My Creative Evolution

Age 1.  At my 1-year old birthday party, I stand on the table beside my cake and sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to myself along with the rest of my family. Yes, I know all the words, as well as the melody. Firstborn intelligence—it's a thing.  [Thank God I grew into those thighs]

Age 4.  Dad teaches me to draw by having me sketch a dog smoking a pipe. Dad honors the fundamentals, so he keeps it simple, plus, I am only four years old. I draw that dog on everything (including my closet wall) until I later begin drawing things that make my teachers and parents wish I would go back to drawing a dog smoking a pipe.

Kindergarten.  In Miss Campbell's class, we perform a skit to Little Bunny Foo Foo (a song my father swears he wrote), and I draw a poster of the result of Little Bunny Foo Foo's nefarious actions, a forest monster that the Fairy Godmother deems a 'goon.' 

My version of said goon resembles a giant, waving mass of pubic hair with eyeballs, mittened-hands, a smile and large feet. This is the inception of my more advanced artistic abilities.

Age 6.  On more days than my parents will readily admit, I embark on a solo reenactment of a supposed day-in-the-life of Huckleberry Finn. I have no idea why (other than loving Richard Thorpe's movie) but I remember being exceedingly joyful in this make-believe world. Barefoot, with my jeans rolled up, a knapsack I've made from a branch and one of my dad's handkerchiefs, and the placement of my stuffed animal, Tony (whose species remains unknown to this day), upon my shoulder, I meander back and forth along the dirt path that my dog Bippy has forged in a trail along the fence line of our backyard, personifying the rogue Mark Twain character and talking to myself. I am definitely in my own world, whistling with a gleeful skip in my step. 

I'm certain that between my prodigious 1-year old intonation of Happy Birthday and my desire to be alone a lot, if autism had the foothold it has today, someone would have wanted to place me somewhere on the spectrum. Instead, I was just deemed "the different one."

Age 7. I love my Big Chief writing tablet. I credit it (and Ms. Sparks and Ms. Garwood who were sticklers about cursive writing techniques) for my fine penmanship.

When I was younger, I was lauded for the beauty of my handwriting. Today, I smile confoundingly as I watch people squint their eyes as they read a birthday card I’ve given them, or get wide-eyed trying to decipher an instructional note. My writing today in no way emulates the graceful cursive flow practiced incessantly within my Big Chief tablets. Today, unlined Moleskine tablets are my tablet of choice, but Big Chief was unmistakably my first love.

Age 7.  My sister, Julie, my cousin, Kelly, and I perform many dramatic dance moments in Joan Lang's Dance Studio, but the most memorable of our recitals is our performance of The Elephant Song. According to my parents, grandparents and my aunts and uncles, it was the most entertainingly painful thing to watch. We apparently just danced our own willy-nilly choreography with our arms dangling in front of us like elephant trunks, and argued on stage about where we were supposed to line up during the entire performance. I'm sure I was completely out of my body, sort of like those times when I would perform in parades for Joan Lang's studio in an itchy blue costume that cut into my armpits and made tossing a baton nearly impossible without cringing in agonizing pain. I still wonder whether Joan Lang loved or loathed children.

At age 9, I put my tap shoes down and refused to ever again dress like a chicken or a can-can girl or any other torturous character in Joan's ensemble. I can honestly say I hated dance studio. Ironic, since now I'd give my nonexistent first-born child for a chance to compete on Dancing With the Stars.

Age 7.  My sister Julie and I choreograph a complex theatrical performance where we reenact all commercials that have singing parts. Back in the 70s, when the jingle graced every brand, there were a plethora of such commercials. 

Our stage is atop an outhouse at our cousin's cabin in the Rocky Mountains, or on the roof of our family camper.  It becomes a yearly ritual through which my parents are loving and patient enough to sit. And clap. And demand encores. God love them.

Also Age 7.  I discover the books and genius of Dr. Seuss. Though I have no idea at this time what anapestic tetrameter is, I recognize that the melodic cadence of Seuss's books create inside me a pleasantly dichotomous feeling of both relaxation and excitement.  

Age 8.  My best friend Gina and I create a worm farm out of one of my mom's terrariums. It gets really interesting when we begin dissecting the worms to "learn more about their inner anatomical functions." I list this as part of my creative evolution mostly because I think any person infatuated with terrariums has a pretty good creative spirit; not to mention, we had to be pretty creative to cut cross-sections of a worm with a butter knife.

