For all my life, no matter where I was or what I was doing (including earning an undergraduate degree in mathematics), I thought of myself as a writer, mostly a poet, but one who would venture into other literary arts, from personal essays to short fiction. I played guitar, but did not consider myself to be a musician. And I knitted, but would hardly think of myself as a fiber artist. In my personal and professional life, I wrote: happy, sad, busy, engaged, exhausted or exhilarated.
But when my 94-year old grandmother died in January, I had no language for my sorrow.. The fact of her very long life, and its attachment to mine, did not mitigate my grief. When I tried to write about her, I could not.
Instead, inspired by something I had seen among the visual artists in a creativity group I joined on Facebook, I thought I’d draw. The artists had introduced me to something called Zentangles, so I went to Michael’s craft shop to buy the right pens and papers. While there I was drawn—of course—to the pens, which included a gorgeous collection of watercolor pens. I grabbed two packs.
Zentangles, I read,, are to be done as a form of meditation and mindfulness practice. For me, they were a bit of mindlessness, a way out of the sorrow, and, it turns out, a way to communicate my deep love for my grandmothers.
I don’t have an artist’s imagination, so I googled Zentangles and found an image of a young face. I drew that, and then another, and then colored and colored some more—and wound up with a little drawing that I shared with my creativity group.
The artists, knowing that I had never drawn before, encouraged me. They thought the drawing was beautiful and emotional, and urged me to try it some more. As a writer, I’d have dismissed by own work as sentimental tripe.
But, since poetry continued to fail me, I kept drawing. I spent hours alone, drawing pictures and then coloring them. I’d share with the artists, and they’d suggest other strategies: to sketch with a pencil, to prevent blurred ink. I now have a collection called, What are Mothers For? to be followed by similar titles about grandmothers, friends, and caregivers. (I just need a publisher!) I have even drawn panels about my all-time favorite poem, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. It seems low-brow, but it makes me happy.
Learning to draw, with its constant challenge of my creative self, has returned me to language. Writer’s block? I can’t write fast enough. And I notice the world more, pay close attention to how things look or change or shift or connect. All elements that good writers know to observe.
It seems wise, then, not to label ourselves too much, or to be too reluctant or self-conscious to try other arts. A few weeks ago, I had the good fortune to talk to Nils Lofgren’s one-man back-up band, Greg Varlotta. We were standing at the bar, and I asked him how it was possible that one man could go from the piano to guitar to tapdance to harp to trumpet, as he and Nils had done. Did knowing one instrument, I asked, enable him to flit around with every other one he encountered. Greg laughed and said of course not, it was all about holing up in a room all alone and playing for countless hours to master the instrument. What appeared to be effortless was, in fact, sheer hard work.
And so with art. I had never dared come close—but dabbling has led to fascinated joy and mastery of a new skill. It has also given me hours alone in my own mind, where words and ideas have always danced. When we think them most blocked, perhaps picking up a different instrument can open the door. Who knows what you’ll play.