Wwoof wwoof

Kilsmo, the town where I spent the last two weeks wwoofing is so small that I tell the bus driver to let me off at 'the shop' because there is only one in town. Its about an hour away from Örebro, a great little city where I spent the weekends wandering and eating chocolates and writing postcards. Fiola, the woman of the wwoof if you will is originally from Ireland, but lives now in Norway in Sweden. It wasn't exactly a farm, it is an old station house with a massive field behind it and Fiola moved there a year ago and needs help reclaiming it. Im pretty tired of being on the internet and might write more later but I think Ill just say what I did for the past two weeks. I cut the grass, painted the house, planted carrots, spinach and brussel sprouts. I buried the compost I trimmed trees, I cut away fields and fields of rubbish, I got attacked by nettles, I had elevensies. I mowed the lawn some more, I dug holes, I planted potatoes and onions, I dug garden beds, I painted more of the house, I went running, I made friends, I meditated, I watched Monty Python, I ate lasagna. I swam in a lake, I ran long empty roads, I listened to Michael Jackson, I did yoga, I painted flowers all over a bedroom, I ate candy, I dug out dead bushes, I made fire, I sang out loud, I drank cider, I read books, I got a tan? well a little bit. I got spiritual healing, I ate porridge, I watered the plants, and I laughed till I cried. I rode a bicycle and lay on the grass in my swimsuit. I ate chocolate and danced a crazy dance. I watched movies and mourned the King of Pop. I found strength in myself and began to get my bodily strength back as well. I went on long lonely runs through the backroads of this small Swedish village, I felt my tired, overweight body strain under the exercise but it felt good. Running came back again once I got to Sweden, much needed too because traveling is sometimes very unhealthy and it helps me a great deal to sweat it up sometimes. And each day I could feel it getting easier and my muscles adapting to the new routine. I felt like Forest Gump or my mom just running and running and running. Some hilarious Swedish hilbilly on a motorcycle pulled over one day and started chatting me up in Swedish. Finally I had to break the news that I didn't understand and went on my way. Anyways... And I got to meditate twice daily again, something that although the hostels are lovely here, doesn't really accomodate. Fiola practices another meditation, which I tried out for a week but it just isn't for me. Mantras and dancing and reading and all that crap I don't really like and mostly it just felt like a chore, so I kindly told her I's just stick to what I like. I also rolled out the ol yoga mat every other day and got some of that in as well.

But the greatest thing that came out of this wwoofing was the painting. Fiola wanted me to paint massive lilies on her wall. And at first I didn't want to in fear of not finishing and screwing it up and it not turning out good then she's stuck with crap on her walls. But after three days of nonstop painting, (with tea breaks that is)I sat on the floor, in my paint covered clothes, utterly exhausted and I had a realization; I am an artist. Some might say, uh duh Liz, you studied art and you've been drawing your whole life. But...I have always harbored this underlying insecurity within myself about my abilities as an artist. I almost dont even want to tell people I am an artist in fear that I wont live up to the expectation that this implies. And my whole life any outer recognition of anything I did artistically was moot because I didnt believe it. I didnt think I could be an artist unless I was the best, most successful, brilliant artist around. And I couldn't deal with the rejection of anything I had created, so I stalled. For years and years, even though I made stuff, and had shows and sold a few things even I always had this feeling that someday someone would bust me and find out that I had no talent and was just a total phony. I commited the worst of ills against myself, I didn't believe in my own art. And so of course most things didn't work out the way I hoped because if I don't have faith in it, how are others going to see my work? Exactly. Now I'm not saying that this wall mural was the Sistine Chapel or anything, but it might as well have been in my eyes because it gave me faith. Not that painting flowers is going to change the world, but it did change mine, even just a little, and I think that is progress. I sat there on the floor in this house in Sweden smiling to myself, completely filled with happiness and joy and not an ounce of criticism. Because I knew, finally that it was true. If I wasn't an artist, I could not have done what I was looking at. I am an artist. It's as simple as that. And this realization brightened up my face and the room and my future. And now I walk with a little more spring in my step and I'll never doubt myself again on this front. No matter how crappy what I create is, I'm owning it and I am going to be an artist. And any criticism that comes after can't be even twice as harsh as I have been on myself like eh, my whole life. So fuck it,Ive come this far haven't I? What do I have to lose?