Orange

The ever-inspiring Poppytalk is celebrating a week of autumn color, a different color for every day. Behold: Orange.

Photoexhaustion

A highlight of Squam was getting to meet the lovely, adorable Andrea of Hula Seventy, whom I have followed in the blogosphere for a good long time. Such a sweetheart. I truly enjoyed getting the chance to spend an entire day dedicated to TtV photography. At the end of the day, my arms were aching, my feet stung, and I was exhausted to the core. A whole day spent chasing errant leaves across fields of clover and hunting down secret places in the woods can really wear a girl out. Worth it, though.

Better for it.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to put my whole Squam Art Workshops experience into words. Reading the blogs of other attendees has told me that I’m not alone in the struggle, but perhaps for different reasons.

Upon stepping off of the airplane, I truly tried to abandon my expectations. I tried to open my heart. I tried to absorb and enjoy and embrace. But a tiny part of me felt obligated to have an experience. Sigh. And obligations are where I often get hung up. That teeny tiny sliver held on and shook and shook. And this might sound awful, but at Squam…
…my heart was not filled to the brim with buckets of love and inspiration. instead, my heart struggled.
…I was not dazzled by sheer joy and carefree spirits. instead, I felt alone.
…I was not in complete awe of artmaking. instead, I felt confused.
…I did not have dance parties in the woods.
…I did not do yoga at dawn on a wooden pier.
…I did not wear a tutu or wave magic wands or make “jazz hands.”
...I struggled to form new friendships. And I struggled with an old one.

The experience, for me, was entirely introspective. I am an Introvert (capital I) in every sense of the word, and I fought it so hard for the first couple of days. I questioned: How do I make myself more outgoing? How do I stop being so serious? How do I make friends without feeling so freaking awkward all the time? How do I make it all less overwhelming? Why does this feel like goddamn high school all over again? In the end, I gave it up and tried to find solace in myself, in the pit of my gut.

So what if I’m more comfortable in my pajamas, alone by the fire with a sketchbook? So I’m happy in the woods, with just my two feet and a camera. So I’m happy all by myself, and it’s ok for me to not get all the giddy hugging and socialization happening around me. So I’m happy with who I am. What a notion. I am ok. I am ok. After all.

Sketchbook test page from Sarah Ahearn's class
I’m not sure how to say all this without sounding unappreciative. Because now, more than ever, I am appreciative of every tiny sliver of my life. Squam gave me that, and for it I am entirely grateful. I would not be here without the struggle.

I learned so much about myself: about the personality types that I’m drawn to; about art that satisfies me and only me; about balance; about loss. I learned that only I know what’s good for me, and no one can tell me otherwise. I learned to stop apologizing so much. I’ve learned that I can do this.

And while I did not wear a tutu or do yoga at dawn, I did do the following:
I placed a fake mustache on a rock somewhere deep in the woods.
I cried. A lot. It felt awful and good. It made me feel free.
I took photographs of my green shoes.
I chased a yellow leaf across a field.
I saw shooting stars, and watched the milky way, and felt small.
I ate a lot of really excellent fish.
I learned much about friendship, even though I thought I already knew all there was to know.
I painted with my fingers.
I wrote with my all time favorite pen.
I realized, finally, that life is damn good.

I am better for it.

Cupped.

I have never felt more secure.

So so so so SO happy to be home.

Squam

On Wednesday morning, I'm boarding an airplane and flying to New Hampshire to attend the Squam Art Workshops with my best gal Jamie.

Sometime back in spring, we decided on a whim to put down that big deposit and go. Squam is something I've read about but always thought, "Huh. I'll never get to go to that." But here I am. I think I was shaking as I hit the "pay" button, because this felt like one of those frivolous things that I really shouldn't be doing, and what I really should be doing is paying off my credit card, or something boring like that. But caution was thrown to the wind, payments were made, plane tickets were bought, and here I am sitting and wondering what it'll all be like.

I can't help but feel like an 8 year-old on the eve of departing for summer camp:
Will they like me? Will my art suck? Will it be all touchy feely and soul searching and I'll gag on the mushy-ness of it all? Will we be forced to sing around a campfire and eat on tin trays at long tables? Will I feel like an outcast and be antisocial? Will it be worth the money and long hours of travel to get there?

Will it be awesome and amazing? Will I feel that nudge that I so desperately need to get back into my work? Will I form friendships I never imagined? Will I feel comfortable in my own skin? Will I stick my toes in a cold lake and smell the pines and wonder why I ever hesitated?

All I know is that I have two blank sketchbooks and a new pen and a new suitcase and I am going. And I think I'm gonna like it.