A friend and I were texting back and forth about the dark turn on college campuses. The White House is cancelling research grants and trying to put academic freedom on ice.
"My nerves are shot," my friend said. Mine, too, I thought, grateful my kids' college years are coming to an end and furious I feel this way. My mood is a pinball that ricochets at random.
"I go from stunned horror to this manic playfulness to wanting to run down the street cursing. But at least I'm playing with art supplies! That's…something? My urge to take in the magnolias or dabble with watercolors or take walks in the neighborhood borders on defiant."
The word defiant stopped me short. I hadn't put a finger on it till that moment.
There's definitely a shade of rebellion in my adamant pursuit of beauty and fun.
At the moment, that includes playing with my kids' old art- and school supplies.
During one of my death cleaning sessions, I came across a set of washable markers, my daughter's fancy inking pens, some watercolor pencils and a little paintbrush. I decided to give them a go.
This is a departure for me. I gravitate toward deep thought and earnest expression and I can't draw.
But I'm not really drawing, am I? I'm just messing around with colors and lines. I’m scribbling. I’m playing.
Turns out playing is fun. WHO KNEW.
My random doodling has led me to seek out teachers and artists on Instagram and Substack. I'm not looking for instruction, necessarily, but I'm loving the company and the visual inflow. This creative wandering feels like exploring a new neighborhood and meeting the residents.
I already knew about Wendy MacNaughton of DrawTogether with WendyMac, which is more of a joyous movement than a newsletter. I also found Amy Stewart, a Portland writer and artist whose lively visual newsletter, It's Good to Be Here, is a treat. So is The Habit of Art by Indiana writer and professor Kelcey Ervick.
They make drawing seem so inviting.
Amy's newsletter led me to Skillshare classes. When my free trial membership to Skillshare ended, I moved on to YouTube videos.
High on momentum after a video, I grabbed a pen and looked for something to sketch. There, lying next to my journal, was my phone. 20 minutes later:
I drew my phone! And it looks like a phone!
This sketch blew my mind because it's something I never believed I could do.
This little drawing gave me 20 minutes of joy.
Let me rephrase: I gave myself 20 minutes of joy.
But why, when I was texting with my friend, did I call my joy defiant?
Jenna Park got at the idea in her newsletter, Everything is Liminal. She wrote about being surprised by how much her local Hands Off protest moved her.
She understood that feel-good energy only goes so far; real change requires that energy to be channeled into action. But she discovered the point of the march wasn't to enact change, at least not directly.
Most attendees were aware that waving a sign in a park wouldn’t move votes. They came for something else — community, humanity, and hope in defiance of an administration bent on dividing us.
As we're bombarded by the gleeful destruction of American institutions, even a tiny act of creation feels audacious and enlivening.
That's defiant joy.
My sketching isn't particularly notable and it won't change much beyond my journal. But it's a spark of pushback against exhaustion and hopelessness. Enough sparks might lead to bigger, brighter, change.
