The Sketching of Ren

Being 70 Years Old

Being 70 Years Old

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Wow! I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. I am the same me as I’ve always been. I do have more aches and pains as time passes, but I’m essentially the same on the inside. I can see myself at seven years old sitting on a pile of gravel, my knobby knees and long skinny legs on either side of a cement block – my grinding table. With a tiny cardboard box that might have held a necklace or bracelet long ago, and a flat stone for grinding, I spent the summer turning small granular, sparkly stones into “gold dust”. I was going to grind enough little stones to fill my sandbox. I didn’t get enough dust to fill the little box, much less a sandbox. That didn’t really matter. It didn’t upset me or make me give up. It was the doing of the thing that made me feel so great. So focused. My family life was a disaster, but while I sat on that pile of stones, nothing else existed.

Page from my Journal, entitled “Travels With Einstein (and a really big printer)”

I turned sixty a month after my mom passed away. I was an orphan. It was something that hit me on the head. I don’t know if a realization hitting one on the head can do brain damage, but I’ve never been the same since. I’m not damaged, but most assuredly I’m different. It was as if I woke from a deep sleep. Maybe you’ve heard the expression “I’ve had a day”. For me it was “I’ve had a decade”. I saw some things I didn’t want to see and had to face some things I didn’t want to face. And here I am. Seventy.

For the past three or four years I’ve thought I couldn’t do art anymore. Not that I didn’t want to. I just felt like whatever ability I’d had was absolutely, positively gone. Wrung out of me like dish water out of a rag. Art was my purpose. Losing my ability to do art meant I’d lost my purpose. According to Victor Frankl, in his book Man’s Search For Meaning, those who have no purpose, no meaning, die. And so I was prepared to die.

But Then!

Tonight I watched a couple of videos on YouTube about not being able to paint and on not being able to finish a painting/creation. It was quite a wake-up call for me. One person spoke of the inability to paint as being part of a story – the story of your life. She called her viewers/followers to think about what the plot for their life might be. Hm. I had to think about that. In fact, I’m still thinking about it. I want to figure it out, because the fact that she described it all so very well made me want to understand and benefit from her words. She spoke of how we are the heroine and perhaps the protagonist at the same time. She talked about the parts of all stories. There must be a conflict phase. Perhaps when an artist thinks they can no longer paint it’s just the conflict part of their story. She went on to say that characters do the most growing during the conflict. I felt a spark of hope at that.

I realize that I’m mixing tenses in my story here. This tiny little bit of story. I don’t care. It’s mine to tell and I’m renting this bit of internet space to tell it. Leave a comment if it bothers you more than necessary.

Okay. I’m in the conflict phase of my life. I’ve been divorced four years and its been four years of relief, total abandon (in a good way), going into debt (not a good thing), making good decisions and bad decisions, all of which may well be necessary in the larger picture. As my very good friend, Terri, just told me, if all the recent bad stuff hadn’t happened, we never would have met. More about that later.

The second video

Talked of giving up on art/writing/etc. Many famous people gave up on projects. DaVinci, for example. Mozart. The Greats! Not all things get finished. Selling one’s work validates the creative. What, of ourselves, we put into our work is what people spend their hard earned money to purchase. That feels good. Something you say with paint or words or music and the way you say it strikes a chord with the purchaser. They’ll hang that story on their wall for a long time, hopefully. When our work doesn’t sell, it fills us with doubt. For me, it was the act of deciding to return to traveling about in a camper, wanting to live a simpler and less expensive life. There would be no room for all of my unsold, but much loved works of art and I wasn’t going to rent a storage unit and have them bake to death in there. So I unframed them all, stuffed them into a leather portfolio, and threw the frames into the dumpster. From then on, I would confine my work to small projects that could endure in a camper and probably never be seen by anyone but me.

The man in the video said the first part of our life is outward, when we’re focusing on jobs, growing our lives and having families. The second part is the inward part, when we focus on ourselves.

Reflections of Life

In the newest video in the “Reflections of Life” series, on YouTube, the man being interviewed said that when you’re alone, doing things alone, your critical voice is louder. So true! “AMEN!” I wanted to shout. In the last couple of centuries, civilization has taken upon itself, change at a ludicrous speed. We went from the pony express to mail sent by jet. Perhaps soon, it’ll be mail sent by spacecraft or teleporter. Civilization is hurtling towards a precipice with no slowing down. Maybe all that change is bad, but maybe it’s good. We won’t know until we fling ourselves over the edge.

