Art Therapy

I started drawing again recently.

It was a single piece that turned out even better than I’d hoped. I’m pretty sure it made someone’s day. So that went well. Sorry, no pictures. That one’s private.

In the process, I rediscovered something I’d forgotten: drawing can have a calming effect. A few days later, I was in a bad mood and came across one of those adult coloring books that have gotten popular in the last year or so. I gave it a shot.

Here’s the result.

Pretty, right?

This type of complex, circular pattern is called a mandala. Loosely ‘circle’ in Sanskrit, it’s a key element in Indian religions. Mandalas represent wholeness; the universe; and the cycle of life, among other meanings. In essence, mandalas represent the connection between our inner worlds and outer reality.

I didn’t know any of that before writing this post. Research, people. It’s essential. Regardless, mandalas already had a meaning for me. They remind me of my childhood, and of my father.

My dad drew mandalas in his spare time. Not just coloring. He drew them from scratch. His study was off-limits to a five-year-old, but of course I snuck in anyway. I liked looking through his sketchbooks. They were filled with colorful, intricate designs. 

We would draw together in later years, filling up sheets of paper with random colors, lines and shapes. He taped them up on his kitchen walls. Collaborations, he called them.

In my single year of public school – I was seven – there was a daily period when our teacher would read to us. We had the option to draw at the same time. I drew a magical, fantasy island; starfighter battles; and random geometric patterns.

Remembering all this now, I see a connection I’d never noticed before.

I’ve never really questioned the things I like. Imagination, bright colors, creative pursuits. I just like them. Point blank. End of story. But now I wonder: where does the story start?

Maybe I like these things because of my father.

I resemble him, I know. My given name is a part of his. Now I wonder just how alike we are.

At any rate. The coloring was therapeutic. But these things take time. I did it on a rare weekend off, when I had time to spare. But I also have books to read, games to play, blog posts to write – not to mention the fantasy story I’ve been neglecting.

I’ve also started working out again, having finally admitted I’ve been using work as an excuse. It’s not that tiring.

I have too many hobbies, in other words.

But I’m not ruling out drawing either. I seem to recall describing it, rather disparagingly, as spending hours on something people will only look at for a minute or two. But I see now that that’s a cynical view. Sometimes the people are worth it. Sometimes they’ll spend more than a few minutes.

And sometimes the drawing is as much for yourself as anyone else.