I Wish That We Were Water Lilies

Starting with the green leaves scattered in this drawing, I began a painstaking march of filling the page with lines that would be closer to water than flowers. I had always loved water lilies because they’re stationary, and solidly anchored, and alive - despite being stuck between land, sea and sky. They also remind me of fungus - but only because they grow in clusters, families, communities. They are a network of proximity, and they never get up and walk away. People though, people always leave.

On the plane from Tampa to Denver to go skiing and then drive the rest of the way home with my dad, I floated into a cloud of doubt about whether I should even return to school after the Holidays. My counselor had challenged me in our last meeting to turn to making art when my thoughts began to accelerate - “if that is how you clear your mind, then empower yourself to do it, regardless of what people around you think or what you might be putting off to do it. You know you can’t just flip a switch, but you also know you have tools to get to where you need to be.”

I had hesitantly tried to justify my skepticism with the excuse that "art is a reward for having done what I have to." But I didn’t even believe myself when I said that. In the same encounter I had tried to justify the idea that I only prepare my bedroom with the twinkle lights on and a candle burning and the window cracked open and cleanly shaved legs (my optimal sleeping conditions) as a reward for a productive day. 

“Let me get this straight - you know what way you have the best night’s sleep, but you only do it if you think you deserve it? Meredith. Sleep isn’t a reward, its necessary to function and survival.”

Meredith. Art isn’t a reward, its necessary to function and survival.

4 hours of airtime and what felt like million-line-induced-blindness later, the woman next to me watched me shove my pens back in their pouch and headphones in my pocket. “Can I see some of your notebook?” she asked to my no longer occupied ears. For a split second I was terrified, but I pulled it out and quietly began to explain 6 or 7 drawings. I traced my lines with my fingers and my voice grew stronger - “I always did art, but school takes up all my time you know? But I recently found out I have ADHD and that kinda taught me that its psychologically necessary for me to make art and meditate to function like everybody else - I used to think I was dumber than everyone else - but I think I’m just a different kind of smart…” When I looked at her after trailing off she said “Keep going, anyone could see from your notebook that there is a genius in charge.”

I beamed at her, filled to the brim with the satisfaction of having finished a drawing in one sitting, having been encouraged by a stranger, having spoken my agreement with my reality into existence.