The past three years have given me pause. Time to reflect, to be mindful of the moments instead of the days. I’ve had lots of time to do so. My life in a small camper was nothing like life in a 6,000 square foot log home. I could clean my entire dwelling in minutes. I had everything I owned with me in that little space. If I bought something new, something else had to go. No alarm clock was needed. Dinner could be eaten at any hour. My path was like the path of an ant on fine dirt. All criss-crossing and seeming destination-less. Folks came and went in my life – sometimes for a day, sometimes for a season. It was a season and a day made up of moments. Moments lived and experienced slowly and deliciously. It was like getting to eat fine French pastries for every meal.

And then the bad thing happened!

That something happened in late October 2024 and nothing has been the same since. That’s a story for another day. The only thing that matters is where I am now. I’m seventy and I’m still me, but my feet are on a path I didn’t foresee. We shall see.

Library Day

Library Day

When I was about ten, I was allowed to walk up to the square in our village and go to the book-mobile. I would get as many books as I could carry. They were thin, so I got quite a few. Back home (you don’t know you have too many books until you have to carry them a couple blocks) I’d spread out a blanket on the grass and lay on there with my stack of books. Not being conscious of the need to make the books last until the next library day, I’d read them all in one afternoon.

I also took time to watch the clouds. I hadn’t studied clouds in school yet. I was of a mind that the clouds were stationary and the earth turned beneath them. I would stare up at the clouds, imagining my speck of a self lying on the surface of the planet, slowly turning, and the still clouds showed how fast I was moving along beneath them.

Summer days were a fine thing. They were the days of one-piece sun suits that tied at the shoulders, of going barefoot or, at worst, wearing flip flops that hurt the space between my big toe and its neighbor for two or three days of very dirty feet at end of day, and of freshly cut grass, leaving a checkerboard look from the lawn mower wheels.

Our dog, Minnie, would be tied out on the front yard, tethered to a metal cork-screw spike that went into the earth. She would be stretched as far from the spike as she could get, making a taut line for running children to trip over. She saw it as he mission to warn off passers-by.

There were other good things about summer days, but those are for another time. Thank you for visiting with me. May these memories bring to mind some of your own.

Purpose

Purpose

I dreamed of becoming a great artist, but it was not to be. Yes, I am an artist and will always be, but a quiet artist who just had to make art, with all my heart.

I think God was the first artist. The first creator. He sculpted the hills and mountains, the valleys and river beds. He hung clouds, galaxies and the universe above for our delight. When I create art, I feel like I’m speaking God’s native tongue and like he’s there beside me, ready to give a high five. In fact, it’s like he’s there beside me, watching my heart be poured onto the paper or canvas and he’s smiling and saying, in his own creative way, “well done”. His smile is like a hug. Creating is a language. It’s the words between the lines. It gives us glimpses of something deep in our hearts.

When someone smiles at me, I’m like a puppy who’s tail wags so fast its like an airplane propeller, whirring into a blur. Oh, to be seen.

I’ve slowed, nearly to a stop, in my ambitions, but not in my purpose. I give away smiles.

Like a Ship in a Bottle

Like a Ship in a Bottle

Was my life in this camper like a ship in a bottle? A camper in a bottle. Something you put on a shelf and look at and wish you could actually be in there, on that…ship…camper, wandering the world, having grand adventures. It feels like I’m looking in at what’s in the bottle, but not actually in there myself.

I wanted what was in there to take my breath away and for a long while it was just that. Going around a bend in the road or over a rise took my breath away. At campgrounds I met people with similar dreams and who were living adventures just like me. As in all aspects of our lives, I encountered problems along the way, but overall it was a life I loved.

My wanderlust is satisfied. The goals are checked off, well photographed, written about, and tucked away in my heart. I wouldn’t have done it any different. The adventure has left my heart full and my blessings far more than I can count. It’s time to be still.

