Why now?

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Why now?

May 24, 2014 by Robin E. Mason

Why

after more than half a century have I finally discovered I’m an artist?

And am practicing my art?

And yes, I’m more than half-a-century old,

five years more than half-a-century, to be exact.

Maybe the question should be phrased the other way ‘round,

“Why did it take me so long to discover I’m an artist?”

Rather, “Why did it take so many years to release my inner artist?”Rather, “… to accept myself as an artist?”)

Artists don’t fit into the holes that the pegs go into.

You know, square peg, square hole.

It’s not even a matter of a triangle peg in a round hole,

we artists just aren’t peg-n-hole material.

We’re free-form, and there’s no hole or peg for that.

Yet, I spent waaaaaaaaayyyyyyyy too many years

trying to fit into a hole that I’m not designed for.

I’m not a peg.

Still, why so long?

Well, besides being an artist,

I’m a people pleaser.

(It’s ok, it’s how Papa God made me.)

Not, I repeat, NOT to be confused with being a doormat.

That said, I was a doormat.

I tried to please everyone.

And by everyone,

I mean literally,

EVERYONE.

Which, I now know,

is impossible.

Oh!

There was one person I failed to,

neglected to,

try to please.

Me.

Yeah. I didn’t think I should please me,

didn’t think I was worth anybody trying to make me happy.

Not even God…..

So, I did my best to fit in some hole,

or box,

or human mold.

And I managed,

I functioned.

But I did not flourish.

I did not thrive.

I did not grow

or blossom

or bloom.

My art was stifled.

I was stifled.

And, stifled,

I was dying inside.

My soul was dying,

my heart was dying.

My identity was dying.

But I’m tenacious.

Sometimes we ask, “Why me, God?” when disaster strikes.

I ask, “Why me?” when I think about the grace He’s poured on me,

in me,

through me.

“Why me?” when I realize

I didn’t give up

[I wanted to, a million times, tried to, a million times]

but I can’t.

It’s not in me to quit.

“Why me?”

when it’s all falling apart and yet I hang on.

It’s simple really,

I have a purpose,

a destiny,

we all do.

And to discover that,

to discover and embrace my purpose and my destiny,

my identity,

that’s the journey.

That’s the discovery.

I struggled,

nay,

fought,

through the depression,

the angst,

the dissatisfaction

of trying to be something I’m not.

Fought against it,

tried to squelch it,

hide my artistic skills.

Was embarrassed to share my talent,

thought I was being vain.

Not true,

Papa has placed the gift in me,

in each of us,

for the very purpose of sharing it!

A treasure cannot stay buried.

And my artist has risen,

rather like a Phoenix,

from the ashes of the disaster of trying to conform to a peg-hole,

of trying to remain confined to a box.

I’m not made to conform,

I’m made to transform,

to BE transformed,

by the Word of God.

And the more His Word is established in me,

the more of what He created me to be

is also established.

I knew I was a musician always.

Piano lessons as a little girl (taught by my Mom,)

voice lessons at age 12,

[intended] vocal music major in college.

Didn’t happen,

life happened,

and I got married instead.

And had babies.

And got divorced.

I couldn’t settle,

my artist was trying,

trying to get out,

but I wouldn’t let her.

No job assignment satisfied,

and no job lasted.

(many were temp assignments, anyway)

My first speaking role in a theatre production

was Dr. Armstrong in Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians.

I was a sophomore in high school.

My British accent got me that role.

And no, I’ve never been there,

and yes, now I’m thinking en accent as I type.

My favorite thing to say en accent is,

“I’m born in Mississippi.”

Not sure how,

or why,

but it’s there,

this ability with accents,

and with words.

(something about being a writer…)

It’s just there,

God just popped it in me head,

and this accent anyway,

the British one,

I can turn on and off like a spigot.

I dance.

I play the piano.

I sing.

I act.

And, of course,

I write.

I said for years I couldn’t draw, though.

I was wrong.

Had to take Drawing as part of my college curriculum and discovered that

a) I can, in fact, draw, and

b) I’m pretty darn good – and

c) I like it!

And that brings me to my writing.

Like my accent, it’s just there.

I don’t “conversate,”

I tell stories.

A journalist I’m not.

Short n sweet n to the point,

nope,

not me.

I’m descriptive,

perhaps

(just perhaps) too much…..

nah…..

I live my characters.

I’m there, in the story,

I feel every emotion,

walk every path,

climb every mountain…

I’m in the story.

It’s a phenomenon I can’t explain,

the story tells itself to me.

I am quite aware that there are not little people in my head,

talking to me.

I fully grasp that it’s my imagination that is producing,

generating my stories.

But within the theatre of my mind,

my characters tell the story to me.

I sometimes don’t know what’s going to happen

until I write it.

Can’t explain it, it’s just there.

Another thing about imagination.

Creativity.

Artistic streak.

It doesn’t stop.

There’s no shut off valve.