg Wendy’s with two free Dollywood tickets. Earlier, she and her mother had struck up friendly conversation with Nick as they were all in line waiting to order. But me, in my pregnancy-induced irritability, couldn’t separate what seemed to be a sales-pitchy imposition on my long-awaited dinner, or an act of genuine kindness. Instantly, I could tell that I ruined her blessing as she walked back to the table, head hung, and told her mother that I had turned down her gift. May our shower thoughts be mostly apologies instead of arguments. What could we have said to someone deserving? How can this reflection help us be more kind in the future? I think as long as that conviction is there, we won’t have to live like Gossamer: ugly, red, and menacing.
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Today’s a cold one. Literally, ONE as in 1 degree Fahrenheit. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find tiny star-like designs frosting the windows when I woke up this morning. The daily news podcast that I listen to religiously has harped on this record-breaking winter storm affecting most of the United States for the last few days. Mom called saying the grocery store had run out of eggs for our Christmas Eve breakfast. But nonetheless, I thought everyone was being a bit dramatic. After waking up, I went straight to the back door hoping none of the hens would be out of their coop yet. Naturally, all four of them had indeed already begun the day, and were huddled together under the giant hemlock tree. After bundling up (or what I thought was bundled up), I opened the back door and my breath was immediately taken away. Looking down at my phone, it read one degree Fahrenheit. From my recollection (which could totally be flawed), I don’t remember seeing that temperature in years, or maybe even ever. I think this moment is when I recognized that no one was being dramatic about the below-freezing temps I had heard about for the past week.
As I relocated the coop’s heat lamp to a more efficient spot, I realized that I wouldn’t be needing to leave the house today in the name of safety. The chicken’s water was frozen solid, so no way the roads weren’t at least slightly affected. Refilling the watered and feeder, I concluded that many other folks on the mountain will probably hunker down as well, if at all possible.This understanding was like a breath of fresh, cold, exhilarating air to my soul. Today, I had legitimate permission to stay put. I could sip hot tea beside a floating candle and type this blog entry, and no one would expect me to do otherwise. I’ve been aware of the need to pattern my time and energy around cycles of the natural seasons for a few years now. During my time of burnout, I had delved into the research about menstrual cycle parallels to spring, summer, fall and winter. I studied how the natural rhythms of humans mimic those of animals during each seasonal phase of nature. It seems so obvious that we should rest along with the animals and plants during winter, but as Katherine May explains in her book Wintering, slowing down is such an unfashionable thing to do in western cultures. But lucky for me, I’m a bit of a rebel when it comes to societal expectations that don’t sit right with my soul. When I felt the cool air on my face this morning and the sense of rest that it brought along with it, I felt so relieved. This year has been an amazing one. I traded my public school classroom for a 6’x10’ art studio, four laying hens, a garden, and a car rider pickup line with pup in tow. I was a part of four art show/gallery exhibitions, met some amazing fellow artists, and expanded my products and services. It has been fun, but it’s time for rest. Instead of stressing about a new art series I keep trying to force out of my brain, I will choose rest. When I’m tempted to detour from my art style to a more “interesting” or trendy one, I’ll turn inward and reflect. When my phone notifications are lit up like the 4th of July after work hours or on weekends, I will honor myself instead of guilt answering. From the winter solstice two days ago until the heat of summer moistens our brow, each passing day gradually becomes longer and lighter. That first warm day of spring will come, along with the energy to bloom, emerge from a burrow, or tackle a new and challenging project. But until then, I’ll be wintering. Picasso was classically trained, yet chose to represent his world using what some would refer to as basic shapes. As a twenty-something B.F.A. candidate, I simply could not wrap my head around his choice; The wasted talent! A missed opportunity! My late-night musings were focused on the Italian masters. The Sistine Chapel, stretched across the background of my laptop, was my favorite work of art and I was determined it would remain so. Then I turned 30 (Yes, age seems to be morphing into a sort of motif for this blog).
