About thirty years ago, my father described my art as “mumbo jumbo”. I just looked it up.

“meaningless incantation or ritual.”

“senseless or pretentious language, usually designed to obscure an issue, confuse a listener, or the like.”

I know my dad didn’t say that to hurt me. He went on to say that he didn’t understand it.

My art has changed a lot in thirty years, but I’m not sure that the intention behind it has changed. I also think my dad has changed. He’s painted his share of mumbo jumbo now, too.

Of course I know it’s not mumbo jumbo.

He and my mom have heard me talk and seen me cry over my art, and art I have collected. He knows it is not meaningless, even if it is not his taste or he doesn’t readily understand it.

It is so easy to criticize things we don’t understand. Your view is not the only view. You can’t complete an education.

I sort of had plans for today. I went to the basement to look for a palm sander to work on a project. I didn’t find the sander, but I found a couple of photographs and some old recordings I had made with my family in the early 1990’s.

We used to play this game called Life Stories. When you get to the end, it’s called your homecoming, and everyone is supposed to say something nice about you.

My family has a way of taking things to the next level.

On one particular night, I passed a cassette recorder around, and we recorded the homecoming comments.

A lot has changed in the 30ish years since we said these words, laying around on the floor of my parents’ family room. Most of my kids weren’t born yet. My brother wasn’t married yet. They have adult children now, too. I was married at that time.

Having lost my mom just over seven months ago, it was very emotional for me to hear her voice talking about me today. I wasn’t expecting that.

So I spent a good chunk of the afternoon making parts of it into a video so I can listen to it whenever I want to, and so I can share it.

It is really validating to hear that even three decades ago, people recognized what was important to me, and that those things are still important to me now. Family, specifically parenting. Art and creativity. Kindness and generosity. Saying what you think. Even writing made it in there.

Either the batteries died or the tape ran out while mom was talking.

There is a channel behind my house. Sometimes it is a raging creek, sometimes it is a gentle stream. Often, it is a dry trench where wildflowers grow. My arm is that kind of conduit for the creative impulses that flow down from my mind. Sometimes it is a turbulent river of paint. When the time is right, I make clay pots. If I am unable to set up all that is needed to paint or work in clay, I can always pick up a pen or pencil. Usually, regardless of what else is there, words float down the stream to accompany the images. My writing isn’t meant to explain the art. The art has to stand on its own. What comes out of me is like a Rosetta Stone… the same thing coming out in different languages or forms. Understanding one might unlock another for you.

The words are not intended to justify the visual expressions.

During those times when you don’t see any new art coming from me, know that the wildflowers are growing. I am living, and experiencing wonderful things. This way, when I do pick up a paintbrush again, I will have something new to say.

Like I told you, my paintings come from deep inside me. You can see my heart in this one.

I feel like my whole life has been a creative endeavor. It’s improv. I showed up on this life stage and had to figure out who the other characters were and where the story was going. When that didn’t seem possible, I just made an exit and maybe tried a monologue elsewhere.

My brain doesn’t work the same as other peoples’ brains. I can’t give the answer they want to hear. On top of that, my hearing loss keeps me from knowing what has been said, even with my hearing aids.

In spite of all of that, I think a lot of people would look at me and think I’ve achieved a certain amount of success.

Dyslexia has forced me to be creative.

It has forced me to find another path around the problem, undetected, and to arrive at the answer. No one saw the elaborate shapes and diagrams I had visualized in lieu of memorizing my times tables.

They thought I was being lazy when I was probably working harder, though less efficiently, than the 9 out of 10 who understood the instructions.

When I write about my struggles or my self doubts, a lot of people respond, saying they relate to what I have said. They thank me for voicing what they have felt but have had trouble articulating. What this tells me is that I am not unique. “Mainstream society” is a myth. We are all individuals who struggle in some areas and discover our abilities and our gifts in other areas. Society isn’t made up mostly of flawless robots, and you and I are the only imperfect clearance items.

There are two ways to look at it. 1. Nobody is perfect. Everyone has challenges in life. 2. We are all perfect. We are perfectly us. What we see as imperfections are simply characteristics that are gifts nobody else possesses.

There is a very good chance that I am the only one that even notices the things I hate about myself anyway. What if I embrace them instead?

I have a beautiful painting on my wall. It is an oil pastel by my friend Anne Humphrey called The Beast Goes Walking. Without knowing the title, people see the creature, and point it out to me. They discover it, because it is not necessarily obvious. It is an abstract image. Anne could have more fully rendered the image of the beast, I’m sure, if she had wanted to.

Because the beast is not a fully rendered beast, but actually just a few jagged, dark blue lines, it requires the participation of the viewer to complete or add to the narrative. In a gallery setting, the title would serve as a guide if you were in a hurry or needed a little help, but this one was not difficult. It’s a friendly piece that offers it’s main character without much effort at all.

It has continued to illustrate my home and my life for decades.

The other day, I did a little mixed media piece in which I see a similar blue beast. My beast is going uphill against a strong wind, and in rough terrain. I could make the beast as obvious as I want it to be, but that is not the point. It is not meant to be the image of a thing at all. It is paint and various colored pencils, grease pencils and charcoal.

