Tension and Failure Had a Baby
it's me
I have so much I want to say, but every time I sit down to write, all words seem like an abomination.
It makes sense in my mind, somewhat, yet as I type, it feels like the meaning escapes my phrases and I’m left with vacant letters adorning a blank page.
So I’m just going to sit here and write for 20 minutes, no backspaces, and see what happens.
This has been my experience for the last two months.
Starting a piece. Getting three paragraphs in. Starting a new piece. Over and over and now I’m left with six drafts sitting open on my computer. Which, doesn’t feel as satisfying as being in a dimly lit room, crumpling the idea and throwing the wad of paper into the trash bin in the corner. No, there is no physical amalgamation of my frustration with writing, just this void of indefinitely open tabs on my computer screen, until one day the computer crashes or decides to update itself against my wishes.
I have 14 open. On this window. And I have five other windows open.
It’s called research.
I was originally researching the idea of cults and how we may not realize we’re in one and how everything isn’t not a cult. Then I got sick of that idea and moved onto hustle culture as a way to explain where I’ve been for the last two months because someone has to rebel against that movement and it just had to be me. After that excuse ran dry, I’ve somewhat landed on this concept of tension and how my current experience of it is helping me identify myself in my reality.
All of this to say is….I’m stuck.
And my new tattoo is so fucking itchy, which feels like the embodiment of this tension I’ve been feeling.
I mean, a lot has changed in these two months.
I released someone from my life that has been there for 20 years. I ended a situationship that was keeping me in old, albeit safe, patterns. I did an art festival for the first time in my life. I even got a tattoo without telling my family (it’s big for me okay…also sorry mom).
It seems I have waded into the deep end of the swimming pool in terms of tests and entered the splash (tension) zone.
Welcome to Tension…
In the self-help, spiritual, even religious world, people may refer to this as tests. Pea refers to it as tension, and that’s where I like to experience my reality.
It’s no secret that I’ve felt this tension with my art. I’ve rejected the identity as an artist, mostly to avoid disappointment with not selling. I’ve opened up a print shop online, focused all my efforts on Instagram, and even did giveaways…that no one signed up for.
It felt like every time I stepped into the artist identity, I was hit across the face with a big ole stop sign.
So when this opportunity to go up to LA dropped in my lap, I obviously blurted “oh shit.”
This was the third time I’d been offered to showcase my work in person, and little known fact about me, if I’m offered three times, I must try it.
Up until this point, I was focusing more on my newsletter and podcast, even releasing this idea of selling my artwork, so naturally, all of my fears came crawling back to the surface and made some new friends along the way.
My worst fear? That someone would hate my work so much they spit on it. It sounds funny writing it down, but that’s what fear is.
I had to accept that I desired to sell my artwork, to identify as an artist, and to accept that people were going to see my work. I couldn’t hide behind the veil of social media anymore. Which also meant, I could no longer blame social media if things didn’t sell.
Then, I had to ask myself why I was desiring to be an artist, to sell my work, to be at this show in the first place. At the end of the day, could I still accept that I’m an artist even if nothing sells?
The old version of me would be in an anxiety spiral and feel entitled to sell things. I mean, I’m doing the work. I’m envisioning, breaking old patterns, pouring my heart and soul into my art, it MUST go right…right?
I decided to try to go into this show grateful for the experience of learning how to set up a show. Grateful for doing it with a friend and for anyone that comes into contact with my work.
Even with embodiment and gratitude — I sold one print.
I drove up 2 hours the night before, set up at 7:30 in the morning, broke a vase, sliced my finger (I’m okay, my ego is not) and didn’t get back to my apartment until 9 p.m. that day.
I sold one print. And came home with a bloody pinky.
This is the tension.
In this tension, I have two options.
I can either be the person who identifies the breaking of the vase or the lack of sales as signs that this isn’t what I’m meant to do. That I should hang up my smock and put the paints away for good.
Or
I can view reality as neutral. I can view this art festival as a reflection of who I have been in the past and choose to say to reality, “hey, I’m actually this person now.”
Because tension is a reflection of who you have been and an opportunity to further step into the person you are choosing to be.
