Crafting things has been a thing, I’d say since around the age of three or four. I remember being inspired by a toy crane with a construction worker figurine as the operator during a visit to one of my dad’s friend’s homes. It was a toy his son had, and I remember the unique smell of the plastic figurine. It’s funny how an odor can be remembered no matter what period of time within my life it was experienced. I can still smell the plastic big wheel I used to ride around that same point. Somehow acquiring two plastic figurines, which now makes me think that I may have stolen the one from their house that evening, I made a playhouse for the two. It was that playhouse I had created that I recall as being the beginning of my interest in crafting up things with imagination. Of course, drawing and coloring came before that. The ability to think things out, put them together and have a finished piece stuck with me ever since the little house I had made.
Oil painting is the latest endeavor. I had a love for watching Bob Ross create his happy little trees while growing up. It was amazing to me. Maybe Bob had a way of showing how beautiful the natural world is? The love for the outdoors and all of its splendor sure gives me pleasure. It has a new painted landscape every single day. I sometimes wonder what the life that we sense with our eyes really is. The creative life–is it created? Do we have a Creator? I think so. The God thing just boggles the mind.
There has been a lot of time spent on ruminating over matters about the ‘where we came from’ throughout the last few years. I had been a weird young man, and that’s my own definition, for the majority of my adult life. The “life” I was living had a lot of destructive characteristics. Going to a church I was told at some point, would remedy what was missing. Hmm… missing. I was missing Jesus. It is easy for many to see that Jesus is the cure-all. I cannot recall how many times I had heard about the guy growing up. He hung on the wall in my grandparent’s home on his bloody cross. He was mentioned within the Catholic household, but we never went to church. The years of running without Jesus led me to a dark and shaky time within my life after my buddy Jason had died. It is strange in hindsight. I let a death pull me down into an abyss of self-destruction, but the thing is I never even really had that great of a relationship with the guy. Jason was a bully. I suppose he did teach me a lot of things and being where I was in that period of time, I suppose I felt like I didn’t know what to do without him being there. Things got very dark around that time. It was progressive. Even though my life went through many positive changes throughout the following several years, I fell into a place that was only fueling the dark I was already living in. Dark, meaning that I had the habits of things that were just not conventional, or not proper in a world of conformity and, I don’t know, godliness? All of those things you don’t want your children doing. So, the religious thing came, stayed, was grappled with, analyzed, felt, not felt, looked at, compared to other religions and beliefs, broken down into pieces and finally, put down. There was no difference in the way I was. It was just a belief that something was changing because I was filled with the Holy Ghost, but that push to convince myself was just an exhausting go at a belief. I see it as a belief much like one that would have me believe I can fly. It never worked. I sure wouldn’t soar off into the air and fly around if I were to jump off of a building, either. The religious experience in itself only pulled me deeper into the dark. I never found that Jesus guy. I only found the teaching of men and their rejection of being one’s unique own. A SIN! An abomination. Yes, you are a damn sinner going to hell, and you’re not capable of making anything for yourself–only God can make it happen. The Bible God only. You, the fallen man or woman, are a wretch in the eyes of that magnificent Creator of splendor… I can’t deal with that belief.
The beautiful thing about the whole experience led me to the current place that is much like it had been before all of the complications took root. I am so at peace anymore. An adult kid, I am. The sheer joy of being is again taking place. It is like the good memories of my childhood–back when The Joy of Painting was on the television, and I was eating grandma’s soup at her coffee table, watching him paint those happy trees, or standing in the woods, just staring at the natural wonders–those good memories, can now be experienced without all of the damn clutter of the world encapsulating and overthrowing the peace I was born into. The life we choose, thrown onto the canvas with the radiant colors of what we are made of, paints a unique picture for others to capture.