I was going to try to say that today's post was happening so late because our guest blogger is in the Azores but they are actually five hours ahead, not behind. Shoot. Well today was busy and I am new at this posting every day thing. Anyway, today's post comes from a phenomenally talented artist. Check out her website to see how she is able to deconstruct her work. It's fascinating. She is the college best friend of my friend Sam. Carly wrote a very insightful post about turning thirty and today happens to be Sam's 30th birthday!
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| Carly, her husband, and their two adorable pups. |
I told myself years ago, I refused to fear turning thirty. When I
was twenty-seven (much to the slight annoyance of my husband over the
ongoing three years), I began mentally rounding my age
up to
thirty. Once I was twenty-eight, would round to thirty when asked about
my age, unless my specific age was relevant. I figured this would make
the closure of my twentieth decade less unsettling.
It isn’t that I am particularly excited about the impending 3-0. It
is that I have heard repeatedly, from friends and acquaintances that
thirty hits hard (especially for women, since our culture
refuses to acknowledge that women can, and
should, age).
I had set vague goals for my artistic career when I was twenty-five.
At that point, thirty still seemed relatively far away, and thus plenty
of time to continue to develop my potential art career. However, for the
first two years after setting my rather imprecise objectives, I did
little except continue to make art when the mood struck and occasionally
submit to art exhibitions. At twenty-seven, I realized thirty was less
far off than I thought, and I took my goals more seriously. I began to
add art to my daily life. Every. Single. Day. I did something, usually
something small like a daily blog post, working on visual journal pages,
reading articles or checking exhibition opportunity listings. This
actively kept art and my ambitions in the forefront of my mind. I set a
goal of three submissions a month, a goal I usually tried (and
succeeded) to exceed.
At twenty-eight, I read
The Artist’s Way (Julia Cameron), and re-read
Taking the Leap (Cay
Lang). This was also the age I began to trying embrace my own unique
style of art, and no longer concern myself with what art was perceived
as ideal for sales, popular for a niche market, or what others told me
my art
should look like. I simply began to make my art, for me, for the love of art, because of my strange intrinsic
need
to create and I just kept trying to put it out into the world. Because
of this, over the past few years, I have found a new contentedness with
my work, a deep love and appreciation of the artistic process, and my
mind feels more at ease with the pressures and rejections of an artistic
career. Losing myself and embracing the style of art I instinctively
create has helped me find a form of peace from the inevitable angst of
artistic ambitions.
I digress.
I guess, my point is,
no, I am not exactly excited about being in my thirties. I’m not. However, I am certainly not
upset about it either.
In reality, I really like being an adult. I love it. Yes, I have
bills, rent, taxes and I have to do boring things, like fuel my car, buy
groceries, do dishes, take out the trash, fold laundry and all those
other mundane chores that gradually become introduced throughout our
adolescent lives–but then–before you realize it, BAM! You are a
moderately self-sustaining human–for the most part. I love being an
adult. I feel like I fit into my life now. At my age, I am comfortable
with myself. I like to dance, so I tend to dance a lot–and I am not
good. Dancing is fun. Dancing badly is even more fun. Fact.
As I grow older, I embrace so many more simple things that make me
happy. I love my funky plastic framed glasses, and bright colors in my
hair. I have tattoos, and I really like them. When I get old, yes, they
will not look great, but neither will the rest of me.
I love that I have more confidence in my movements. I am tall, and
no longer shrink away from that. I hold my shoulders back, and I make
eye contact with the strangers who make comments about my stature when
they think I am out of earshot. (Not in a mean way–just that sort of–
Yes, I am tall, but seriously, you are four feet away. Of course, I can hear you talking about me.)
I still have lingering social anxiety, and I’m nervous when faced with
unfamiliar situations. But I have learned to embrace those
uncomfortable experiences as learning opportunities.
I love that my parents are still my parents, they are loving and
supportive. Yet, the more I age, the more I find myself laughing with
them as friends. We have more genuine conversations, and exchange
ideas. We can disagree, and it is fine–because we are all reasonable
adults. They love me, and they are proud of the human I have become.
The older I get, the more I realize, I don’t
have to let
people into my life. That sounds cold–I don’t mean this in a
pessimistic way. I have grown (from past bad experiences) and I can
recognize the warning signs. I am able to maintain civil, kind
interactions with people while avoiding the unnecessary drama some
people inevitably crave. I don’t have to be friends with everyone.
Human interactions aren’t all or nothing. If someone isn’t my friend,
that
doesn’t make him/her an enemy. We simply exist on different terns.
I take comfort in the knowledge, that while close friends will move
in and out of my direct geographical location, they will always be a
part of my life–a part of my past, shaping the human I am now, making me
better for knowing them. Miles and miles of ocean, different cities,
states and even continents won’t erase their love. I know now, I will
find new humans who are loving, fun, kind and respectful–
eventually, wherever my life leads me.
I have found many convictions I intentionally hold close to my heart,
defining me as the person I want to be in this world. In turn, I know
this world has so much more I
don’t know. I know I can be (and am) wrong–a lot. And that is completely okay.
Yes. I have almost been in existence for thirty years. Yes, it
makes me reflect back on how those years have been spent. However, I am
good. And when I am not good–I am trying. I am twenty-nine for two
more months. However, I refuse to fear turning thirty.
Wisdom’s a gift, but you’d trade it for youth. Age is an honor, it’s still not the truth. -Vampire Weekend