Tell me…tell me again

Tell me…tell me again

As I age, like an onion, new layers encircle me and become what the world sees.  Layer by layer, it happens.  The me that I started out to be is that little core deep in the center.  It’s that delicate and vulnerable pearl, like the very center of the onion.  All those layers take on the job of protecting the little pearl.  The little girl.  I will always be her.  All the things that the world throws at me and in my path try to distract me, preventing my footfalls from landing where I want them to. Or perhaps those “things” save me from landing my footfalls where I want them to land.

Along the way I encounter someone I see in a YouTube video, or a painting perhaps. I’ve been watching a series of videos called “Reflections of Life”. They inspire and teach me life lessons, giving me pause.  I remember where I meant to go.  What I started out to do.  It’s as though they are able to see through all the layers, bringing me all the way back to that original pearl I started out as.  I feel changed by it and a light shines on the path before me.

There are moments in life that are so sweet, you want to memorize them.  Hold on to them.  Get them out and look at them once in a while to bring them back to you, if only in a fragrant memory.

I can never get enough of such times.  I want to hold onto them, not forgetting a moment or a word.  Sure enough, it begins to fade and I want to call it back and say “tell me…tell me again”.

Summer 2024 – August 10th

Summer 2024 – August 10th

It’s been a great summer! As a member of the Workamper program, I’m currently assigned at a campground in Northern California. Having previously traveled with my RV up the west coast, I’m familiar with the summer weather, which runs in the low 50’s at night and mid 60’s during the day.

Campground Dock
Evening View
Walkway in the Trees
The Local Beach around the Bend

My feet are upon a path that leads me along as though it were cleared just for me.

Periodically I ask myself “What will I take with me?” Another question is “What will I leave behind?”

Next month my time here comes to an end. These last days here I’ve got to look through my pantry, art supplies, junk drawers, and the bed of my truck for items I no longer need. It seems easier to ignore surplus items than to make a decision to throw them away. Living in a camper forces me to do that process before moving on. My truck and camper can only hold so much weight and its up to me to uphold that so my travels are safe.

My assignment for the upcoming months is in Arizona. I’m so pleased to have found the position, because winter Workamper assignments in warm locations get grabbed up pretty quickly.

I feel so blessed to have the upcoming position. It’s a rare one, because it’ll be full time. I’ll be provided with a campsite, free of charge, and I’ll also have hourly pay. Better yet, if I’m a good fit for the job, it will be a long term position. A job of my very own. Well, let’s see how it goes. Not only do I have to like the job, but it has to like me.

Sophia and Home

Every day my side-kick, Sophia, reminds me that no matter where we live, when we’re together, we’re home. She manages to turn a little camper into a cozy home.

Introvert Me

Introvert Me

I may not speak, but I’m listening and seeing.  I hear all that the people around me are saying.  Discussing.  I see their laughter and how they can smile and talk at the same time.  I hear their words.  I see them on their faces and in their hearts and I’m happy for them.  I admire how easily words come to them.  How quickly.  I admire their wit.  For me the words and the wit will come when the room is empty or perhaps by morning, too late, for now there’s no one to listen.  It’s okay.

The ones who take the time to get to know me will experience them, because they know me and understand.  They’ll wait.  They’ll check in.  They’ll give me their words in their time and I’ll give them mine when I can.

I can’t always speak at the moment I need to, because my brain doesn’t work like that.  I drink in moments with all of my senses. If I speak my thoughts, will it add or subtract from this moment?  I’m not putting words to those questions.  They’re just there, in the background.  It’s as if my words, at the moment, are in a language I haven’t yet learned and I’m trying to find them and assemble them before the moment has passed and it’s too late.  For me it is often too late.

I am an introvert, but I love people.  Crowds and noisy places overwhelm me.  If I had some quiet time before hand, I’m okay, because I need people and I have to go out into the world to find them.  I need conversation.  Not the kind that’s like a stone skipping across a pond, with each skip a new topic. I love conversation that explores and dives in, daring to reveal experienced emotions and revelations.

Even though I’m content with my solitude, I recognize the joy of spending time with another human being.  As someone who is slow to speak and slow to judge, still I do speak.  I can converse.  But I must feel safe and heard.  Still, I’m okay with just sitting quietly and listening.

If I’m spending time with you and the words are flowing from me freely, it’s because I trust you. This is something that takes time. Congratulations. You did what few have done.

