Amateurity
am·a·teur·i·ty
noun. The state of being an amateur of life - living with awarness of one's smallness, curiosity, and imperfection.
There is a sort of freedom in amateurity. No, "amateurity" is not an official word, but I think it fits well here, in this place of honest reflection and youthful curiosity. As we get older and more "proficient" at life, we find ourselves with less and less of those opportunities to walk into a room without expectations, to pick up a paintbrush knowing the work will suck, to bask in the newness of things unlearned without the crushing weight of results.
The Crash
My entire life for the past year has been one convoluted crash. The kind of crash that you experience in painstaking slow motion while the rest of the world watches with wide eyes and jaws slightly agape, sympathetic to the scene, and yet unable to tear their gaze from the wreckage. It's funny because I used to have my life together. I was the girl that did it all. I strove for excellence and I often succeeded. I can say these things now that I have lived through (and am still living through) an all-consuming personal hell.
Without getting into the weeds of my failed ballet career, traumatic first job after college, time spent in NYC as a personal assistant to the Prada-wearing devil herself, living in a storage closet, juggling eight jobs at once, getting sucked into quite a few scams that I thought would be my true calling, moving to Idaho and promptly getting in a car accident that left me seeing double... well, welcome to the weeds.
To say that I am tired is an understatement and to say that I feel equally like waging war on the world and giving up is my paradoxical reality - a reality that lasted far longer than I thought it would. Crash.
In the midst of each mini crash, boom, bump, and skid, I have come to grapple daily with the Purpose of life, Purpose with a capital P. And whatsmore, the Purpose of my life. It seems I find it hard to continue without one. Despite most of my recent endeavors ending in a rainbow of dumpster fires, I cannot bear to lose that fight, that search.
And yet, I crave waking up in a world that is soaked in new sun; stepping out into a day that could truly bring anything. Looking at life as the amateur with nothing to lose and everything to gain.
The Easel
I was sitting on the couch, quite concussed, but having a relatively pleasant afternoon. The accident (one of the "weeds" aforementioned in a slew of disaster) was about two weeks behind me at this point, and I lounged against the cushions, sporting my new blue light glasses, scrolling on Facebook Marketplace.
Recently on the hunt for engaging activities that would lower my stress without hurting my "poor pumpkin head," I happened across a listing for an easel. It was a deep natural wood with substantial legs, a drawer, and silver knobs sticking out every which way. It looked like it would survive a hurricane - like maybe it already had.
Something about that rough wood and broad legs stuck in my mind. Of course, I thought, this would be quite the impulsive purchase for someone who hasn't painted in years, and hasn't painted well ever.
But as I continued about my days, I couldn't shake that damn easel from my head; my fingers started to itch and my old paint brushes materialized on my kitchen counter. I thought I might as well explore the option; I would go "see" the easel before committing to the purchase. I felt like I was adopting a puppy, looking at my living room differently to see where it would sit, considering the time I would have at home to give it quality time and attention, thinking about how to travel with it's carrier-case. At least the easel wouldn't pee on the floor or chew up my shoes.
A few days later, I found myself driving down the highway, toward the mountains, following my GPS to a part of town that wasn't really "town" anymore. Winding down scenic roads, past small gas stations and the occasional store, the thought crossed my mind that I was driving to a strange home to meet a strange lady who had 0 posts on Facebook and hadn't answered my texts in a while. Pulling up at the house, I peered through my car window at an old home on a beautiful overgrown property. It was either the setting of a quaint fairytale or my gruesome murder.
I knocked on the door. I texted the owner. I knocked again. I called twice. I started walking back to my car, disappointed but also relieved.
Just then, the front door swung open and a small lady swept into the front yard. Apologizing for missing my knocks, she quickly invited me to the garage out back to see the easel. She was warm and calm, the kind of person who doesn't seem to live on a clock, on the grid, or even on a schedule. Outside the garage, large pieces of natural wood lay propped up on stands, their deep natural curves and colors catching my eye in the late afternoon sun.
Opening a dusty door, she led me through a home woodshop, every wall covered in rusty tools, half-finished projects, and sawdust. It was breathtaking. Restored antique chairs sad next to giant cutting boards and handmade tables. I felt myself softening into the art as we picked our way to the back of the room, through another door, and into a cozy little art studio. Paintings, photographs, and pallets adorned every surface, and in the middle of the small room stood the easel. Taking in the organic chaos of it all, I almost didn't want to take the easel from this place of flourishing art, time, and care. But part of me also wanted to have a piece of this inspiration for myself. I handed the woman some cash and packed the easel safe in the passenger seat of my car, still breathing in the musty scent of wood and work.
I haven't owned an easel since I was a toddler scribbling all over the one my mom bought from a friend of a friend's toy store. It wasn't that I really knew what to do with this new easel, or that I had any faith in my art skills - it was the small step toward something new and fresh. Something that might bring joy and clarity, even as I was aware of my own amateurity.