The image is secondary.

I’d been thinking about the paint and the lines. I’d been thinking about the color spectrum. When the piece was in progress, I thought about it while I was in my bed, and how I wanted to lay the colors next to each other. So while I was not thinking about a representational form, neither was it unintentional.

Once I felt satisfied… once I enjoyed looking at it, I saw the story that I was telling.

I see the beast. I do not feel compelled to make it easier for someone else to see it. This story is about a struggle. It is about my struggle.

I don’t always want to lay everything bare. It’s not that I don’t want to share it. This is how I share it publicly. Cryptically. I open the door but I don’t swing it wide open.

I don’t know what people think when they look at me.

We go through various phases in life as we cope with the struggles along the way. I think I fought a lot of imagined adversaries, whether I was the one who imagined them, or just believed in the figments that haunted the devout who taught me from a young age.

I no longer fear the monsters of this world or any future worlds. Maybe that’s why I can be calm and speak with confidence now. I am not afraid to be wrong… not afraid to alter my course of thought when it seems to make sense to me to do so.

I listen to advice. Once in a while a heed it.

My most trusted counsel comes from my gut.

But as I was saying, I don’t know what people think when they look at me. In this age of social media, there are many whose consciousness comes into virtual contact with mine, but they will only recall a me from decades ago. Thirty, forty years or more. Even in this town where I live, there are those who will recall a loud, dramatic… a flamboyant version of me. They will have seen and will remember only the armor.

I could cringe, but I won’t. I could apologize, but I won’t. Because I survived. I survived the wounds the armor hid from view.

Some of you know details of my personal life, some of you know less. This is simply because I have nothing to hide and nothing to prove.

I write a lot on my blog. I don’t share all of my intimate details, but I try to communicate with purpose.

There is nothing wrong with you.

Look, in spite of what anyone has told you in the past, there is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing wrong with your mind, there is nothing wrong with your body, there is nothing wrong with you at all. Every person is different from everyone else, and everyone is changing.

And because no two people are exactly alike, everyone has something to learn from everyone else, and everyone has something they can teach everyone else. No one is better than you, and no one is worse than you. Everyone deserves love and respect. Everyone deserves to be listened to, and you would be doing yourself a favor if you slowed down and paid attention.

Now listen, people love to make up rules and then they like to judge everyone else based on the rules they made up. This is not a kind way for them to behave. They do it because it is convenient, especially when they have to watch over a large number of people. They want to keep order. They want to keep everyone in line.

Deep inside, there are a lot of things about people that are similar. They are the things that allow us to relate to each other. They let us understand each other. When we understand each other, we can bond and even love each other. We will discover ways that we are different, too. These are the opportunities to grow. These are times to stop and really consider something new and maybe make a decision.

Our old way of thinking is challenged by a different perspective. Is my old way of thinking correct? Is my old way of thinking the only way? How important is this issue?

New information is a good thing. We don’t have to close our minds when our thinking is challenged. We don’t have to be rigid. Nor do we have to compromise.

You’ve been told a lot of things. Some things have been told to you in actual words. Some have been messages given to you through people’s actions. Not everything you have been told has been the truth.

One of the first messages I want you to begin to rewrite is that there is nothing wrong with you. Everyone has their own strengths and challenges in life. You do, and I do. Everyone does. That’s a fact, not a fault.

Understand that there is nothing wrong with your body. You have a beautiful body. It is not inappropriate. It is not shameful or dirty. Every part of your body is amazing in spite of what someone may have said or how someone may have made you feel about it.

Never mind that some people are ashamed. Maybe some people are afraid of the good feelings their body gives them. Maybe they can’t trust themselves with pleasure. Now that is a shame, because there is nothing wrong with what you feel. It’s ok to feel pleasure, and it’s ok to feel pain.

Go and feel whatever you feel, and you can examine it up close. You can own it and recognize it as part of you. You can accept every part of yourself, and then come to love even the parts of you that you thought you didn’t like. Maybe you didn’t like them because someone else didn’t approve, or wasn’t comfortable with every part of you. Who cares what someone else thinks? That’s their problem, not yours. They will never know the wonder and beauty that you will discover as you embrace yourself completely.

I would never let anyone tell me what I’m allowed to paint.

Imagine an art gallery that will only take select paintings from you. They select certain more mainstream images, while you are more of an abstract painter. At the same time, they require a contract that doesn’t allow you to show your work in other local galleries.

What kind of wishy washy artist do you have to be to allow someone else to dictate your public voice? This is not about art, it is about making money for that gallery. It is not about your art at all, it is about their brand.

They are thinking about maximizing their profits. Part of that is how much they have to pay you. Their main goal is not promoting you.

Put the shoe on the other foot, and find a venue that will work for you.

More and more musicians have found that this has meant working for themselves. They become their own producer record label.

People have found success in many different ways, and people define success differently.

I told my son yesterday that I would rather never sell a painting again than lose my creative autonomy.

Art is not stagnant. You don’t have to keep doing what you did ten years ago, even if people liked it. You are allowed to grow, and change. You are allowed to discover new things about yourself and new things that you love. You are allowed to take your art to uncomfortable places. You are allowed to take risks.

You are allowed to be interesting.