Thank You

Nothing better than a three day weekend when 2 day weekends are rare -- and then being extremely sick the entire time. Oh well. I'd say there will be more weekends but unfortunately there won't be for awhile! But in between coughing attacks, sleeping, vegging, and trying not to pass out on the floor I did catch up on some mail and reading.

I don't claim to be an artist, that would be silly. I do harbor a creative style and enjoy doing "artist things" and such "artistry" runs in the family. From my grandmother's (on my mother's side) early sketches and subsequent crotchet and knitting masterpieces, to her daughter's sketching of cards (Maxine being a fav) to her grandaughters design work. On my father's side the artistry flows from a colorful garden to an exquisite meal prepared just so, traits passed on to two different granddaughters. There is a line of artistry wrapping itself through the family.

There is something quite personal, quite frightening, quite exposing about attempting artistic ventures. In private failures can be erased, scribbled out, thrown to the dogs, put out in the trash. But once you share them, that is when you are most vulnerable. That is when all of the time, energy, thought, all of the hopes and dreams of the final product, all of the self-doubt, that is when it is most frightening. That is when you are most exposed.

I don't know if artist's create art for themselves, or for others. Certainly art is created for both, you create what speaks to you, hoping that others will hear a similar word, or at least grasp what you were hoping to create. But you never know, until you share it with others.

When you put that dish out on the table, hoping that folks will like it. When you plan the perfect party, hoping that everyone will come, have a good time, and enjoy themselves. When you draw that perfect card, with the perfect line, hoping that the recipient will understand, will get it. When you lay out the garden of your dreams, hoping that everything will bloom and grow, just as you planned, and that guests will understand, what it all was intended to be.

Those are the scary moments.

And folks are so so polite. The right words, and utterances. The subtle facial movements, the gasps of joy. But you still wonder. Do they really like it? Do they understand? Do they feel? Is it right? Do they get it?

It's not the art, the creativity. It's not really even the final piece that matters. It's art for art's sake. For your sake or mine, perhaps it doesn't really matter. No it's not that. It's not art that matters.

It's the love. That's what went into it. That's was leaves you bare and exposed. That is the scary part.

All of the anticipation of the final product, the giving, then the reaction. Yes yes they loved it. Why then are you still feeling exposed, why the self-doubt? People are so polite you know -- they tend to say and do the right thing. It was lovely, it was beautiful. But did they get it? Did they hear the whispers, the brush across the cheek? Did they feel that, the quick hug, the grasp of the hand?

Buried in the mail a simple package. And instantly you know they did get it. As art is art, the exposure, the fear, the trepidation -- is always best shared. You understand the fear best, when you feel it yourself. The dramatic note cards, art work of themselves, shared forward, a simple act of understanding. The beauty caught in photographs, the art shared.

But the card. That tells me you understand. It wasn't really the art, the time, the creativity. It was the LOVE. The heart, the effort. It was the love.

That left me exposed, frightened. Hoping that you would understand, that you would hear and feel. And then share.

It was the Love. And that was enough.