The Aorta
As far as I am concerned, the human heart is made of magic. The simple ❤️ we draw endlessly and type at the end of our text messages is almost insulting to the complex web of muscles, arteries, veins, and tissue that forms the single most amazing pump system known to man. Known to man, yet truly unknown by most of man.
How many people will draw ❤️ thousands of times, but never once attempt🫀?
The mechanism of the heart is simple: it is a series of tubes and chambers that pump blood to the lungs, recharging the oxygen content, then back to the heart, and through the rest of the body. The Superior and Inferior Vena Cava funnel old, deoxygenated blood into the Right Atrium. When the Right Atrium contracts, the blood slips through the Tricuspid Valve into the Right Ventricle. Quick sidenote: The parts of the heart are named Right & Left according to the patient's perspective. How lovely to know that your doctor is always thinking of your heart from your perspective. As someone who frequently confuses Right and Left already, this actually inflames my special type of dyslexia... but it also makes me feel important to think that when I am on the table, my perspective is what dictates the labels deep in my own chest.
Anyway, I digress. The Right Ventricle contracts to push blood through the Pulmonary Valve into the Pulmonary Arteries, which lead to the Lungs for oxygenation. The Pulmonary Arteries are actually the only arteries in the body that carry deoxygenated blood because they usually carry oxygen-rich blood from the heart to the rest of the body (think Artery - Away). In this case, however, the blood is still carried away from the heart, but just next door to the Lungs for a boost of O2.
Now, the blood is ready to return to the heart through the Pulmonary Veins (the only veins in the body that carry oxygenated blood). Note that Arteries and Veins are really just tubes in the body that carry blood; they are differentiated based on whether they carry substances toward or away from the heart. The freshly oxygenated blood is dropped off in the Left Atrium before being squeezed through the Mitral Valve into the lower Left Ventricle. The Left Ventricle is probably the powerhouse of the heart. It has the largest chamber and contracts with force enough to push blood up through the Aortic Valve and into the Aorta. The Aorta - the queen of Arteries - delivers blood and oxygen to the rest of the body in a joyous marathon that lives on in every heartbeat. Of all the heartbeats you experience in a lifetime, I think it's worth spending a few of them just marveling over this phenomenon.
The Aorta, the biggest artery in your body, is almost the size of a garden hose and stretches from the Aortic Valve up and over the heart in a magnificent arch, before diving behind the pump and branching out to distribute blood. There is something regal about the rise and fall of the Aorta. It's so delicate and so hidden deep in our chests, yet if there is one thread of lifeforce in the human body, it's this one.
When I picked up my training, amateur painter's brush, dipping it into the foggy water and tapping it into the red paint, I felt my own heartbeat, strong and steady. Following the curves of the Aorta on canvas with every contraction inside my chest, I thought, How special to stand in front of a linen mirror and paint my own life in water and blood-red color.
What Follows
I suppose life is as life follows: The Crash, The Easel, The Aorta.
Something happens that shakes you to your core. For a while, you become fetal, uninspired, and curled up into yourself. Then, you happen across a good-looking easel, one that surely you don't need (you don't even paint). But something about it's sturdy wooden legs, functional little drawer, and canvas of possibilities draws you in. So, you make a lengthy drive to a stranger's home and hand them your emergency cash. This is an emergency of sorts, after all.
All the while, your trusty aorta keeps sending fresh blood from head to toe. A week ago, you were still filled with blood, though now you can feel it in ways you couldn't before. Life pumping through you even when you think you might be dying. With the new, old easel standing tall in the corner of the living room, blood pumping and eyes open, you might just walk over to it.
Almost ready.
Staring at the easel I never needed, but couldn't live without, I set up a canvas and opened up my children's watercolor painting kit, the outline of a human heart etched ever so lightly into the canvas. Dipping my brush into a tiny jar of water, swirling it around, and landing it in the paint, I let the first splash of color dot the superior vena cava.
It might be my own heart that I am painting. But then again, I wouldn't know. I'm not even sure I would recognize my own heart if it fell right out of my chest. Perhaps it is falling out and all I can do is hope the canvas catches it.
All I can do it hope and proceed with heart. That's amateurity. The freedom to go on, knowing that you might throw out the canvas at the end of the day, but the peace to know that you painted it.
I still don't know who I am or what my capital P-Purpose is, but one thing is clear to me: I am worthy of amateurity. Worthy of leading with curiosity and a hunger to "find out" rather than pressure to prove or maintain or uphold or master the things I may or may not know.
The Romantics called it The Sublime - the ability to sit in a wave of overwhelming awe and terror. It's an intoxicating feeling that really only comes with admitting how small we are, conceding that we are all amateurs. The Romantics saw it when gazing up at Mont Blanc or watching a powerful storm. Today, I see it as an amateur, standing in front of my terribly painted human heart, dripping down the canvas, and feeling wonderfully small.