To feel at odds with yourself is a curious phenomenon. Realism was suddenly mundane and unrelatable, but all at once like the familiar scent of moments passed. Strokes on my canvas became more transient, as if apologizing for overstaying their welcome. Realistic details were still present, but nestled into stylized color schemes and dramatic textures. I connected with this new style; The old and new coming together. It seemed as though, after several years of weary searching, that I had stumbled upon my personal artistic style. Local landmarks and historical buildings are currently the cornerstone of Heidi Fawn Art and Design Co. But don’t count on purely realistic renderings of anything produced in my studio these days. I find enjoyment and self within stylized, almost abstract depictions of mountains, waterfalls, and abandoned courthouses. My favorite part of this subject matter though? The stories from art festival passerbys and patrons. The recollections of rock climbers and cavers, or a bride and groom who said “I do” near a mountain railway. I have learned so much about my little home town by way of my art. Our local coffee spot was once a cobbler shop. You can imagine the laughs when folks realize shoe repair tools lined the walls rather than buttery, fruity desserts (I’m not judging. I only learned what a cobbler is through an Adam Sandler film). And on the second floor of this same building was a vintage dance hall. Adjacent, a local barber shop. As I listen to people sharing memories, I can almost smell old wood flooring and Barbasol. Eyes light up as they remember wedding jitters on Lover’s Leap. A caver reminisces on a crawl through the mountain depths. It’s simply joyful. I think my favorite story though is one that was told over my watercolor rendering of the local historic train depot. I listened as some elderly men debated whether or not the train cars transported passengers, and what goods came and went in the weekly cargo shipments. I learned that one day, a container came off of the train just a shakin’ and rigglin’, almost right out of the attendant’s hands. Apparently, boxes of snakes were arriving into town for an exotic reptiles show. The whole banter reminded me of my grandfather’s mannerisms, and I can’t remember laughing like that in a long time. It was definitely a feel-good moment, and I can’t wait to provoke more with each new piece I create. I think I hit “backspace” about 45 times before settling on this sentence. The first one of what I hope is a consistent airing of my artistic (and occasionally broad) thoughts. For what? I’m not sure. I’ve always wanted to inspire, to influence. I lay awake wondering what legacy or trace I will leave when I’m gone. I’m sure most folks wonder the same. Maybe especially artists? All at once though, I can’t stand the thought of being obligated to produce daily or weekly blog posts. In the past, I have been one to giddily set up Instagram pages about living simply or working out, or offer new product lines like fantasy-themed subscription boxes, just to get overwhelmed or sidetracked and move on to my next sparkly idea. On the other hand, when I get on to something, and I mean really get on to it, it’s ride or die. All that to say, who knows if I’ll ever type another entry, or even finish this one. But I hope I do both.
I am a Type A, Enneagram 3, ENFJ; Once to the core, but now superficially. If “Another Earth” is real, Me #2 is probably ignoring the 5:16 PM on the office clock in favor of an all-nighter consisting of strained eyes and takeout. I can’t decide if Me #2 is working on a second graduate degree or wrapping up a high-stakes branding package for the client of the year. I’m exhausted for Me #2. I’m grateful I’m not her anymore. So who am I then? I reckon that’s the million-dollar question of many 30-somethings isn’t it? And it may even be the reason I’ll keep writing posts for this blog. They say you are a culmination of the 5 people you hang out with most. To that, I say I’m honored because my inner five are made of the good stuff. I’m lucky to have them in my life and I’m happy to be somewhat of a reflection of each. However, I’d argue that every person is also made up of traits coming from much more elusive sources which seem to become evident on some random Tuesday. I sip wine like my Art History professor and department dean from undergrad. Or I try to at least. I can still smell the garlic and ca. 2012 perfume from my Women’s University peers as we sat in a Roman restaurant waiting on our antipasto. I ordered a Pinot Grigio, my first full glass of anything alcoholic ever. As soon as the liquid grazed my lips, I had static in my jaw joints and my ears flushed with warmth. I held back a gag. All at once, my professor stands, wine in hand, and waits for the room to hush. She’s poised and serious, calculating each word carefully before it leaves her mouth. When the room is silent, she toasts to being together in Rome, and to great accomplishments back home. Her eyes turn to me with accolades on my accomplishment of graduating days prior with a 4.0 GPA. She lifts her crimson glass and drinks. I can’t even explain the finesse. To this day, our shared moment has shaped who I am and strive to be: A seeker of knowledge, sophistication, and worldly leisures. I can only hope she didn’t see me repulsed at fine Italian wine. These days, I can only stomach effervescent, but you better believe I’m sipping it with class. ** |
AuthorArt business owner journaling about my artistic adventures. Archives
October 2024
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