It was the tail end of my visit with my three married sons and their families. And it had been a magical ten days. Why? Because we just hung-out – together.
I watched all eight of my grandchildren in their own element. Two had just gotten their driver’s licenses. Sitting beside them in the front seat brought back all the parental terrors of watching my own kids pull into traffic years before – and just wanting to grab the wheel away from them – for no discernible reason on their part.
Fortunately, the next youngest batch of grandkids weren’t as mobile so their mother and father were still driving them around. I watched them being chauffeured to and from their friends’ houses, enmeshed in the drama of their lives. It was a joy to see them all engaged with their peers but clearly loving their families too.
The three youngest zapped my energy in a most delightful way – big smiles when I arrived, tears when I left and lots of hugs and begging to play with them non-stop in between.
And then – the day before I was leaving to return home – came a rather unpleasant incident unrelated to my sons, daughters-in-law and grandkids – one that upset my equilibrium. And not being in my own element, I had to find a way to both process it and cope with the onslaught of unfamiliar emotions I was experiencing.
It was too late and too cold to walk off my angst when the news came into my inbox. My knitting needles and yarn were 1000 miles away. And the novel I had schlepped with me was no longer holding my interest.
While my son and his family were sprawled on the couch absorbed in both their phones and a basketball game on TV, I absentmindedly began to hunt for something to calm me down.
I wandered into the basement and began exploring the arts and crafts closet my daughter-in-law had assembled for her kids – replete with all weights and colors of construction paper and all types of markers and paint tubes.
I grabbed a thick pad of paper and an unopened plastic container filled with every imaginable color of paint marker and headed back upstairs.
I began to scribble.
And scribble some more. And as I scribbled, I mulled over my emotions in relation to the disturbing news delivered to me hours before.
The rhythmic motion of my unfettered line drawings allowed my mind to circle back to this most recent dilemma and think about it from many perspectives.
I looked up. An hour had passed.
I realized I was doodling to work through my frustration. I realized I was communicating in symbolic swirls, lines, patterns, and polka dots rather than the usual way of expressing myself – which is with words.
Doodling is to absentmindedly scribble. And most importantly, a doodle is a drawing made while a person’s attention is otherwise occupied. I could relate.
As I created small drawing after drawing in bright neon colors on a variety of colors of construction paper, I noted my mood improved considerably.
Researchers believe that doodling can allow individuals to work through and express their emotions. This healthy release frees up space in the brain and ultimately, has a calming effect. That evening, drawing aimlessly allowed me to express myself not only artistically but to examine the psychological and emotional undertones raging inside me.
I drew a lot of polka dots that day
And swirly cues
And my name
And flowers
And the name of my non-profit
The next morning, feeling quite cheerful and with an entirely more positive perspective, I took eight of the cards and wrote brief but heartfelt notes to each of my grandkids telling them how much I had enjoyed my time with them.
Then I did the same for their parents.
These drawings represent a new way I have developed to deal with unpleasant things that happen in life, to losses not anticipated – and curve balls coming from unexpected places.
I recognize now more than ever the power of not just the pen, but the marker.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
