A True Authentic Hobbyist

A True Authentic Hobbyist

I am in my late 70’s. My husband passed away two years ago.  For the first time in my life, I am living alone and on my own.

It has been and continues to be an adjustment. 

 About a year ago I developed an interest in drawing.  I have never had any kind of training, and I do struggle with technique, realism, perspective and sometimes even straight lines.

But I enjoy the heck out of it.  I get lost in it and time flies by. 

I guess it is a coping mechanism which helps me adjust to this new chapter of my life.    

My interest in sketching blossomed into wanting to add color to my drawings.  A YouTube video from a watercolor artist who teaches beginners, came across my feed and I immediately got hooked.  

I have mastered neither of these pursuits, the drawing or the painting, but I carry on and am honestly obsessed.

I am a true authentic hobbyist.  

Let me explain.  

I would say that 50 percent of a hobbyist’s obsession with their chosen hobby is being able to make sure one has all of the necessary accoutrements.  

My walk-in-closet, now the graveyard of my former hobby obsession, houses stacks of bins which contain hundreds of skeins of yarn, every size hook and needle imaginable, along with each and every gadget advertised by social media influencers that I simply had to have. 

So back to my new hobby obsession, watercolor art.  

Once again, social media influencers, this time watercolor  artists, have convinced me that in order to get the same results as their landscape, I need have this paint, that brush, only this paper, and so on. 

Since my walk-in closet is full, I have transformed my guest room into what I like to unabashedly call my “studio”.   

Now mind you I am not complaining, after all as I explained earlier, shopping and accumulating the necessary “stuff” is quite enjoyable. 

When I first moved into this community, someone gave me this piece of advice that has stayed with me.

“No one is going to come knocking at your door.  It will be up to you.”

I recently discovered that my community has an art group.  They meet once a week.   I kind of stumbled across it when visiting the club house one Friday.

I have gone twice.  

For my introverted self, this is a big deal. I am particularly shy about sharing my artwork.  

The first time I went, I was warmly welcomed.  There were about eight or nine of us there that day.  We each had our own spot at a long table with enough room to spread out. 

It appeared to me that the group was well established and had been meeting together for many years. 

I have to admit I was a little intimidated by the obvious experience of the other members.  

But I sat there and did my own thing.  

The second time I went I found myself chatting with the woman and man who greeted me at the first meeting. 

I can’t even believe, me the introvert, using the word chatting. 

Anyway, from what I gathered, they both give one-on-one lessons. 

After glancing thru my sketch book, they began to give me a little advice.  

“You should be using larger paper.”

“Try not to rely on outlining your flower petals in ink.”

Now I know I should be looking at their comments, not as criticism, but more as helpful advice.  

But instead, it made me want too close my sketch book, gather up my belongings and quietly vote myself off the island.  

So perhaps drawing and painting aren’t my thing. 

I am thinking that maybe Diamond Art is more my style.

Well, gotta go.   

Off to Michales to get my, applicator pen, wax,mdrills, light pad, storage compartments and of course a diamond organizer.

I think I can make room in the guest/studio/Diamond Art room closet. 

 

UnPlug

 UnPlug

I got my first cell phone in the late 90’s. 

For me it was more than a novelty.  I thought it was the most useful and necessary innovation since email. 

Particularly reassuring was having it on hand when I was alone traveling in my car. 

I remember an incident pre-cellphone days.

On a gloomy winter day, my nine-year-old son and I went to visit my sister. She lived about 45 minutes from my house.  

We left her house for home around 5 p.m. It was already dark and had begun to rain. 

The route home was along a poorly lit two-lane rural road. 

Halfway through the trip the rain was getting steadily worse and soon turned into a downpour. 

Between the swishing windshield wipers, and the glaring headlights of the oncoming traffic, I was becoming quite anxious. 

Still, I took my time, and calmy reassured my son that we would soon be home.

We were about two miles from our house when my car started acting up.  I coaxed it another mile and pulled into a little strip mall in our neighborhood.

It was a Sunday evening. Nothing was open. No phone booths around. 

So, in the pouring rain, on that dark and stormy night, my son and I walked the last mile to our house. 

We were cold and wet, but glad to be safely home.

Today, that amazing, useful device has become something entirely different.

It’s always on my person or very nearby.  I get panicky when I don’t know where it is. 

I try to stay busy during the day with other things.  I write or paint or knit and the day goes by. 

But doom scrolling has become my bedtime routine.  Sometimes, falling asleep while my finger is still resting on the screen.  

I’ve broken many promises to detach and unplug. 

Perhaps its usefulness is something different for me now, though.  

A connection of sorts to the woman who wants my opinion on which dress she should wear to the black-tie dinner she’ll be attending in one hour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time to Appreciate Time

The father of my children, my former husband, Ken recently passed away. 

We remained cordial after the divorce. He never remarried. and continued to live in the house we shared while we were married. 

My children inherited the house, and I’ve been helping with the clean out.   

The house was built in 1973 and much of it remains orinigal. I hadn't been there in quite a while.   When I walked in, I felt as though I was entering a time warp.  

At first glance, it appeared that Ken kept the house neat, clean and uncluttered. 

But, as we began opening closets, and cabinets, walking into the basement, and checking out the garage, we started to realize how much stuff there really was.

Before he passed away, whenever we spoke, he would tell me how he was trying to get things in order and organized.  And there was evidence that he was doing just that. 

But, honestly judging by what we found and how much of it there was, the task must have seemed overwhelming to him.

He saved everything. Some of the items were things that I had kept from when the kids were little.  My wedding gown and old photographs were tucked in the back of a closet. I imagine Ken believed he would eventually have time to sort through it all. 

My past bumping up against the present brought forth emotional memories, and the time-line became blurred for me. 

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been struggling with the concept of time.  

Two years ago, I lost my second husband Ross. We were together for twenty-seven years. Since he’s been gone, I’ve settled into biding time. I didn’t realize that’s what I was doing until Ken passed away.  

Both men, Ross and Ken, lived their lives as though their time was never-ending.  For them, there was always going to be a tomorrow. 

When I first began writing this piece, I intended to tell you that losing two men who had been so influential in my life has made me feel that I would most likely spend the rest of my life quietly waiting for, frankly, my turn.  

Today, after the first good night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time, I stepped onto my patio, lifted my face towards the warmth of the spring sun and breathed it in. 

I walked around my garden taking in the beauty of the blooming tulips. I paused to quietly watch a mama robin tending her nest while papa stood nearby keeping a protective watch.  

I thought about how I've spent the last two weeks taking apart a nest.  

Life. Time.  So precious.