Gals, I’m gonna let you in on a dark n’dirty, non-PC (and that’s “Psychologically Correct” as well as “Politically Correct”) secret...
I started the art class I told y’all I’d do in November. But I couldn’t have done it without...are you ready for this?
The Husband.
Yowza! How unliberated! How codependent! I should be able to go for it on my own, Tiwanda, unleashed in all her mighty glory upon the world, right?
Wrong.
I had the opportunity this past couple of weeks to jettison some deeply cherished assumptions, and relish the joy of having let them go.
So here’s the scoop:
Everyone in my family’s a professional artist. Well, not everyone. Just my mother, grandmother, sister, daughter, aunts, and two brothers-in-law. Really.
And the way that Yours Truly asserted her independence? You guessed it: I’ve never taken a single art class in my life, even though I love to draw. I’m carting around a wheelbarrow of mishigas in the space between my ears about art.
Well, comes midlife, and the stunning recognition that I no longer have endless decades in front of me in which to entertain my art crazies. I also realize I have no interest in mucking around in therapy for more insights about why all this is the way it is, and why I’m the way I am.
I’m 53. I just want to get on with it.
Thing is, I’ve tried to get on with it. But somehow I never found the time to just sit down and do it.
So enter the Beloved Husband. David, forever bless him, volunteered to take an art class with me (he had already taken one and wanted to take another anyway).
The night of the first class, everything else looked way more interesting than art. How come I’d never noticed how filthy the bottoms of all our pans were? Or how the dust bunnies under the couch had reached man-eating size?
By myself, I would have stayed home. By bedtime I would have had a clean house, but an abandoned heart and soul.
And no amount of cleanliness is worth that to a midlife woman.
And so, sisters, bend your ears this way: I leaned on David. I allowed myself to ride to class on his assurances that I wouldn’t die of anxiety. I received the deep love of his smile as I hyperventilated my way through class. I let go into the delight of a private laugh with him as the instructor (a gorgeous young guy, which definitely helped) extolled the wonderful qualities of the Pink Pearl (eraser), Pink Pearl being one of my pet names for that tiny treasure of 8,000 nerves between my thighs.
With all that support, I was able to stay present in class, and even begin to enjoy being a rank beginner. And that night, two sacred cows keeled right over (may they Rest In Peace):
- The Psychologically Correct Cow that maintains that anything approaching need of another person stinks of codependence
- The Politically Correct Cow that vociferously asserts that, well, you know, a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle. In other words, leaning into a man is The Cosmic No No
I’m not into slaughter of innocent animals, but it sure tickled me to see those particular cows bite the dust.
And the pleasure of David’s company helped me sail right into the second class last night. I love to draw. I love it, I love it, I love it. I love driving around and watching the vanishing point beckoning to me. I love sitting in my sweet office and looking at the space between orchid and candle. I’ve broken through decades of resistance to something essential to my soul, and I’m up to my ears in pleasure and love as a result.
I’ve learned two very important things:
- At midlife, it’s time to bring to birth all those parts of ourselves that we’ve gestated for decades. Scared or not, this is it. We don’t have the luxury any more, with parents and even friends now dying, of fantasizing there’s all the time in the world. There isn’t. Therefore, sisters, if you’ve got something you’ve always dreamed about doing, the time is Now. Give yourself the unimaginably pleasureful gift of honoring what’s clamoring (or even hoarsely whispering) in your soul to be birthed.
- And just like real birth, even though we’re the ones doing it, we can’t do it alone. Time to ditch that bicycle-less fish. We know we’re strong and capable. We’ve tended babies, weathered adolescents, and shattered glass ceilings. Time now, with what time we have left on this beautiful planet, to celebrate our need for each other to birth our dreams, whether that other is best friend, husband, life coach, or neighbor. Time to relish softness and receiving. Whom can you lean into -- even a little -- for support in birthing a dream?
I’m thinking these are two of the greatest pleasures in the world: asking for and receiving support; and celebrating the birth of a beautiful, spanking new baby of our hearts and souls, with all the proud midwives who helped us through.
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