Every January I spend one evening in a friend’s art studio with an eclectic group of woman, fueled on wine, crudité and chocolate. We bundle up against the chilly night and face a blank canvas and consider what we wish the new year to be. How will we feel? What do we need? What matters? Old books and magazines consigned to what one would think would be the end of their journey are repurposed into visions, dreams and what is innately pleasing. I look forward to this night filled with promise and with what I call my witch vibe, know what is possible. I am always amazed by what shows up on that canvas by the end of the night, what I didn’t realize I needed more than anything.
We are given instructions as to how the board can be laid out. Family over here, career over there and so on. I do not do this. I do not compartmentalize my life. All the aspects of my world flow into each other. I play with paint first. Something way beyond my comfort zone. This is an excellent exercise in letting go of the outcome, to enjoy the process and to escape a life long fear of making the wrong choice. This year pure gold and a dusty pink squeeze onto my palette. Every color you could imagine is available, but my brush swirls these two onto the canvas and they call it done.
While the paint that I am convinced chose itself dries, I gather what calls from the pile of magazines and books. With permission of my gracious hostess I “rescue” an old, thick book of beautiful fashion. Taking it home to my beloved daughter. Sparking her light bright of a brain seems the books better calling. There is plenty to hold my attention in the random but not really random boxes before me. I close my eyes and ask that the images I need will be the images I find and gather a pile to take to my station.
With little conscious thought I allow magic to flip the pages, and hold the scissors until something tells me to stop. I fill a Dixie cup of Mod Podge to forever affix a handful of thoughts to the accepting gold and dusty pink board. I stop, tendrils of doubt poke me but something nudges me harder than the doubt. The message to let go and escape the fear of being less than perfect settles a little deeper into my beings. I sip wine, and wiggle cold fingers and without a plan place black ravens, vintage clocks, antique French paperweights. A castle, a Madonna and child, a lavish display of fruit all find the perfect place on my board. And with confidence and great pleasure I seek out the glitter. This year, for the first year I take black, gold and silver. I wake up the ravens with a bit of black, silver adorns the broom. I stop and rub my hands with joy. A sequined broom found its way to me in 2020. I know what that means, and it is better than good.
Words that have more meaning that I can fathom plaster themselves with the knowing of a wise woman. When I notice where they have landed, I cannot help but smile. Ah. That is what I want, what I need and what will be. Best of all I am reminded of what matters most to me.
Happy New Year.