I’m taking an art class. I knew I would have to start with the basics, but I didn’t realize that meant learning how to hold my pencil. My teacher informed me that the death grip that I usual hold my pencil in makes my shading look scratchy and uneven. She suggested I loosen up and let the pencil glide over the paper.

I tried to take her advice, but I still pressed too hard. She finally came over and put her hand over mine to help me. As she tried to guide my hand she noted how rigid it was. “You really are a control freak,” she said.

She asked me to let her move my hand across the paper. What a difference. The movement was easier and much more freeing, even if it did make me feel a three year old.

As I tried mimic her movement on my own, I wondered why I struggle so much to move freely within my own body.

The answer came to me the other day as I watched this little girl in the doctor’s waiting room. She had to be about three.  She looked so cute in a  blue jean miniskirt, white teeshirt and pink throng sandals with multicolored rhinestones down the middle. She talked incessantly, as three years do.  Her mother alternated between trying to keep her quiet and ignoring her. Eventually, the mother pulled out a piece of paper and package of colored pencils her to draw. The little girl flipped and flopped all over the two-person bench where they sat, trying to get in the right position. She finally settled on her stomach with her feet up in the air, her skirt hiked up over her pull-up. Her mother was visibly disturbed.

“You can’t sit like that,” she said, pulling the little girl’s skirt down.

The little girl ignored her mother. Her legs were up in the air and this way and that way. She was totally free.  Her mother continued to tug at her skirt, repeatedly saying she needed to sit nicely. The little girl finally settled into a position with her skirt, once again, hiked over the pull-up. Her mother, who had had enough, scolded her. Then her grabbed and made her sit with her legs criss-crossed, skirt pulled down.

“I don’t want to sit like this,” the little girl informed her mother and proceeded to sit like she wanted to. They went back and forth like this for another ten minutes. I admired the little girl’s tenacity, but her mother didn’t. After a while, she popped the little girl on her butt and told her to sit down and be still.  The little girl started to cry

I almost joined her.

I remember all the times I was told to sit still. I especially hated when my mother would  dress me for church and then make me sit, legs straight out in front, on the sofa.

“Do not move,” she’d say.

I’d sit there while she went back upstairs to get dressed. I didn’t want to, but I knew if I messed up my Sunday dress, I’d get it.  It happen enough that I learned to control my body.

So, why does it surprise me that I have such a hard time letting my body go?

I’ve been sitting nicely so long that my hips are tight and my back aches. I spend hours in yoga trying to learn to let my body be free again like that little girl.

And what makes me sad is that the little girl in the doctor’s office doesn’t understand the negative connotations of not sitting nice.  All she knows is that her mother spanked her for doing what felt natural. And soon she’ll learn to restrict her own body. She’ll no longer be flexible and free.

Maybe I’m making too much of how I hold my pencil as I draw, but I can’t help but wonder what I would be like if I had been allowed to move around freely as a little girl.  What if exploring and having fun had been more important than the fear of getting dirty or showing my panties? Maybe I’d be freer. Maybe I’d be more creative.

I’ll never know for sure. All I can do is loosen my grip on my pencil and let go.