Age 9.  I take the confirmation name Francis (for my favorite saint, St. Francis of Assisi). Our parish priest, Fr. Coleman, demands I change the 'i' to an 'e' on my confirmation stole due to the fact that I am a girl. I refuse, while getting a little help from my dad in negotiating with Father. Needless to say, I proudly parade down the aisle with my felt fabric sewn stole donning the name FRANCIS. I'm certain my parents have since defined this moment as some fierce foreshadowing of my adult life.

Age 9, again. I take guitar lessons in Room 3 of St. Mark’s Catholic Church. Proud Mary is the first song I learn due to its simple chord changes. I’m sure my parents to this day cringe when they hear that song. It’s the only thing I strummed on my guitar for months. No doubt they wanted to send me rollin’ on the river.

Also age 9.  I'm fascinated by Bob Ross and how easily he can create a landscape that entails, mountains, streams, trees... and birds. I am equally frustrated by the fact that I cannot easily replicate his landscapes despite the fact that he makes it look incredibly easy (birds or no birds).  

Age 10.  Daily, I confiscate my mom's cassette-tape player, lock myself in the hall bathroom and sing in the mirror (hairbrush mic and all) to Helen Reddy and Mama Cass. My favorite thing is to make up my own harmonies. This marks the very moment that "making my own kind of music" becomes a soul-imperative.

Also at age 10.  I co-write my first song with my best friend, Gina. We write the music to guitar chords and entitle it Love Is Like, with lyrics far more mature than our young, innocent years, including things like "waking in the morning" with that special someone. My Mom swears Gina and I spent more time bickering about what key it should be played in than ever actually performing the song. Gina and I still belt out a few lines of the song together on those far too rare occasions when I'm home in Kansas City for a holiday, or, God forbid, a funeral.

Also at 10.  I sing a rendition of Don Henley and Bernie Leadon’s Witchy Woman by replacing the 'w' of witchy with a 'b.' I choose to do this special interpretation in the form of a living room concert for a group of my parents' friends visiting our home for a fondue party. Living room concerts are thereafter forbidden anytime we have company.

Age 11.  I think I experience Stendhal syndrome when seeing the statue of the Sacred Heart at the top of the hill of the Mother Cabrini Shrine in Colorado, but I was likely just dizzy from running the whole way up the stairs. This very same dizzying feeling happens again when I step foot into the Rothko Chapel for the first time in 2002, but I didn't run any stairs that day. Entering the Rothko Chapel and dropping to one's knees isn't likely unique to me, but I'll never forgot that feeling of weepy weakness while witnessing such beauty.

One of my previous girlfriends thought I experienced Stendhal syndrome when seeing her naked body before my eyes for the first time, but we later realized I had food poisoning.

Age 10.  I always liked the snowflake cut-out assignments we did in grade school as we neared the Christmas holiday. I also enjoyed doing my own art project of cutting half mushroom-like images out of varying colors of folded construction paper. I never understood why Ms. Shaefer one day scooped up all my cut-outs, saying, "Not these again," and hurriedly throwing the whole lot of them into the trash, anxiously uttering an emphatic "Jesus, Mary and Joseph" under her breath. 

It was several years later that I realize that I'd been cutting out baskets full of multi-colored mini penises. I bet that little exercise could tell psychologists way more about me than a Rorschach blot test.

Grade 6.  I win consecutive speech contests for my speech that essentially makes fun of the author of the Atkins Diet, Robert Atkins, to the point of predicting that he will die from eating so much meat. When he dies years later, I feel hideous.

Age 13.  I begin doodling my signature abstracts, later learning from a shaman that my art is a necessary monologue from my soul, and that not engaging in such artwork causes a great disconnect with my spirit, which can lead to stagnation of my life. Holy crap. I’ve been drawing them ad-nauseum ever since.

Also at 13.  Gina and I produce a photo shoot complete with various locations and respective scenes. The purpose of this photo shoot is to create a visual reel to send to Farrah Fawcett to let her know what huge fans we were, and to convey to her our own luscious beauty.

With one of us on set displaying our best bedroom-eyed playboy poses, the other art directs and captures the essence of teenage beauty through the lens. We think for sure we will end up getting a call from producers who are anxious to have us appear on an episode of Charlies' Angels. To no avail. I always thought we didn't hear back from Farrah or her crew because I had just cut my hair and looked too much like a little boy. For years, I harbored the guilt of possibly disheveling mine and Gina's one chance at fame.

Also at 13.  I realize that I not only love the work of Dr. Seuss, but that my own brain may very well work like his. I begin making up rhyming poems for Mother's Day and Father's Day cards, for thank you notes and special gifts. The cadence is incredibly Seuss-esque. My anapestic tetrameter is so good, I begin contemplating the possible reality of reincarnation.  

