I have never been able to comfortably embrace my artistic side; plain and simply I have none.

My mother was a brilliant artist in the true sense of the word. She could dance, sing (although she more often than not forgot the words which was always the joke between the family), played the piano (self taught), and kicked butt playing tennis against any single or doubles team that dare take her on… but her piece de résistance would easily be her painting. Pastels, charcoal, and rice paper, nothing caused a bump in her ability to capture the moment. Some day I will post her painting to share with the world and have her legacy live on forever but right now this is about me….

I am the last in the line of boys, and being the only other female in the family, her immense talent is a lot to aspire to. There should be some mom-daughter connection no?

Early on I learned I did not have the talent, nor did I have the patience. I have all of my father’s analytical genes (and also am my own worst critic). The highly organized (put it back where you found it and how you found it so you can find it again next time), the strict control of time (we don’t have time to stop we have a schedule to keep) and the deductive reasoning (if its not the air filter, the sparks or the timing, it is probably a gunky gas filter)… all very useful and practical in the world so I am not knocking it.

So why is it I still strive to be artsy-fartsy like my mom? I have taken to using a Groupon for ‘fun’ artistic afternoons with my daughter and do something different (none of this bowling or mini golf crap). The use of quotation in the word -fun- is there because I typically stress out more trying to complete the task rather than enjoy it’s process. Don’t get me wrong, it does not take away from the time spent with my daughter. We still laugh and crack jokes even if we are the only ones laughing, but the pressure to make it perfect, to get what I see in my head out through my hands, is close to impossible and extremely-extremely frustrating (did I mention it is extreme?!)

So the birch trees you see are another attempt at my striving to bond with my mother.  After all, don’t we secretly wish that our children will take something special from us and pass it along to future generations? Maybe that is it; I disappointed her in that sense and am still striving to keep a piece of her alive while failing miserably. (Hmm Fraud where are you now?)

I am sure it will not be the last time but sooner or later I will get the hint; I am just not artsy-fartsy.