On Farting...

Despite growing up in a house with 3 brothers, I wasn't much of a tomboy. Sure, I'd play outside. I just didn't get dirty. Riding bikes? Make mine PINK please!  I was the oldest and only daughter and I liked girl things like earrings, Barbies and my Smaller Homes dollhouse. I was the Princess! I was allotted lovely little privileges like my own room with floral wallpaper of course! My bed linens and clothing were washed with Lavender Sachet fabric softener Yes! My mother washed my clothing and linens separate from the rest of the family members'. I never had to wear a hand-me-down prom dress. For the most part, I enjoyed my family status. I liked being a girl!

Here's where the problem lied... farting!  (Yes! I call it FARTING!) See, my dad, God love him... he was an avid farter, still is. He never held back. When it came to his digestive tract, my dad had gusto! Dad was a proud farter often basking in his "sweet smell of success".  My little brothers followed Dad's lead. As in any etiquette-driven  home (insert eye roll) I can lovingly recall many "farting parties" that took place between my Dad and brothers. They would giggle their asses off (no pun intended) while reveling in their flatulence. Good times. Good times. So watching all of this fun unfold before me, I was a little envious. Being the Princess and all, I couldn't partake in such indulgences. Or could I?

My wild ideas where reigned in (or at least she tried) by my very prim and proper Mother (whom I've heard fart only ONCE in my 41 plus years of life). She would gently remind me that ladies don't "fart". We "fluffy" and we do it discreetly and privately. Um, WHAT?!?!?! I had a pioneer moment and thought "If they can do it... I CAN TOO". Was it the years of suppressing all of that fearless childhood energy? Had I not served myself well by being so "girly"?  From then on... I boldly and zestfully went where no princesses before me went... and I, like the men in my home, learned the joy of sharing a good "fluffy" once in awhile, giggling beside them.

As the years rolled on, I evolved a bit. By the time my husband found me in life, I had found my inner Princess again and was content to fulfill my civic duties with lady-like grace. I suppressed those "fluffies", indulging only in private. As for him, my Prince Charming, he practiced self-control and was a seemingly perfect gentleman until our SECOND date. Instead of horror or disgust, I was pleased with his wild and unabashed abandonment of social graces. Here before me was this handsome, funny, sweet and seemingly put together man who felt comfortable enough WITH ME to let go... to be himself, to relax, to feel non-judged. It took awhile but eventually I was brave enough and bestowed him with "fluffies" of my own, after all I didn't think that THAT was part of my dowry. Fifteen years later, it is still a match made in heaven and every once in awhile this QUEEN can be found giggling and partaking in farting parties with her three little princes.

Little Brothers!

She Appeared

I woke up this morning with enthusiasm that I shouldn't have had so early in the day. After yesterday, I was surprised I could get out of bed. Yesterday's material in "Flying Lessons" was hardcore. It brought out a very hurtful and negative experience that I had to push through. I arrived on the other side of the pain worn out and limp. I had to go to bed. My Big Guy had to pick up the slack with the boys last night while I was in and out of a deep sleep. I am certain that my brain was working overtime rewiring the negative event and making it okay. My brain is a forgiving thing. It has lesions on it and it still works beautifully. The Dirty Bitch (Multiple Sclerosis) has taught me what a vast, intense and loving and forgiving brain that I have. I am grateful.

After the monotony of the daily lunch making, I settled into my computer afraid to see what the assignments would be for today. Please not another day yesterday! I can't do it. Maybe Kelly Rae knew that she had to go easy on us after such an intense first lesson because by the grace of God... It was a positive and happy video. Gnawing in my mind was the voice leftover from yesterday playing over and over in my head.... Paint. Paint. Paint.

You see, I don't paint really. I don't put a brush to canvas and PAINT. I paint objects. I paint furniture and thread spools and old boards. I decoupage and stencil. I don't paint on canvas. So this crazy voice in my head was blasphemy, hog-wash. But I have always had this longing to just pick up the brush and DO IT. So... what do I do with this voice? The voice that is telling me to ignore the laundry and the dishes. The voice that is telling me that Candy Crunch Saga (my online game addiction/HUGE time waster) is out of the question today. I can't tell you why, what or how. But I yanked out one of the cheap canvases I had on hand. I bought them thinking I was going to "try it out" one day. I pulled out my box of 1/2 dried up acrylics. I was compelled to JUST FUCKING DO IT. (Don't mean to offend anyone with the Eff Bombs.) I was almost in a trance. Before I could think, I had the canvas covered in paint. I kinda remembered a tutorial that Kelly Rae had shared in a book. I was following what I remembered. My damn Gesso was all dried up. I never even opened it up. Never used it once. I had to improvise. I just had to DO IT.

I pulled out bits of scrap paper and just kept going, whispering to myself along the way to just trust in the process. I had to do this. It was almost like an out of body experience. I've never, EVER felt quite like this before.

Hour after hour. Layer after layer. Sanding. Painting. Ripping. Rubbing.

The words came easily, but have since changed.

Throughout the day I realized that every scrapbook class, each rubber stamped card I've made, all the sanding of furniture, it had all lead me to this moment. I had some skills that were making me brave enough to do this.

 I was terrified to touch the face. Maybe I will leave it white and empty and open? I can't do a face. I've never done a face before. I ignored the face all day. But then I couldn't anymore.

I learned today that a painting speaks to you before it's even finished. It guides you. It's layered. It's a process. It unfolds. 

She appeared from the end of my paint brush. She stared back at me, happy and content. I did this. My hands started shaking and I was so emotional. I had to quit. I had to gather myself and settle.