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- My words are purple and my brain is growing green
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- tell them about all those you found
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- This is the time to be outta your mind. I have never been so sure of anything, she said. Or have I? I’m not sure
When my kids were little, their art was everywhere. Finger paints, splatter art, bizarro drawings papered every table, countertop, and wall space. We dwelled in an art gallery of brightest colors and joyful expressiveness. And since my daughter was primarily nonverbal for years, her art gave us a window into her worldview.
Our decor was hardly unique; most young families display kids’ artwork throughout their homes. Experts tell us it allows children to showcase their true selves, and most little people relish that kind of exhibitionism. Then, puberty hits and with it, ego. Life in all its crap and glory gets hard, and soon enough, we refuse to put our art out for show because it’s equal to putting our hearts on the line.
That daughter is now a rising high school senior. I wish I could tell you her love of art continued, but no. Soon after she learned to speak, she buried her markers and sketch pads deep in a desk drawer. I’ve started sneaking into her room to borrow the good stuff. I’m the “artist” now.
For years, poetry and yoga were my stock-in-trade; my process looked something like this: meditate, practice poses, stand on head, write. Read, revise, write, and write some more, always looking for the right words. And always begging the question, How can I use them to convey my worldview?? I wondered, as all writers do as we bang our heads against the wall, how to tap into the well day after day pull up the bucket, pour my soul in, then spill it back out in such a way that taps into what it means to be human and alive.
When my yoga teacher (who is also a painter) proposed art class, I was the first to sign up. She held sunny studio space, spread floors with butcher block paper as long as yoga mats. We played with collage and charcoal and watercolors, made messes and self-portraits — in mirrors, but with our eyes closed (Try it. It’s rad.)
And transformation took place.
A door opened for me and art flowed in. It’s my turn now— to fill notebooks, walls, displays and Instagram feed with my art. Often, I’d accompany a piece with a short line or phrase that had arisen while I’d been “In the Zone.” And what a relief! I could finally give up the agonizing search for the perfect word and stop wondering if anybody really got me. With my art, I started to feel seen, unapologetically, untethered to rules or conventions. My inner self rose to the surface and proclaimed, “Here is joy, rage, stillness, gloom. Here is beauty, abandon, childlike guilelessness. Pure expression.” With no grammatical errors or mixed metaphors to stand in my way!
This summer, making art has given me a freedom of creativity I’ve struggled for years to write my way through. I have embraced it with beginner’s mind and let it take me to new places within myself. At the risk of sounding cliché, I’d say it’s been my “work of heART.”
Enjoy.
If you like these, please follow me on Instagram at the_emily_that_lives_in_prague. To read poetry or learn about Yoga for Creative Types, please visit my website at bohemilywrites.net.
Emily Shearer is a poet and yoga/French/writing teacher. Her poems have been nominated for Pushcarts and “Best of”’s, and published in Silk Road Review (forthcoming), Please See Me, jellybucket, Fiolet & Wing, emry’s journal online, psaltery & lyre, West Texas Literary Review, Clockhouse and Ruminate, among others. She is proud to say she is the former Poetry Editor for Minerva Rising.