fear of art

About a month ago, I purchased a used sewing machine on ebay. I've been thinking about buying a sewing machine seriously for a few years, though I really knew I wanted one when I was just tall enough to peek over the edge of a yellowed wooden table to watch my mom sew beautiful things with her new gleaming Bernina.

I've always been envious of confident artists: poised, self-assured as they make bold strokes across a piece of canvas, voraciously write paragraphs of exquisitely strung-together sentences, or decisively press down the button and hear the shutter close with satisfaction. I watch hopeful their artistic certainty will rub off. Fear paralyzes me.

Fear of art not measuring up to self-imposed standards, of it not being interesting enough, perfect enough, inspired enough. So I think about stories I'd like to write, photographs I'd like to take, and fabric I'd like to sew...and sit on my hands for fear it will not be enough.

"don't cry over spilt milk"

Many a childhood family dinner was spoiled by spilt milk. Despite parental chiding to move our glasses farther away from the edge of the table--and subsequently out of our clumsy reach--, we played a game of milk-spilling four square each week. I swatted my hand across the table to my older sister, who then knocked hers sideways to the foot of the table in the lap of my older brother...and on and on. I think my parents had to buy an extra gallon of milk per week, anticipating the liquid waste on our plates, on our chairs, and on the floor.

I finally understand their frustration--empathize with it, actually. I've lost track of how many milk spills I've been sanctified by these last several months. At first, my gasps of surprise scared my boy to tears; next he cried when I disciplined him for his carelessness; then he sensed my brewing anger and tried to atone for his guilt without putting up a fuss over whatever food graced his plate. Now he says, "No-noh, noh-nah" and pushes the offending cup away from his tray as I cringe at what my responses have manufactured. I reassure him, "It's okay, sweet boy; you just need to pay attention to what you're doing," and I shuffle to the laundry room to fetch another towel for soaking up the white in the carpet.

Spilt milk has brought out my best patience and my worst anger. I recall a recent lunch when I soaked up 3 separate milk spills with as many towels. I almost cried after the second accident; I laughed after the third. Parenting has bolstered my forbearance...and my sense of humor.