Age 14.  I discover M.C. Escher, and my adolescent brain begins to delightfully warp realities into engagingly imaginative worlds that cleverly morph away the angst of being a teenager– a teenager who knows that she is "different." Today, Escher drawings, though still fascinating, just make me dizzy)

Age 15.  I sing my first public solo in my high school talent show. The only other time I've seen my parents more surprised (they had no clue I could sing well, which is confounding since my singing in the hall bathroom constantly brought about its share of urgent door poundings when one of the other 5 persons in the house needed to urgently use the bathroom). The only other time I witnessed my parents’ mouths agape in shock and awe was when I shoulder-plowed my sister's bedroom door off its hinges in an angry attempt to pummel her.

Age 16.  I star as Golde in St. Mary's High School's performance of FIDDLER ON THE ROOF. As I receive my standing ovation and the audience noise grows louder as I bow, I think that if I died in this very moment, I'd die happy. I'm glad I didn't.

Junior year.  I win class president after mocking up the model of the perfect president (the entire idea was stolen from my mom's version of the perfect mother for her Mother's Day celebration in our parish. Truth be told, Mom authored the concepts for several of my creative endeavors, mostly because I would come to her the night before in angst that I had waited until the last minute to begin my project). Thank you, Mom. This entire Creative Chronology is dedicated to you.

Senior year.  I was crowned prom queen (I think someone must have fixed the ballot, because Renee Wozniak should have won it, hands down).  I include this as a creative endeavor because managing to dodge the lips and hands of my poor date, Aaron, took some real creative ingenuity.  Sorry, Aaron.  At least you have that "Hey man, I went to prom with the lesbian prom queen" story to tell.  Right?! ; )

Age 19.  My freshman year of college, my English professor calls me into her office on a Saturday.  I am a bit afraid and even more excited because I have a massive crush on her, and am admittedly hoping it was a personal beckoning. Not the case.  As I enter her office, I see stacked upon her desk every book listed on my bibliography– and then some– for the paper I have just turned in about Michelangelo's art and its effect on me. She discloses that she has spent the past week scouring numerous books to find out just where I found the words she is convinced I have not crafted as my own, having presumed with certainty that I have written my paper in a criminally plagiaristic fashion.  

It is the first time I consciously recall feeling blatantly and wrongly accused of something of which I am absolutely not guilty (though as a child I would willingly take the blame for something my sister or brothers did), and standing my ground in this moment is as easy as declaring, "You are absolutely wrong. Everything in that paper, except where I've credited a previous writer, is my own." I want to dare her to continue her pursuit to find me guilty.  

Then, she smiles at me and calmly responds, "I know. This paper is so good, I couldn't believe a freshman in college wrote it. You are an excellent writer, and I hope you will continue perfecting your writing skills. Well done, Ms. Arthur."  At which point she hands me my paper with a huge 'A' in the top right corner.  

I take my first college 'A' and saunter down the hall feeling mildly victorious, and thinking, "Could I someday be a writer?!  Nah, I'm not really that creative." I, instead, change my thoughts to coming up with other reasons I could again be summoned into Ms. Hottie Professor's office on a Saturday.

Age 21.  I write a story depicting a very unusual 20-mile run in which I am faced with gnawing my panties off. This story used to often be told at family gatherings by my siblings and my cousins (especially if one of our family members is introducing someone new into the family). You can read it here. 

Age 22.  I qualify for the Boston Marathon by placing 8th overall female finisher on the hilly asphalt course of Swope Park in the Kansas City Marathon.  

As I train 70-to-90-miles per week after this victory to ensure that I actually beat my Boston qualifying time, I suffer severe tendonitis that later elevates to an acute injury which is to rear its head with a vengeance at mile 6 of the 26.2 mile Boston course.

In this moment, I am faced with establishing a new goal; rather than beat my qualifying time, I will instead not allow myself to walk or stop, despite the excruciating pain throbbing throughout my right knee with each and every foot strike. I am dejected beyond belief. All my training for naught. My family and best friend are here in Boston to witness me running my personal best, and instead witness me hobbling pathetically down urban avenues and rural Massachusetts roads. My dream of continuing a professional race career is suddenly feeling unreachable and idiotic.  I accomplish my goal of not walking, but suffer severe damage to my knee.

