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A Rose is a Rose ...unless I painted it.
Rosemary Roberts
I'll be the first to admit it; I'm no Martha Stewart when it comes to crafty activities around the home such as quilted picture frames, drying my own flowers, covering furniture with the latest designer sheets, or sewing holiday table napkins. If you see a leaf stuck to my wall, it's probably real; hanging from a newly formed spider web replacing the one I just vacuumed down the week before. It's a blessing actually since I'm stencil-deficient too. So there you have it. When it comes to crafts, I'm more of a Mabel than a Martha .
One skill I have mastered though is something I like to call “divine procrastination”: the ability to go beyond merely avoiding what you should be doing in the first place with a more creative spin. I recently took this rare and marvelous talent to a new level after desperately seeking a much-needed distraction from my work. The perfect protagonist became my frustration with inadequate lighting over the kitchen breakfast bar. I was in the mood for something fun, something that would sooth my inner child and yet, create a responsible diversion just the same. It was one of those “stormy on the outside, but comfy on the inside” kind of winter afternoons that could seduce anyone down the road of creative disaster.
I had acquired from a neighbor, a swag lamp with a simple, smooth and round, white-glass globe. The perfect size I thought, for hanging above my counter. Back in my younger years (before I was fortunate enough to own a drill), I would have simply pounded my holes for the chain-linked cord hooks with a screwdriver and a hammer, but I was an evolved woman now with power tools all my own. I quickly penciled marks of precision on the ceiling and bore through the plaster, my mission clear and direct. A few simple turns of two butterfly screws and I was set to hang the fixture. But to my dismay, a flip of the switch revealed that I had just hung the moon itself over my counter – a full moon no less that could be seen 10 miles away. After playing with various lower wattage bulbs, it was clear that my moon still overpowered the area with intrusive light far too bright for comfort.
It's worth mentioning that diversionary tactics capable of fulfilling simple procrastination urges are one thing, but divine procrastination is like plan “B” on hormones. “Of course! I simply need to diffuse this light, something warm maybe in color, but what?” And that's when it hit me… my defining “Not-So-Martha” moment.
Joyful inspiration sent me scouring the shed for paints used around the interior of my home, beautiful pastels of peach, lavender, and green. “I'll paint roses on the lower half of the globe to provide the soft glow of color, and the design will be my diffuser! I'll mix the shades to create depth and outline the petals of my roses with gentle strokes of mauve…brilliant!”
I might also add that Martha would have been impressed with the organized workspace that I created; neatly arranged newspaper on my countertop to prevent splatters, small plastic cups to hold my color creations, and the ever-so-fine-tipped paintbrushes that I found in my son's old watercolor kit while dredging the bottom of his closet. With a small sponge-type trim brush in hand I began my masterpiece of innocent creativity.
“How difficult could it be to paint roses anyway?” I thought as my brush danced upon the glass. “Petals are sort of round, right?” Fearlessly I continued. “No matter. I'm sure they'll look more like roses when I fill in the shading and outline the edges.” Around the globe I continued sweeping brush strokes of endless color that was, in and of itself, appealing, but hardly recognizable as anything specific, let alone roses. Sadly, even outlines around my outlines didn't help. Eventually, calling them flowers at all was a stretch by anyone's standards. Accepting creative defeat, I turned the globe upside down on my hand to dry and sought the only emotional refuge available; like a juvenile with a skinned knee (or ego in this case) I carried my shameful attempt at inspired artwork to my mother's home across the street.
Being the sweet little Alabama woman that she is, Mom desperately tried to visualize the roses and say something nice. “The colors are beautiful,” she said with a reassuring tone while her facial muscles tried to catch up to her words. “I like the peach shade.”
Standing there reduced to something less than mediocrity with this globe on over my hand, I declared, “I think I've discovered my block in life… that key item responsible for all the past failures I've ever experienced.” Poor Mom looked confused. “Tell me the truth, Mom,” I continued. “I flunked Kindergarten, didn't I? Did I even pass finger painting?” My darling little bundle of motherhood just smiled and said, “It's not too bad. Lets go see what it looks like hanging up.”
Back in my kitchen standing side by side and looking up, we were amazed actually at how nice it looked from that angle. It had real home-crafted appeal (Ok, so you had to be there), and if you examined the fixture closely (assisted by a little imagination), you could almost see the roses. Mom was right -- the peach shade was nice. With renewed confidence and rekindled anticipation, I reached for the light switch. But when the globe lit up our jaws dropped to our chests.
As if my pitiful roses weren't enough, the soft pastels once soothing and beautiful turned into something so awful in texture and brown in color when lit that we burst into hysterical laughter. My mother, whom at all costs upholds strict southern standards of acceptable verbiage, recovered from her shock and cried, “Oh my goodness! It looks like smeared…you know!” I let her off the hook with a quick, “Dog poop, Mom. That's what you're searching for.” My personal definition was a bit stronger. Who would have guessed that any old acrylic paint wouldn't work on lighted glass? Certainly not one such as myself with ingenious problem solving skills and her very one power drill!
While most would assume that I've since replaced the globe with a more suitable store-bought piece of elegance, they'd be wrong. It hangs to this day in the exact same location as a symbol of my efforts, my tenacity, and yes, a reminder of my lack of talent should I sense another urge to find the “Martha” within. It's also kind of fun to watch the reaction of others when I turn on the light while maintaining a proud gaze as if it's actually supposed to look that way. Mostly it's a testament of how a little child-like fun can enrich our hectic lives regardless of what our individual “roses” turn out to look like. Still, I don't think K-Mart will be calling me anytime soon.