We are Meant to Shine...

"Light", paint markers, calligraphy, gouache on canson paper,  2012

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.  Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask, who am I to be brilliant and wonderful.  Actually, who are we not to be.  We are meant to shine.  We are born to make manifest the light of the spirit within us." (text adapted from Marianne Williamson quote)

I came across this quote in one of my many books that I pull out when I need some inspiration.  It struck me as odd, considering that I grew up with so many fears. Thunderstorms, earthquakes, boogeymen and of course, darkness have added to my unwarranted angst over the last 52 years that I've been on this Earth, not to mention that nagging notion of nuclear war and total armageddon.  But such is the life of your average everyday middle aged, neurotic, hormonally challenged Irish Catholic woman who's perpetually waiting for the next shoe to drop.  For as far back as I can remember, that's the way it's always been for me.  

In a way, fear has had a supporting role in my life story.  I was afraid to be confident because that would be seen as shining too much light on myself.  As the middle child of my family of nine, my father would jokingly call me the "oldest of the youngest and the youngest of the oldest".  I was the "short rest" my mother had between the older four, the surprise adorable twin girls, the only blue eyed blonde and finally, the baby.  Perhaps being lost in this group insanity was what made me the unimportant blip I always thought I was supposed to be.  As long as I was fed and clothed, who was I to expect anything more.  Blending in was what I learned to do best and I became comfortable with that.  I believed I was just bright enough, but not too bright.  Right in the middle.

I was good at some things, art being the most important thing.  Making art distracted me from scary thunderstorms, loneliness (surprising, given my place in a huge family), depression and general inability to relate to everyone else around me.  But my mom was an artist, too.  So in my eyes, that made me shine, just a little.  I was almost eleven when my baby sister came along.  She brought out a maternal instinct in me, which meant that I found something else I could be good at.  I learned that, though I wasn't very special on my own, I could brighten another life.  As long as I could be a light for others I was content.  Then, when I married my sparkly new husband and became pregnant with the first of my daughters I felt confident.  I had a way to shine as a real mother, and shine I did.  My two girls became my life and my art took a back seat.  


The girls were, and still are, my brightest light.  However now they are young women and no longer need my driving, cooking and grooming skills.  They shine on their own, and though I bask in the wonder of it, I can feel myself growing dimmer, more afraid again of my own ability to shine in a new way, not just a mom, but as the artist I was born to be.  It's scary to think that I can learn to glow with love of myself after all these 52 years (I have to remind myself with that short-term memory loss thing that comes with the age). 


There's a saying that goes, "you can't teach an old dog new tricks." Well I've taught myself some fancy tricks like pretending to be invisible, or rolling over so that the spotlight misses me.  However, it's become clear that they just don't work anymore.  It's time for me to defy that old wive's tale and shed some more light on someone who needs a little extra shine... that's me.  Who knows, maybe I'll become the woman worthy of my given name.  Claire, french meaning: clear, bright and famous.  Well, two out of three would be nice.


Happy Mother's Day, and may you shine as well.


Thanks for looking,


Claire


Oh, and if you like what you see, check out my etsy shop.
http://www.etsy.com/shop/clairegriffin164

Sing for Spring...

Well, it's the second Friday in April and I wonder, where has the time gone?  Around me I see every shade of green, and that means growth.  It seems as though I went to bed last night and woke this morning to ever more colorful changes outside my chilly house. Magnolia blossoms swing by my bedroom window.  New grass is sprouting in the backyard, trees are filling in and thanks to a mild winter, that columbine that I bought last summer and forgot to plant has actually survived!  I guess daily miracles really do happen.


Inspired, I chose this piece for today's posting because it spoke to the awe and wonder that I never cease to encounter at this time of year.  Letters in a modernized italic uncial letter style (learned from my calligraphy teacher, Gerry Jackson Kerdock) dance on the page.  The "S" is done with paint markers as a decorated versal and reminds me of stained glass, much like the way that morning light filters that through a pattern of branches with an ethereal glow.  It illuminates the orchestra of tulips and hostas, daffodils, forsythia as well as shoots of mint and chives that add zest to my menu.  In my front yard a young choir of crocus blossoms seem to shyly step up and sing together. The result is a fleeting masterpiece of sight, scent and sound that we as mere human beings are privileged to have a part in.


