Most of my life, I’ve been a good girl who followed the rules and did exactly what she was told. That old MO of mine was borne of the people pleaser in me, never taking the risk to question authority and sow the displeasure of those in charge.
As I’ve stepped forward on this journey, I’ve discovered that sometimes it’s okay to speak up and question rules and traditional convention. Simply because a framework exists for how something is supposed to be done doesn’t mean there aren’t alternative means to achieve similar or even better results.
How will we know if something is possible and acceptable unless we dare to ask?
I’m not talking about running red lights or barging to the front of a long ticket line; the recovering people pleaser in me certainly isn’t above the law or social propriety.
What I’m referring to is speaking up for ourselves instead of going along with something simply to fulfill another’s expectations when it isn’t in alignment with what we’d truly like to do.
I’d signed up for a painting class awhile back at the suggestion of a good friend who’d sensed that my creativity needed to be reignited. I, who had never before picked up a paintbrush but had always been mesmerized by colors, was excited and eager at the prospect.
It took only about 15 minutes into class for my creative dream bubble to be popped. I’d arrived fully intent on unleashing vibrant, abstract strokes onto canvas, but the program was to paint an image of a woman. A face of all things, how on earth did I miss that in the course description? The concept immediately repelled me, and I could feel my tender, unsure creative self receding into the hole in which she’d been hiding most of my life.
What did I do? Nothing, at least not in that moment. I was thousands of miles away from home in the lush environs of Healdsburg, California, and it wasn’t as though I could just pack up my toys and drive home. The achievement addict in me took charge since creative Lois was pouting and no longer wanted to play. I can always count on her to take over and get the job done, but unfortunately JOY doesn’t have a place alongside RESULTS on her list of priorities.
I could feel the displeasure transfer from my hand through the brush onto the canvas. What began to take form was an emotionless, steely-eyed, prim and proper young woman. The background was even dismal, shades of black and blue-gray. Zero joy, zero vibrance.
I kept painting, silently angry that this was not the bill of goods for which I’d thought I’d signed up. I was relieved when the day finally came to a close so I could take respite in a diner, where I consoled myself with friend chicken, mashed potatoes and pie (ah, those indulgent pre-gluten free days). Food, the reliable salve (or so I tried to convince myself) for a wounded little girl.
The next morning before class, I met my friend for coffee, and much to my surprise, I burst into a shower of tears that mirrored the heavy rain that had been pouring all night and all morning.
“What’s wrong?” she gently asked. I found myself spilling my heart and feeling like a small child, telling her how I had come to paint vivid abstract images, not a picture of a woman. After the tears ran their course and my words became intelligible again, she posed a radical question, “What if you tell the teacher that you don’t like what you’ve painted and you want to start over?”
What?! Speak up to authority? Risk drawing the wrath of someone in charge, or worse yet, solicit disapproval and dislike by asking to stray from the straight and narrow? Not to mention wasting an entire day of the two-day course; the overachiever in me who obviously hadn’t yet begun her rehabilitation wouldn’t hear of not finishing!
Thankfully, a wiser voice within me prevailed over the people-pleasing achievement addict. After all, how satisfying would it have been to complete a painting that, in its then-present form, would have been a constant reminder of my anger and resentment?
And so I went to the studio and came clean with the teacher about my dissatisfaction. Her response? The most loving embrace and a large paintbrush wide enough to paint the side of a barn. She told me we’d simply start all over, the first step being to eradicate the prior day’s work with bright, opaque white paint. Wow! Was this really happening, me voicing displeasure to authority, and my request to do something different being met with love and understanding?!
I quickly went about undoing the first day’s painting and started over, this time painting from my heart instead of my head. While I didn’t paint my brilliant abstract, I no longer had the need.
Simply speaking up about what totally didn’t suit me and being heard made all the difference in the world.
I suddenly found myself wanting to go along with the program. The real joy and beauty of my resulting painting that I share with you here is not what immediately meets the eye, but knowing the image that exists underneath as a reminder of my courage to speak up for myself and simply ask.
If we stop to listen to and follow the tune of our own drum, beautiful things can result.
