Everything is Beautiful

Mid Summer 1988. 6:45 a.m. In an unassuming house on a worn paved road atop a hill in eastern Kentucky, a young me wakes to a soft warm glow radiating through my curtains that were made of woven threads the color of goldenrods. My room is like the sun with its deep red orange carpet and wall paper covered in whimsical yellow flowers. The golden threads of my curtains also make my bedspread, entwined to form bursts of flowers scattered throughout the cover. I have a shiny brass headboard, with precious moments pictures that hang on either side of a shelf that holds all my treasures. There is a plain white nightstand next to my bed, and a small chest of drawers on the opposite wall. Next to the window which faced the front of our house sat my most prized possession, my art easel.

I awake with the sun, and feel like the sun being charged in the solar energy of my glowing golden room. My feet hit the floor as I run down the hall and declare “It’s Morning!” to the rest of the house. I run back down the hall into our living room, open the front door and sing for the rest of the world to hear from the 1970s Ray Stevens hit song “Everything is Beautiful, in its own way! EVERYTHING IS BEAUTIFUL!” I shout off key, and truly believe it.

My mom calls me back into the house with a wide smile that quickly fades when she thinks I’m not looking. I’m not yet aware at this young age of my moms struggle with depression and mental health. My dad comes through dressed for work, grabs his lunch bucket to head out to the oil refinery where all the men in our family work. He is a good hard working father, who was denying his own artistic/creative dreams in service to family and duty. My older sister rolls over in her bed, unaware still in a deep sleep, tired from being up late reading Ann of Green Gables. If I am a morning lark, full of song and possibility of the day, then she is the night owl, watcher in the moonlight, holding court with all manner of creatures and esoteric beings in the dark in of night.

I go back to my room, pull open my curtains and smile. I grab my paints, get a fresh roll of paper on my easel and begin to paint the same landscape I always paint at this age. I look out my window and press my brush into the watery green color and begin to make hills. I layer them, and play with mixing a touch of yellow into the green to change up the colors of the grass. I then make the sun, and some simple clouds. I paint a tree, tall and strong. Just one. With some rocks and pretty purple flowers growing at its base. Occasionally I add a stream, or a field of wildflowers but not this time. On the very top hill I draw a house, with a red roof and make sure not to forget the chimney. Although it is spring in this picture, I make smoke coming from the stack. It is really important to me that the people who live there have a cozy fire to sit next to.

The last thing I add are some birds flying off into the horizon. I pretend those birds are my friends that I have just bid farewell. They are departing for adventures far far away from this little town. I beg them come back and tell me what the world is like outside of these mountains, for I've never been farther than Tennessee.

I get lost in this small scene, imaginings running wild, un aware of time or of any life happening outside.

This however, was not the picture outside my window. Outside my window was Neighbor Larry’s old trailer. He lived across the road, and had a giant garage, with an array of automobiles and machinery parts cluttering his yard. He and his wife had what must have been at least 100 million cats. Seriously there were a crazy amount of cats wandering around that trailer.

Yet, the sight of dull old rusty junk cars where a clutter of cats had made their homes, or piles of old tires that nature had begun to weave a disguise for, did not matter to me. I could look out of that window and let my mind take over. I would find a tree to use as inspiration or note the way the hills sloped behind the trailer, from one into another. I could see this beautiful landscape in my mind before it was ever on the page. This was where my creative self lived. Life was simple in those rolling hills with animal friends and nice warm fire to read books next to.

I would paint this scene with the freedom that comes from the raw unfiltered spirit of childhood. Lines crooked, perspective off, yet I was so proud and so happy with myself, and this special place I had created.

Thirty-eight years later, I still draw this image. It is the first thing I sketch when I’m anxious, sad, or just need to get something on paper. It was the first thing I made when I began allowing myself to be creative again. It reminds me of the powerful imagination I had as a child and how my younger self was so happy to be alive, unburdened by life's harsh realities when my creative force ran wide open, and all things seemed possible

Looking back at my life it hurts my heart for the little me, knowing how long I went without drawing, writing or creating. As I grew older I never acknowledged my artistic self in a way that I deserved or developed any kind of confidence or courage. I didn’t want to tell her how I had denied myself for years, and because of this forgot what it felt like to be alive. I was scared, scarred, blocked and unable to look out the window or in the mirror and see anything of any value anymore be it real or imagined. I could only see ugliness in myself and the world around me.

It took many years, support and therapy but I did finally work up the nerve to have this conversation with my little self. I told her everything, through shame and grief weighted tears I laid it all out. She flashed her sunshine filled smile, handed me some crayons and said “Its ok, I know. Everything is beautiful” And I believe her.