I write a 90-stanza rhyming poem depicting the course of events and the spectrum of emotions I experienced during this time.  My poem ranges from expressing the extreme hilarity of driving the Boston roads with my incredibly funny and beautiful aunts, the doting hospitality from nuns while residing in one of Cardinal Law's many mansion homes (yes, the very Cardinal we all heard so much about when the Church's pedophilia scandal finally broke), reveling in the pride I could see on the faces and in the spirits of my wonderful mom and dad as their daughter prepares to accomplish yet another goal on her list, and the tragic personal dismay I experience in having to ultimately modify my personal best goal due to injury. I gift this poem to all of my family and friends who made the journey to Boston to support me. Sadly, I think out of all 90 stanzas, the one most of us do our best to try and forget is the one where I describe experiencing the guy standing behind me on the subway 'T' whose erection, due to such sardine-like proximity on the crowded public transit, kept poking me in the lower back every time the train would shift. It’s not something one easily forgets.

Age 27.  I discover Nick Bantock, and my life is never the same. I want to conceive of the types of characters in his books, and write and create art like him. But mostly, I desire the romance and adventure he so beautifully depicts in his writing.

Age 28.  I write an 8-week children/teen course that I teach in Austin. I am later asked to create a train-the-trainer program so others can begin teaching it around the country. This terrifies me. I shelve the project, and it collects dust to this day– awaiting its resurrection. I drew the logo for the course, and its stages of evolution have meaning. Drawing hands, you can see, is not my strongsuit.

Age 30. I study with a Feng Shui master for a semester. From this point forward, I obsess over situations such as what direction I sit during client meetings, and become skilled at dodging ‘killing arrows’ from knives and forks pointed in my direction, even if I have to covertly redirect them while seated across from someone at a restaurant. I practice minimalism at such an extreme that Marie Kondo would enter my condo and sob at the lack of perceived joy. Every quadrant of my home entails the exact right corresponding color and element of the Bagua.

Age 30.  I create a Mark Rothko-esque painting for my bedroom. It is so convincing, my friends think I am collecting Rothko.  (Tee hee)

Age 31.  After a ghost inhabits my home (no, seriously), I paint a version of the Kodoish symbol to ward off any potentially dark entities that might be further tempted to enter my abode. My friends wish I would go back to painting canvases resembling Rothko.

Age 33.  I write a short story called EIGHT STEPS TO EVERYWHERE depicting the way I maneuvered (and thrived) for two years in a 250-square-foot garage apartment in Austin, TX. I send the story and images of my apartment to a design magazine focusing on small living spaces. They don't like my chenille bed spread. The story never runs.

Age 34.  I create a series of short stories titled BECAUSE; each volume consisting of my views on issues that trouble me (and proud use of title ellipsis). Titles include: BECAUSE… NO ONE BEATS YOU UP FOR LIKING CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM (focusing on my incredulous response to people who harm or alienate people solely for having differing beliefs from their own), or, BECAUSE… WE SHOULD ALL LIVE IN GLASS HOUSES (stories indicating my personal perspectives on transparency and openness), etc.

Age 37.  I discover the artwork of Jean-Michel Basquiat. I don't realize how close to him I will actually come until 14 years later.  

Age 40.   I draw full architectural plans (not to scale) of my someday dream home. I will build that home, someday (to scale).

Also at 40.  I begin making a nice living out of creating videos and online product suites for individuals and organizations committed to creative and courageous expression in the world.

Age 45.  I’m on a plane ride from Kansas City to Seattle, when a woman leans across the aisle while I am doodling my abstract soul-conversation and asks me how much a single commission of my art would cost. We exchange contact information, and I disclose that I am not an actual artist. Later she emails me and implies that my studio has to be an incredibly peaceful yet vibrant space that she would someday love to visit. I create an art studio in my office one week later.  

Age 48.  I create a blog (this one) to convey the beauty that can, and does, exist between an open-minded, free-spirited lesbian and her utterly indoctrinated Catholic family. Everyone should be blessed to have a family as loving and close-knit as mine. If I had a superpower, I would gift everyone with the experience of love and inclusiveness that is the essence of my family. Until I do, I’ll share them with you here.

Age 55.  I create a podcast that focuses on the fact that Division Is Optional by recording conversations with my dad about things for which we have extremely differing perspectives.

Today, I continue to create multi-media visual and written narratives for people and brands. I am a storyteller by nature, so every project and every day of work feels like a vacation to me. I love the freedom, the creativity and the collaboration of my work.

Someday, I hope to amass a hefty list of award-winning accomplishments in writing and film. I just wish my 5th grade teacher, Ms. Shaefer, were still on the planet to witness those accomplishments. That poor woman went on to her next life adventure thinking my only artistic talent was replicating cut-out penises.