Page 7 of Fresh Canvas
“Well then, it’s time to find yourself. Life happens. We change, we grow, and sometimes lose sight of ourselves in the process. It’s completely natural, but it can feel painful and unsettling at times. Let’s go back to your roots.”
Finally, something easy.
I gulped down air like I’d been underwater. The rest of the session passed as I recounted the happiest memories I could remember.
Most Saturday afternoons growing up, rain or shine, Mom and I had explored our local flea markets. Mom was obsessed with anything from the Victorian era, so we scavenged as many pieces we could find to fill our humble home.
Those afternoons felt sacred. They provided time to reconnect and tell Mom all about my meager social life. But above all, my favorite part of the markets had been the art.
I lovedart. No, Ibreathedart. I could stand stock-still forhours, losing myself in those dusty white tents. Paintings spoke through cadenced voices of history and beauty. Brushstrokes held emotions. Pencil scratches told stories.
It always amazed me how something as simple as a medium on canvas could emote so much. Chartreuse, burnt sienna, midnight blue—the colors swirled and pulsed until I was sure they were breathing.
I recounted seeing my favorite painting for the first time at the ripe young age of sixteen. It had been love at first sight. A vibrant hummingbird took flight amidst a full spectrum of color. Fragile, yet powerful.
“Then what happened?” Linda asked, jotting down a few more notes. “What did those experiences lead you to?”
That very next weekend, I had rushed back to the beautiful hummingbird painting. Relief washed over me when I found it still there. Mom chased after me into the white canvas tent and gawked at the price tag. There was no way my parents could afford such an expensive piece. After conversing with the vendor, Mom paid a down payment to hold the painting. I was responsible for the other half.
I had never worked so hard as I did that summer. I bagged groceries and returned carts at the local grocery store. I walked dogs, even Mrs. Spencer’s mangy old schnauzer with the lazy eye. In September, the vendor placed the precious painting into my hands.
That same painting hung above my bed until I graduated high school. Afterward, I took the painting and an art history scholarship to Chicago, Illinois. My Master of Fine Arts in Criticism and Curatorial Practice then set me on a path to be the best art curator the world had ever seen.
Linda’s pen flew across her notepad. “So, what do these events tell you about yourself?”
I chewed the inside of my cheek, giving my lip a break. “I suppose I’m hardworking? I love my family? I love art?”
A twinge of sadness accompanied my question-likestatements. I hadn’t so much as stepped foot inside a museum since Anthony was born.
Anthony.
The vivacious, spunky, joy of my life had become my entire world, and I had sacrificed mine.
“What a wonderful start,” Linda said, her hazel eyes twinkling.
I slumped against the backrest of the couch, exhausted.
How were happy memories supposed to ease the ache still throbbing in my chest? How was the past supposed to prevent my nightly anxiety episodes as I lay alone, knowing Ryan wasn’t?
A soft alarm chimed, its melody irritatingly optimistic.
Linda smiled and said, “Alright, Amantha. What a wonderful session. For homework, I’d like you to continue our work to rediscover your identity. It’s also time you got a life apart from your child. Try something new. Find a hobby. Join a club. I’m looking forward to seeing you next week.”
That advice left a bitter taste in my mouth as I trudged through the exit. I ignored the wary glances of passersby as I muttered to myself.
“It’s time I got a life? I have a life, Linda. I’m on the PTA for goodness’ sake.” I threw my scarf around me, accidentally whipping myself in the eyeball. I cursed. Stalking toward the distant parking lot, I tried to breathe through the anxiety now gripping my chest.
“Of course I have a life.”
I sounded about as convincing as a lying toddler with a chocolate-smeared mouth.
“How original.” I huffed a white cloud in the frigid air, making a woman walking near me skitter away a few steps. “I’m just another thirty-something woman with an identity crisis.”
What was I supposed to do? Crochet myself a new identity? Was there a club for Unfortunate-Washed-Up-Moms at the YMCA?
An hour later, I shifted my van into park, idling in the snowydriveway of my suburban home. The quiet hum of the engine attempted to calm my nerves. I leaned against the headrest, letting the world go dark.
What had happened to me? When did I lose myself?
