Something I’d like to try

I was hoping it would be easy–like “I want to try a new cheese I’ve never tried before.” (Which I actually intend to do soon when I visit my brother and his wife in Oregon, as I have already begged them to go here and eat this!)

But no, something I want to try to do. Which is hard, because generally I’m loathe to try something new unless I already have a fairly good idea I’m going to do it well.

Yesterday I met the mother of two Brazilian sisters who live in our ward and who is visiting them here in the U.S. this month. Her name is Lina Miotta and she is an artist. This month she is going to do a painting class with us. This should be very interesting, because 1. She does not speak English and 2. I cannot paint to save my life. Painting is right up there with caulking in the “things I can do much better in my head than in real life.”

I know this because I have tried. When I tried caulking my friend Lynda’s moulding she told me. “You can never do this again. Let’s find something else for you to do.” Lynda loves me enough to not say this in a mean way, but in an honest way, and to keep loving me even though I am terrible at caulking. (Lynda is also my friend who forbade anyone from every bringing me another rooster. Which is fine, because it didn’t really stop anyone.)

But I was looking for an excuse to stop caulking badly, so didn’t feel a bit badly when she redirected my efforts to cheerleading and moral support. Two things which I am capable of doing consistently well.

But back to painting. I did a class with my Segullah sisters when Leslie Graff was in town. Poppies. I thought I would paint poppies. I like poppies. In my mind I can paint poppies that looks like this.
1024px-Poppies_again_5_(5781808652)photo credit Tony Hisgett

That was not, in fact, what my oh so rebellious hands produced once I got brushes and a palette of pretty red paints in my hand. In fact I’m pretty sure my poppies were so bad the canvas had to be destroyed. (I jest–you can always paint over canvas.)

And yet. There I sat. In Relief Society. Naively optimistic. And signed my name on the roll of people who will attend, intent on learning to paint. Hoping that somehow this time it will be different.

Even though I know better.

[Day 126 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]