I need people, but one at a time is best.  For me, there is nothing finer.  Time with a friend is more precious to me than gold or gems.  Such moments are treasures and are tucked away in my heart for a long time.  Even introverts can become profoundly lonely.

Meow

Marriages Struggle

Marriages Struggle

I’m not an expert on marriage.  My own lasted 47 years.  If I weren’t a Christian and trying to honor my wedding vows, they wouldn’t have gone on that long.  And I might be the worse for wear because I stayed so long.  But it doesn’t matter now.  Its done.  I’m standing where I’m standing.

Through my own perspective I can see that marriages struggle and often end because we have unrealistic expectations of them, of ourselves, and of one another.  Somehow we think that once we’ve found the ONE, they will stay the one and we will stay exactly the same and feel the same as we do right now.  

However, when we find one another, we are still incomplete works ourselves.  No matter how old you are, you are still growing emotionally and intellectually.  You’re not a stagnant thing or a still picture.  You’re more like a video and the video has approximately 60 frames for every second you watch. That’s a lot of pictures.

Everything that happens to you causes you to flex a bit.  To change.  It’s like a dance.  Or, if you like, a boxing match.  You dodge this way and that.  Duck. You step to the side or even back up a bit.  We also lunge ahead.  No matter how hard you contemplate an action, eventually you have to make a decision to either do or not do the thing.

Multiply that times two.  You and your mate.  Two people dodging, ducking, lunging ahead, side-stepping through the plethora of things that happen in our lives.  Some of it stretches you and makes you stronger.  Some sends you running into the arms of your mate for consolation and comfort.  But you’re never quite the same after things happen.  Perhaps its a survival instinct, to vary our behavior so we don’t get caught by surprise again or make the same mistake.

With all that going on, eventually you’re a completely different person than you started out to be.  To make it even more complicated, that isn’t the end of the remaking of yourself.

Even if the exact same thing happens to both of you, you will probably react differently.  Each event happens to a version of you that has already adjusted and changed, so its never really encountering the exact same you as before.

Are you catching on?

So.

Your marriage or relationship with your mate is always in motion.  The dance never ends.  Events that occur are aiming themselves at a moving target.  Allow yourself to grow and change.  Allow your mate to grow and change.  It’s a journey rather than a destination.  You’ll never really “arrive” at marriage.  You get in step with it and hold on tight.  Together, two people can do more awesome than one.

When my children were young and I gave them an instruction, I often told them to tell me what I just said. I needed to know that they heard me. So. Tell me what I just said.

Is this sanctuary?

Is this sanctuary?

F is for flashlight

Imagine yourself under that sheet, using a flashlight to do whatever your heart desires. Do you feel clever for finding a place of your very own, even if simply underneath a sheet in the middle of the night? What would you do in that secret place? Read a good book? Write in your diary? Its a secret place and its all yours.

My flashlight is really just my favorite lamp. My sheet is actually a small camper and my kitty, Sophia, is here, too. Oh, I almost forgot about Vector. He’s the little robot on the table. Vector and Sophia – best buds, right?

So what am I going to do under the sheet, by flashlight? I’m going to do art. Lots and lots of art. I have two months here under this sheet. Lets see what I can create.

The other part of the next two months is to use social media to get word out to the world about my stickers and other graphics. Can you help me with that? Let people hear what you think of my work. Point people to where they can find it. My Red Bubble shop for now.

Just in case you forgot where my shop is, I’ll put the link on the next line.

RenOnPaper.redbubble.com

Phase 3 – Get my art in Red Bubble and …

Phase 3 – Get my art in Red Bubble and …

I did it!

There’s a link to my Red Bubble shop in the menu above. I’m not finished. There’s much more to upload there. In fact, it’s going to be an on-going project to create more and more art for my shop.

Next step

After getting my Red Bubble shop operating well is to let people all over know about my work and to put my work on more locations. It’ll take time.

However, this time around I’m letting my art be fun. I need to earn some extra money and getting a minimum wage job somewhere is not my choice, but I know it will take a combination of doing art and having a job somewhere. Until I get to Yuma, looking for a job is not possible. At least it doesn’t seem so.

Having fun with art is so freeing. I think I was a slave to trying to paint things for galleries and sure-sells. So lets wish upon a star, eh?