Yes, the regrowth and rebirth of spring leaves me awestruck.  I know it seems a little crazy, but sometimes I swear that I actually hear the grass growing, or the branches stretching and yawning after a winter's nap, unfurling their newborn leaves and buds for all to admire.  Everything is new again.  Ants and worms are busy digging in and out of the thawing earth foraging for fresh sustenance.  Squirrels, and chipmunks having wakened, perform a frenetic ballet.  They leap from tree to tree as if synchronized with robins, chickadees and the woodpeckers who use the bark as a drum to usher in the audience for the day's performance.  


Now is the time when the season's opening event comes together.  I grab the dog, a big bottle of seltzer (for the celebratory bubble effect) and take my spot on the porch steps in the front row.  Quieting my mind, I sit back and take it all in.  Bushes and trees sway as the animals and insects dance.  Winged friends flutter and sing in harmony with my heartbeat and I can't help but catch my breath in the knowledge that my presence is just a tiny piece of this incredible annual symphony.  On with the show...


Happy Spring!


Thanks for looking,


Claire

Cead Mile Failte

Cead Mile Failte, 2011, gouache, walnut ink and 23k gold leaf on watercolor paper.  @10 x 8"

"Cead Mile Failte"!  In the Gaelic that means "One Hundred Thousand Welcomes". Hence this posting in celebration of Saint Patrick's Day. I love working with Celtic influences in my art, weaving uncial letters with vines and spirals. Maybe it has to do with my Irish heritage, after all, my ancestors on both sides of the family stepped "off the boat" from the old country. I imagine them wide eyed, ready to start new lives in America, and am awestruck that myself, all my siblings and cousins have blood and dna that has travelled across the Atlantic. It warms my soul to know all that history has passed through hearts and veins over a century, shaping me into the person I am today. Add to that the lilting laughter, love of words and music that comes with the culture of the old country and you'd say I'm a lucky girl.

Being of Irish descent, however, brings a big bag of mixed blessings. Historically, the Celts have been cursed with a weakness for potatoes, melancholy and the tendency to imbibe in "the drink". So it seems I was destined to be touched by all three. Perhaps it's by divine will that potatoes have worked their way into, or should I say onto my bones. I love them fried, baked, roasted and of course, mashed with a little butter and milk. However my body does not approve, which brings me to the melancholy.

During my life I have battled bouts of depression. In middle school I had anxiety attacks whenever I took math tests. The births of my babies brought on postpartum depression and psychosis, a small price to pay for bringing two beautiful girls into the world. Menopause has given me much to panic about as hormones wreak havoc on me. All this has been managed with medications, which had the added gift of weight gain and the subsequent need for more potatoes. If I wasn't already affected by alcohol, I would have turned to the drink to deal with my moods. But that was not, nor ever shall be an option.


I grew up in the middle of a classic big Irish Catholic family, fraught with alcohol and the ups and downs that go with it. There was lots of song and drama juxtaposed with bouts of mayhem and madness. The thing about alcohol is that it seeps into the lives of the drinkers, then spreads through the family and into the community. No one is to blame. It's just the nature of "the drink". Though technically I am not an alcoholic, my "holic" is food and sugar, which brings on the melancholy, which in turn calls for a stiff drink. In my case the "drink" is in a Hershey bar or Potato Skins. Thus is the circle of addiction and the Irish. 


I wouldn't be surprised if we as Irish descendants have a genetic predisposition to react to starch in our diet. After all, potatoes are mostly starch, which manifests as sugar, which brings on mood swings and naturally leads to the tendency to "bend the elbow", so to speak. But if that's what comes with my heritage of celtic runes and knotwork, a loud, loving family in which cousins abound, sweet soda bread and Barry's tea, a fondness for little ditties and almost anything green, then I guess the sweet far outweighs the bitter. 


And so I wish you, "Slainte" or Good Health. May you enjoy today and all the rest of your days. Oh, and the luck of the Irish to you.


Thanks for looking,


Claire


p.s. Don't forget to check out my etsy shop.  here's the link,
http://www.etsy.com/shop/clairegriffin164