I just finished up a semester of reading (arguing about) the artistic writings of men spanning centuries. My conclusion: art is personal and not easily digested. (If it were easily digestible, I’d have had no reason to read the waste of men from 2,000 years ago.)
I stumbled out of the timeshare’s bedroom this morning after waking up to my brother Jimmy squealing about a lizard in his suitcase. Clever ploy to get me up to open presents? I think yes. My mom gave me a plate with a homemade breakfast sandwich on it, and I sat down at the brown marble table with my baby brother to eat. He looked at me with his translucent white skin and puppy-dog eyes and said ever so sweetly, “I know why you like to sleep, Kaitlyn. You had a hard semester.” Never have I felt so deeply understood by anyone.
I couldn’t tell you everything I worked on this semester from designing costumes to writing plays. But I can tell you that with each project I had to surrender a part of myself. Art is deeply personal. That’s why I haven’t written in a long time. I had nothing left to write about.
This morning I watched my three youngest brothers huddled around my mom’s Bible reading the Christmas story from Luke 2. And I learned something that grad school could never teach me. I always have a story to tell–the greatest story of all time.
Merry Christmas from the girl who packed sweaters to wear in sunny Florida.