There are the things that connect my childhood memories to
my senses and experiences as an adult.
For example, something as basic as a box of 64 Crayola Crayons. You know the one I am referring to, the big
box, with the tiered crayon display and the built in crayon sharpener. There was something almost magical with this
to me. I would open that box and be
overcome by the smell of new crayons. An
earthy mix of wax, paper and potential would hit me like an intoxicating
perfume. My eyes would feast on the perfect
tips of 64 crayons unblemished by use. They
were always organized impeccably in an array of colors covering both ends of
the spectrum and every hue in between. I wanted to protect the pristine order
of that box. I wanted to ensure that a
color was never out of place and that there was never a dent or bruise in the
wax or a tear or mark on the soft paper wrappings. I would sit there looking at
my Big Chief Tablet, mouthwatering at the thought of taking the ideas from the depths
of my mind and transferring them to those pages with those 64 wonderful
colors. Therein lay the beginnings of one of the very
first dilemmas I ever struggled with. At
the tender age of 4, I had a choice to make.
I had to decide what was more important to me, the preservation of the
Crayola, or giving life to my thoughts and ideas.
When I
became a mother, I found myself in much the same predicament. These beautiful little boys lay in my arms, completely
unblemished. Their skin was perfect,
soft, smooth and pink. Their eyes were
bright and clear, and even as infants I saw in them such inquisitive intelligence. I knew that these children were mine to
protect from the world. They were mine
to nurture, and yet their potential to impact the world was limitless. I knew that they had minds full of ideas and
beauty, just itching to get out. Fifteen
years after I first faced my crayon dilemma, I was faced with it again. I had a choice to make. I had to decide what was more important to
me, do I hold this little boy and shield him from the world, to protect him and
to keep him safe from the hardships I knew would hurt him? Or would I find a way to allow him to color
his world in any hue he chose, to go outside the lines to change the outcome of
the mass produced image, creating something completely new and different.
As a
creative person, the answer to my first challenge was almost not a choice. I was driven to take those waxy sticks and
transform the pages into colorful statements of love and innovation. My ideas found a voice on the pages of my Big
Chief tablet. As a parent, the answer
was harder to find. Every intuition in
me told me to protect the child. If I
could have swept them away to a deserted island to shield them from the pain
and hardship life would certainly bring them, I would have. But then, hardship and pain are universal aren’t
they? No one is exempt, no matter how fortunate their life may seem. When I thought back to the difficult times I
had endured, I realized that they had awakened in me some special trait that
had served me well at another time in life.
Even Peter Pan and the Lost boys had Captain Hook making their lives
difficult.
The funny
thing about crayons, is that there is almost never a time that they are unable
to create beauty. They can be worn down,
papers missing, broken and boxless. They can exist only as an orderless mass,
tied up in a plastic grocery bag. They
can be so short that even the pudgy fingers of a toddler find difficulty
managing to control them. Even in
conditions such as these, beauty and function can be found. I think back to some of my favorite
projects. The shavings from the crayon
sharpener sprinkled over an Autumn leaf and melted between 2 pieces of wax
paper. A paperless crayon used to place
consistent , even shades on a scenic drawing.
The shortest stubs of wax tossed in a muffin tin with its fellow stubs,
and melted together in the oven, only so that when the tins cool, a whole new
crayon is created – one the capacity of leaving several different colors
depending upon the angle of its use.
Interestingly
enough, the human spirit is not all that different. There is almost never a time that a human
being is unable to create beauty. They
can be worn down and broken, naked and alone.
They can feel lost in the crowd, so overused that only a handful are
able to see them in the masses of other broken, lonely people. They can be on the brink of just giving up,
thinking that they do not matter. But
even at these moments, humans are still capable of creating beauty, and love
and meaning.
As I think
back to some of the lowest times of my life, I realize that these are the
moments that give birth to the balance.
These moments of despair brought me something. An impulsive suicide attempt taught me that
sometimes just waiting a few moments makes all the difference. Financial hardship has taught me that I can
make do on a lot less, and that the most important things in life are not
measured on a credit report. Marriage
has taught me that love is a choice.
There are always going to be times when it would be easier to walk away,
but the easy path isn’t always the best
or most rewarding path. My hardships
have always given me something. They have
given me some insight, or wisdom or strength which allowed me to continue
on. They have given me a palette of
colors to work with as I created my next masterpiece. They have endowed upon me, an intense desire
to overcome the despair and to be happy, but they have also awarded me a skill
which would allow me to approach life with a deeper sense of health. They have given birth to a balance.
It is here
in the balance that the answer to my parenting dilemma is answered. If I were to shield my children, and soon to
be, grandchildren from the pain and hardship that life naturally brings to all
of us, I would be depriving them of their own development. On some level, in order to be truly happy, a
person must know what it means to be unhappy.
In some sense life is a Big Chief tablet, and hardship is a gift of
crayons, allowing a person to give life to their hopes and dreams. It affords them the opportunity to color
outside the lines and redefine their experiences to create their own beauty. As I write this, I am struck with the urge to
go to the store and buy myself a box of 64 Crayolas, open it – rip all the
papers off of them and mix them up in a jumbled mass on the table so that they
are ready for the next adventure. When
my granddaughter is old enough – this is the gift I plan to give her.
