I’m not really sure what mainstream society is. Some people might like to think that white American sensibility is mainstream. Maybe the most commercial (whatever sells the most) is mainstream. If you can buy it on a clearance table at the mall or hang it on any hotel room wall.

It’s hard for me to imagine that appealing to anyone. I think a lot of people find it acceptable. I dont want my art to be acceptable.

The mainstream I’m interested in is my own stream of consciousness.

I’m not trying to be unique, I’m trying to be authentic.

I believe that if I can tell a story that truly means something to me, it will resonate with viewers. That stream runs through all of us, and has been running through many generations before flowing through me.

Lately I’ve been looking at old photographs that I brought home from my parents’ shed last summer. The first album I picked up contained pictures of my great great grandparents, and may have been glued to the fragile black pages by my great great grandmother a hundred years ago. I think it was my great grandmother who assembled it, because there are many more pictures of that generation.

In a stack of six albums, there are pictures of my grandparents as young teenagers and pictures of my father as a little child. My parents’ wedding, and even pictures of me.

Turning the pages led from my great great grandfather to me.

We’re not that different. They took pictures of their cars, their houses and the pumpkins from their gardens. Just like me.

I wish I could talk to them. I wish they could have known that I would stare into the image of their eyes looking for a similarity. A family resemblance.

And then I remember that I am here because of them. Their DNA is in me, and I can see them in my mirror.

(My father’s mother’s parents)

Being creative is not unique, but what we do with it can be unique. I believe we are all creative, it’s just that we are not all confident.

We need to learn how to use the tools that we possess. The most important way to learn to draw is by drawing. The best way to develop confidence, I believe, is by taking risks. When we step outside of our comfort zone, our circle expands to include that new thing. Unfamiliar experiences can be intimidating! We tend to stick with what is comfortable.

Learning a new skill is usually frustrating at first. We don’t know what we are doing yet. Progress is slow in the beginning. That’s because we’re rewiring a part of our brain, not simply learning a language, building a wall or learning to throw pots. It gets easier with practice.

To get into a creative state of mind, I have to pick up a pen or paintbrush. You can’t steer a parked car, and you can’t develop eye-hand coordination without using your eye and hand.

To be truly creative… to create something that illustrates your own personal story, I think it needs to come from within you. It’s less creative to look to others for your motivation.

We are all inspired by what we see, whether that is a natural landscape or a piece of art made by someone else. When something inspires us, it gets absorbed into, and becomes part of us. If it comes back out, or influences what comes out again, it will have mixed with what was in there, and appear with our distinct flavor.

Our eye is the scanner. Our brain is the hard drive. Our memories are the database. Our imagination is the software to put it all together. Our hand is the printer.

My creative process benefits me in many ways. It helps me to process my life, and express it back out again. It is something that I enjoy, and something that helps to ease financial pressure.

My creative goal is to do exactly what I am doing now. It focuses my mind to make sense of my experiences.

I gauge the success of any piece by the lesson or amount of joy it brings me.

I had the most horrible, wonderful day.

I spent most of the day driving. It was the end of a dream and the end of a nightmare.

I got out of an abusive relationship that was taking a physical and emotional toll on me and my son.

It was pointed out to me the other day that we were trained to only tell the stories that end in “success”.

It’s true. Whether we are filling out a resume, a dating profile, or just talking to someone in private or at a party, we put our best foot forward. Of course, not all of our experiences work out the way we hoped. Even the successes came about with setbacks and self doubt. Once we achieve a certain degree of accomplishment, it’s easy to forget the excursions that just didn’t work. Everything we attempt is on a continuum, and all of those stories have value.

I worked hard in nursing school, not only because I was determined, but because I was afraid I would fail. I studied and panicked. I read and reread chapters. I tried to overachieve, not for honors, not to be the student speaker at commencement, but because I was afraid of what dismal failure might lurk in a coming week or semester grade.

All this time, I thought I was exemplifying study skills for my daughter who was in high school. I think the effect was actually the opposite of what I intended. Perhaps I intimidated her, or maybe she just didn’t have what I had at stake.

I was driven by my fear of failure.

I’m proud of what I accomplished, and I overcame a lot of unkind beliefs about myself in the process. I had gone back to college at age 50, and embarked on a new career. I’m at an age where I don’t want to try so hard anymore. I have to be humble and realize that I can’t save the world. I don’t need to go to extraordinary measures to improve my life.

Once again, I am guilty of trying… of trying too hard. I think about things a lot. More and more, getting what I thought I wanted turns out to be a curse. I research things before I dive into them. Relationships. Relocating. Growing my family. Maybe I don’t research enough, or I think I can make my life better or help someone else. I try. Sometimes it doesn’t work out, and sometimes the failure is epic.

For three months, I have been trapped in an extremely uncomfortable and at times dangerous situation. It ended today. Prior to three months ago, I thought I was busy. I thought I was anxious. I thought my house was messy. I didn’t realize how good I had it. Why do I need to learn things the hard way?

It was not ideal… not a success. We are damaged, and now we begin to regroup and heal.

It’s hard to be happy when lives have been traumatized. I thought I would feel giddy when I finally got to this point, but the best I can feel is relieved. I want to lock all my doors, pull all the window shades down and scrub every inch of my house.

I had no support. When I told caseworkers I was in crisis, they said “thanks for hanging in there, Tim!” Maybe that was meant to encourage, but it made me realize I was all alone. I pleaded for help, and they suggested I call the police.

I’m standing in the aftermath, and I will recover. I’m still looking for the gifts. Sometimes they are hard to see. A few years ago, I came away from a situation knowing better. That was all I could glean from it. I felt such contentment when it was over, and that is what I am hoping for again.

You never know what anyone else is going through. Outward appearances can be deceiving. Don’t envy anyone, and don’t make assumptions about their lives. Please remember to put your own oxygen mask on before assisting others.