And people connected with my work; some people came up and cried even. I was selling $40 prints, but people were asking for the price of the originals. So it wasn’t about me overpricing.
Someone would ask for the price of my original. I would sheepishly tell them and then before they even had a second to breathe, would give them my business card and say that I would have my pieces for sale online…which I don’t.
This was an experiment to see where I was still hiding.
Afterward, a friend told me that I’m still trying to lower the value of my work out of fear. That the prices don’t align because I’m shrinking myself.
Before choosing to show up in this new space, I was being the person that hid. So it’s not surprising that’s how the day went. And it was also the beginning of choosing the new self that doesn’t hide, that loves her work, and is ready to sell.
Tension helps point to your desire.
It’s the same story with the situationship. Or the friendship ending.
I was a person that would bend her boundaries out of fear of abandonment. My time consistently being taken advantage of. Building the relationships felt like pulling teeth. When I finally addressed the two, the reaction was similar to past experiences, and I had the option to either go back to old patterns or choose to take action in the new identity I was embodying.
Don’t get me wrong, all of this sucks.
I want to burn all of my paintings and call up that person and cry until they come cuddle me, but that’s not who I am anymore. The person who put myself into the tension cannot be the person that comes up with the solutions to get me out of it.
Read that again.
The person who brought you to this tension cannot be the same person to get you out of it.
I’m going to leave my Hell Loops design as a reference.
And the through-line between all of these recent experiences has been this old pattern that I must rip myself apart and spread myself thin, just to prove I’m worthy of being accepted, appreciated, loved.
I lower my art prices and make my art as detailed as possible. Is it because I love the detail or could there be a part of me that thinks if I don’t do the absolute most, then my art isn’t worthy?
I bend my boundaries and let people take for granted my time and energy. Constantly saying, “it’s okay, another time,” or “we can do that instead” and feeling resentment build, because how can they not see how much I give? I can’t even wrap my head around having one love language because I try to offer all the languages to prove I’m “enough.” It’s fucking exhausting.
Everything that’s been happening over the past few months feels overwhelming, but it also feels simple. It’s all the same pattern, in different forms.
I keep healing and my reality keeps popping up in different forms to say “hey, you want to show up different, but here’s another place you’re stuck in the pattern.”
Like Whack-a-Mole, but for trauma.
I’m consistently humbled the more I accept that life is an echo; that my experience is an art performance and I, it’s curator.
Sometimes though, I wish I didn’t feel the need to blow up every area of life when I discover a pattern.
I felt a ball of anger rising up in me yesterday thinking about all of the times I ignored my boundaries or felt I needed to over-give. I kept focusing on the people. That I should be so mad at them for taking me for granted, for not showing up with love. I sat in my car for 20 minutes when I parked and let the windows steam over with rage.
side note: The best place to be angry is a parked car where you can blast Mo Lowda and scream into the steering wheel.
When I was finally ready to go inside, make my angry meal and eat in rage, I felt someone in the corner of my heart stir. I started washing dishes, the best time to build up fake conversations, and I heard it speak out.
“I just want to know what it feels like to be taken care of.”
And that was it.
All my anger slid down the drain and I wept.
I’m living out this pattern because I am trying to show others how I want someone to show up for me.
That’s all we want at the end of the day, isn’t it? For someone to tell us we’re safe and loved?
Even with my art, I was hoping for someone to come over and tell me that my prices were okay; that I was okay.
Now the question falls upon me and I have to look at it at every turn I try to make because there is no more hiding.
Can I offer myself the love, support, and assurance that that little dark corner of my heart is craving?
I don’t have answer.
I think I’ve been pushing off writing for these two months, because I feel out of place not offering up a solution or wisdom to set thee on the path. Egos are fun when we get to know them.
What I do have is a reminder that we have more control over our reality than we sometimes want to admit. We have our perception and our hope. We have our openness and our kindness. And where there is resistance, there are lessons waiting to unravel.
Running into the arms of tension and failure might be the quickest way to shifting our current experiences. And if that is the choice you are making as well, I wish you God speed.
xx