Life Is Still Beautiful

 

A few years ago I decided to go back to school and get my art degree. I knew a degree in art would be just as useless as it was way back then, probably more so since I didn't have any inclination to use it. I just really wanted that piece of paper to prove I am a winner. I am somebody.

 This was during Biden's term, who at that time was fighting and mostly winning to eliminate tuition debt for thousands of past and present students. He understood the struggle. 

With a scholarship and a small loan procured, I was looking forward to the challenge. One concern, however, was the physical undertaking of how to get across campus. It isn't a big college, but I'm not 20. Walking to and from classes was tough. I needed to plan my route according to shortest distance and highest number of Adirondack chairs.

Art class was twice a week with three hour long sessions. Piece of cake.

Not.

Our instructor would gather us in a circle as he explained our next assignment. As the minutes passed my discomfort grew. Standing on a cement floor was becoming almost unbearable. I continued to switch legs until my knees locked up. As the pain increased my attention to my surroundings was nearly non-existent. Finally, he sent us off to our benches- our so very hard, no back benches. So now my ass could join my feet in a silent song of, "Owie, mofo."

It felt very weird to be in a class with eighteen year old, fresh faced thirteenth graders. They mostly ignored me at first, which was fine said my introverted self. Soon, though, I began to feel a part of the class when they started to praise and acknowledge my work. 

It felt good to be back in school. I was thrilled to be able to sit amongst these young minds and feel their energy. Every day was a joy and I was so grateful to have this opportunity.

And yet ...

 Worse than the physical pain was the eventual realization my time had passed. As kind and inclusive as these students were, I didn't belong here. I no longer felt driven to finish a once life long dream. 

 Besides, I was already an artist. From the time I used to sprawl on the floor of my bedroom, creating collages as a teen, to now, when I readied my paint and brushes before an easel, relaxing in my oh so soft, butt friendly chair by the window. 

 We now have a hollow, soul sucking ghoul, taking an axe to education, to healthcare, to food and security. I doubt he has ever picked up a paintbrush, or has ever sat in a garden just to appreciate the natural sounds and visual beauty surrounding him.

The process of painting or writing is vital to me. I seek beauty where ugliness invades. 

So Paint.

Sing. 

Dance.

We cannot give in to the darkness.