Cut Paper

#6. Soft, worn, oversized t-shirts.

…my life is crazy. April is going to be even crazier. I’m also on Book 7 of Harry Potter, soooooo.

I get my eyebrows from my father. Full and thick and dark, and a burden to me until I discovered tweezers in middle school. But I like them now, I think they make my face.

I get other things from my father, too. I have his slim build, his bad skin, and his dark hair. He gave me a quarter of his Native American blood, which causes me to tan gently in the summer. I rarely burn.

My little sister is the spitting image of him, and I see him so much in her smile that it makes my heart ache.

I inherited my father’s thirst for knowledge, and a desire to communicate what I know.

He gave me an appreciation for story telling; I could listen to his stories all day long. I wish I could still fit in his big armchair with him, where he used to read me books. Every night, a different book. I began to memorize them. I still know the stories, and they are now held together by old tape. I can almost see the pictures dance across the page, as I thought they did as a kid.

I like to think I have my father’s heart. He is sensitive inside; he is moved by pain and suffering. He is quiet and witty and complex and compassionate.

But I get my patience from my mother. I inherited her love to teach and nurture. She gave me her gentle spirit.

Sometimes I search my face in the mirror, and I struggle to see her there. I think I have her nose, and a little of her smile.

My older sister has her soft blonde hair and her bright blue eyes. Her light skin, and the lines by her mouth.

My mother gave me her bad eyesight and her bad teeth. She also gave me her ambition to achieve, to impress. She is strong, but breakable. She is resourceful, inquisitive, and loving. 

My parents knew I loved art.

My father brought me pads of lined yellow paper from work, and I would draw for hours. I’m still filled with delight as I remember my father coming home with an armful of paper, and setting it on the kitchen table for me. It was just for me. Lined yellow paper and ballpoint pens.

My mother worked tirelessly with me on projects for school. I didn’t have art class, because my school cared more about reading, writing, and math. So she let me work out my creativity on book reports. Simple assignments became reasons to pull out the markers and glue, and go to town.

For awhile, I hated looking in the mirror. I felt ugly, like I suppose most girls do at some point. To cope, I grabbed my lined yellow paper and my ballpoint pen, and I’d hide out in my room. I’d sit and think and build the courage, then I’d quickly draw a portrait. I drew my face with huge dark eyebrows, bad skin, and crooked teeth. I started at it for a few moments, then threw it away.  I would do this every couple of months. I don’t know why, but it helped me deal.

It helped me get out of my own head for a moment, and just be honest about how I felt. I suppose that’s why I still make art. And why I teach my students to make art. I think God gave me my art.

#5. The most organized drawer in my house.

• Things hiding underneath other things
• Things being revealed by pulling away layers
• Complexities hiding beneath minimalism
• Geometric and organic working together
• Movement, shifting
• Facets that show multiple sides to one thing simultaneously
• The seen and the unseen
• The Holy Spirit moving among us, coming to be with us