My Inheritance in Paint

My grandma has always been a sort of Renaissance woman—and she was determined that one way or another, she would teach every one of her children and grandchildren one of her skills.

Every instrument her kids learned—accordion (I know, right?!), piano, organ, flute—she taught them. Grandma knitted all kinds of slippers and socks and sewed full outfits, so it was no surprise that several cousins learned to knit and sew. Grandma painted beautiful oil and pastel scenery, and now one of the cousins does the same thing on commission. She had a small greenhouse and a rather magical, eclectic garden. Now, a good number of us dig like moles in any patch of dirt we can find, passing on the joy of growing things.

But what did she give me? Until I was a teenager, I sort of felt like Grandma and I didn’t have much in common. She and I just didn’t understand one another. Then she discovered that I was learning to love writing, and wouldn’t you know it, she had also been a freelance writer for years. (The things you learn about your grandma.) She taught me the ropes, little by little, along with a few other skills.

Example: I just came in from my garden with a basket of zucchini and tomatoes. On my way, I stopped by the mailbox and picked up a pattern for a dress I’m planning to make. A watercolor painting is drying on my desk, and I’m hoping to finish it this week. And all of it started after Grandma and I connected over writing. First, I tried oil painting. Grandma's oil sunsets were beautiful, but I didn't have the patience. I hated pastels from the moment I met them. But watercolors…

A small glass jar of water. Heavy paper.

But how did my grandma do it? She and my grandpa worked together and raised three kids. How did she paint, sew, knit, garden, write, play music, AND teach her kids those things?

It’s been a long day. I have deadlines and promises to keep. My family needs me for various reasons, but I learned long ago that none of those are served well if I am not mentally rested. So I sit down at my tiny desk, not even a yard wide, to paint with watercolors.

My parents saw my interest in watercolor and got me into some lessons. My watercolor instructor—some fifteen years ago—taught me the value of good-quality watercolor paper and guache. I don’t blow the budget on brushes and equipment, but neither do I settle for the dime-store kid paints. They would do in an apocalypse, but not when better things are available that will actually DO what I am hoping they will do.

I sketch what I want to paint, first. But from there, I could do all kinds of things. I can paint first with clear water, and then infuse the color into it and watch it bloom across the paper, only in the places where I have put the water. It’s magical; as if the painting was just appearing. As the color infuses the tiny puddle of water, I can feel my nerves unwind. The voices in my mind, all trying to be the loudest, stop. Everything is calm.

This must have been how Grandma did it--it centered her. She must have found a rest and a calm from all the kids, the messes, the deadlines, and the pressures right here, between brush and canvas. It's not really a how does it happen as much as a it must happen; not a luxury as much as a soul-maintenance. It probably happened late at night for her, much as it does for me. I'm tired; I'd like to curl up in bed with a book, but that doesn't rest my soul. Here, I meditate. Did she?

My grandparent's home is decorated with her art work--her calligraphy, her tin-punch, her love of beautiful, little things. When I look around my home, I see that I am, somehow, remarkably like her. I, too, have brought pretty little plants from my walks indoors for the table. I have decorated with my calligraphy and poetry. And as I sit down at my little desk to paint, I feel a dual sense of peace. I now know what she knew; as I mediate, I walk the same path she did.

A flower blooms from the water; a leaf, a petal takes shape with a few gentle sweeps of the brush. It doesn't need to be precise to be lovely--or it can be as precise as I wish. The sun is setting outside; I can hear the nightsounds. I will go to bed soon. But for now, I reflect on my heritage, and I paint.