A burning quest to be sufficient.

      Drawing and Writing Copyright Jen Kelly 2010                                                                                                                          Disclaimer: My drawing and writing are products of my warped, incomplete and self-centered memory. 
Distortion and inaccuracies are normal.

My Grandma was the last in a string of shoe-tying instructors. At seven years old, I was humiliated that I couldn't tie my own sneakers, a feat most of my peers had mastered over a year before. When watching others demonstrate the shoe-tying process I'd never noticed the part where they'd push the lace through the loop with a fingertip. You've got to admit it's a bit of a sleight of hand maneuver, right? (Clears thoat) Right?

In addition to all the other things that eluded me: beauty, money, and athletic talent, I didn't want to appear to also lack intelligence. Evidently that particular neurosis started early, that and trying to hide my shortcomings.

It was maddening to know that I was smart and capable, but oddly unable to produce evidence of this when pressed (story of my life!) Most everyone eventually learns to tie a bow, but for some reason the standard teaching practices were not enlightening me, and I was past due.  I was going to be teased again when school started. And nothing hurt me more than teasing I couldn't dispute.

Grandma and I sat perched on the vinyl window seat with the summer sun frying our backs as she tied her shoe over and over for me. While watching this, I SAW it for the first time: the loophole, the fingertip, the missing link. And from that moment on, I could replicate the process just fine.

That made me blissfully the same as everyone else my age. Maybe there wasn't anything wrong with me. The relief was so explosive that the memory of that moment is the one foremost in mind about Grandma.

In case you're wondering what this has to do with anything, well, I get the same experience hearing other people's stories. It's a massive relief to see that a dysfunction--that I had thought was wholly my own--is actually common. In other words, I'm the same as everyone else. But instead of matching in basic life skill capabilities, I match in being imperfect.

It’s funny how being screwed up is easier when I'm not the only one. Others' acknowledgment of their own faults makes me feel validated, loved, and okay.

I hope you feel loved when you come and read, because I love to hear myself talk, and I've got more faults to acknowledge than San Francisco could shake a stick at.
What a combo!

Jen Kelly

Becoming Grace Kelly

It was small talk, I had just been introduced to Nancy.
Nancy asked me what I did.
I told her I taught drawing at Penn State.
“Oh—I wish I could draw.” She said, smiling.

I began the dance I always do when someone tells me that.

“You could. I could teach you.” I said, smiling back at her.
“No, I don’t have any talent.” She said, smile fading.
“How do you know?” I asked, smile in place.
“I can only do stick figures.” She said, her eyebrows growing closer, lifting.

Now, if I had thought of it I would have said, “That’s how I started” but I didn’t think of it.

“It’s easy. Anyone can learn.” I said.
(Yes, Mom, it IS true. Drawing’s actually pretty simple, it’s just learning what to look for, and then practicing a lot.)
“I would love to learn, but I just can’t.” She said.
“Have you had lessons?” I asked.
“Just what I learned in high school and college.”
“You had a drawing class in college?” I asked, still looking as friendly and non-threatening as I could.
“No, I just drew things, you know, stick figures. My sister-in-law can draw. She can do beautiful things in pen and ink.” She said.

I thought of the stuff I’d been drawing lately for my class, pen and ink, ink wash, pencil.

“I can do beautiful things. I can teach you how.” I said.
“I bet you can do beautiful things.” She said.
After a couple more volleys back and forth she stopped deflecting my assertion and just looked at me. Her eyes looked troubled, battling fear and hope in equal measure. Her face shouted 'Dare I try?'

“You really can learn. I’ll give you a free lesson,” I offered, using a total drug dealer tactic; it’s free until they’re hooked.
“I would like to do pen and ink.” She said, hope taking over. “You know, my grandfather didn’t start drawing until he was 70.” She said.
“See, you’ve got tons of time.” I said.

I witnessed how being afraid to really try—if nothing else— is a ridiculous thing to cling to.
What would happen if she failed miserably? The Ministry of Drawing would come and break her pencil? It’s not rewiring a house or fixing car brakes. No lives are at stake.
Likewise, of course, why am I afraid to get wonderful free stuff? Why all the doubt and shame?

I imagine Kanye West will jump up and say, “I’m sorry, but Heather is one of the best mothers of all time!”
And then I’d feel stupid that I actually thought I might deserve it after all. And if front of all those people!

I told a friend about all the makeover jazz and the accompanying confusion. She knows I’m a believer (and not just in the Monkee sense).
“Doesn’t God give His grace whether you deserve it or not, for just believing in Him? Trusting He loves you?” She asked.
That stopped me.
“Uh, yeah.” I said. Always the eloquent speaker.
“So can you look at this as grace? Your friend went to the trouble of writing and submitting an essay so that you could maybe win some wonderful things. She loves you and wanted you to enjoy them."

Does my pride matter more than accepting her love?

It's a gift. You don't earn gifts. You just accept gracefully.