Still Life with Wine

I came across this today. I had written it in 2005, if the date on the file is to be believed. The events took place around 1996, so I think I must have written it out by hand long before I typed it up on a computer.

Reading it makes me sad, but happy that I’ve come as far as I have.

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Still Life with Wine

Spanish Rice
1 cup rice
2 cups water or chicken broth
onions
garlic
green chilies
tomatoes (optional)
salt, to taste

When I add onions to the skillet the room becomes a different place. It's suddenly home. It doesn't matter what's waiting for me on the other side of the doorframe, inside the tiny kitchen I have a personal space created for me by the aromas of my hands' work. I don't grow onions, but I do buy them, peal them and then chop them finely before putting them into the pan. My favorite way to use onions is to put them in the skillet first, with just a tablespoon of oil, heated until it makes a ring around the outer three-quarters of the surface, with a dot in the center. That's how I know it's ready, that ring that the oil creates when it's just about to be too hot to use successfully. So before a visible cloud of smoke lets the rest of the household know that I've been lax, I add the onions and keep the oil too busy to make smoke. An invisible cloud forms, instead. An odiferous cloud that marks where my space begins. It's sacred, this space.

There's nobody waiting for me anywhere in the house at the moment. I have the place to myself. I could dance naked in the living room, and I have known myself to do it. I have put the stereo speakers in the window and danced salsa outside on the deck without a shirt on. By myself I can lounge and read, I can sing, I can paint or play the piano. With nobody around to question what I'm doing I'm free to do what I want. The problem is that I don't paint or play the piano enough. I don’t long to do those things until somebody's around me criticizing me for doing them.

I will have company before too long, and tonight I want to have dinner ready and waiting. Not that I'm one of those abused spouses that gets slapped against the wall if dinner's not waiting for the man as soon as he walks in the door. I just want that things go smoothly tonight. He has to work late and it always makes him so tired. He's not abusive, just quiet and sulky. I feel like a burden to him, sometimes.

We're staying at my place tonight, which is a surprise. We rarely stay here. I don't know why I still have a place of my own, except that he hasn't invited me to live with him. I suppose that he still enjoys having the only set of keys to his home, and a place to go to if he's too angry to be with me. It's funny, but I'm not allowed to retreat here if I'm just too upset or tired to deal with his miserably immaculate house. I have never, for one minute, felt comfortable there. And I've never cooked there, or seen him cook. He's heated frozen dinners, but that's the extent of his culinary ambition, which is fine because he would only have to spend the next week cleaning the kitchen if he actually used that lonely stove. Over there, I drink instant coffee in the morning.

I have my music playing on the stereo. I don't have to worry about him turning it off and turning on the television for at least another hour. Music makes my food turn out better. I don't know why I don't date somebody with the same musical taste that I have. It would be easier that way. I wouldn't have to wait until I was alone to enjoy the Caribbean rhythms and soulful voices.

Fortunately, my house is such that the stereo is on the other side of the living room and I can still hear it perfectly. It's only about six steps away. My kitchen and bathroom, which together make up about a 5'X10' space, are the only things in the house that qualify as rooms aside from the studio area, which houses my papasan sofa and my piano, my dining room table and my bed. There is no actual door between the kitchen and the dining area of the long room, which is my house. There is a door that folds sideways between the kitchen and the bathroom and right above the stove is a big window, which is always open.

The onions have now long since sautéed and I have added the green chilies and tomatoes and garlic to the mixture. Rice browns separately and as soon as it's ready I'll put the sautéed vegetation and two cups of chicken stock, which I froze last time I cooked chicken. Chicken backs and necks are good for making stock that I freeze and use later, with the few scraps of meat that come off of those pieces.

By the time he gets here the rice will be ready and still hot, the beans have been cooking all day, so they're ready, and I have just to put one more pan in the oven to melt the cheese inside the enchiladas. Then dinner will be ready.

Cheese enchiladas
corn tortillas
cheddar cheese
flour
chili powder
beef bouillon (optional)
3 cups water

While the rice simmers I soften the tortillas in hot oil. I'm not making that many enchiladas this time, so I don't have to add more oil. If we were going to be having others over I'd have to put more oil in two or three times and let it heat before continuing. I love having people in my home and I love cooking for people. But there are only a couple of my friends that he will tolerate. He's careful never to openly criticize my friends, so that I don't have any ammunition against him. He just uses the passive/aggressive tactics that he has learned very well to make sure that he's never around when they are. Plus, he gets very cranky if I have friends visit while he's at work. It's amazing that I have any friends left at all. The ones that he does like don't particularly care for him. They never say this, but I can tell in their demeanor. They are far more polite than they would otherwise be. My friends don't tend to be incredibly refined. I don't hang around ruffians, but we love to laugh and have a good time.

Now I go to shred the cheese. I shudder at the thought of his seeing me do this. Why didn't I have the cheese already shredded, he'd want to know. Everything I do makes him tired. It makes me tired that he's never happy with anything I do. I struggle to think of the last time that he smiled, so that I could believe it, anyway. I roll the cheese inside the softened tortillas and place them in a glass baking pan.

I discard all but about a tablespoon of the oil. In this I brown flour and make a roux. In that I briefly brown the chili powder and then add the water and beef bouillon. When it comes to a boil I turn down the heat and simmer until the sauce thickens. When it's thick I pour it over the rolled tortillas and set the pan aside to wait for him to get here. Just before I put them in the preheated oven I sprinkle more shredded cheese on top.

He's not cranky that I still have to heat the enchiladas. I've waited for him to get here before I heat those, so that they'll be fresh out of the oven when we sit down to eat. The griddle is hot, so the tortillas will also be freshly heated. When we do sit we don't face each other because there are only two chairs at the table that sit up straight. It's fine to sit across the table from my chair; one just has to accept that they'll be tilted. The floor is cracked down the center of the room, and few spots resemble level in this room. I've propped the table with wads of paper, so it's about as level as I am.

My music is now turned off and we eat to the sound of the news—no conversation. The television is on the station that perpetually broadcasts news. That is the station that I would watch were I to turn on the set, but I never do. And, even now, I look at my plate and at the table, anything to avert my eyes from the hypnotizing spell that the television has over my brain. I can't hide from the voices, though, and my enchiladas and flour tortillas are flavored with the stock market at the moment. In a while the beans will be seasoned with a plane crash, the same plane crash that they've reported twice, now, since he's arrived.

I drink my tea—wine and beer are frowned upon these days—and look at the ring that the glass is leaving on my Formica tabletop. From the benefit of the slanted room a ring once formed that looked as if a penis had been lying on the table and the water had dried underneath it. I liked that little piece of art that fate left for me as a gift, but he "accidentally" wiped it off when I wasn't looking.

Cheese and red wine
Cut sharp cheddar cheese into small cubes. Enjoy with a glass of red wine.

It's a new day. I'm not working today and I sit basking in the sun on the deck outside my house. The space between my garage apartment and the main house has brick laid on the ground. It's a living deck that we mow every week. I sit in a lawn chair and drink a glass of red wine. I have cheese cut into cubes inside, but I wanted to be outside in the sun for a few minutes. There is no music playing and this, my first glass of wine in months, burns my tongue. The sharp cheddar cheese compliments it perfectly. The sun isn't doing what I'd hoped it would … bring feeling back into my numbed body. I still don't get up and go inside. I sit back in the lawn chair wondering if the owner of the house is going to come home, and, if he does, whether he'll come around the back to go inside. The entire length of my room is inside the back yard, so I have a lot of privacy, if not space. The garage part of the building, which hasn't seen a car in it in years, is outside the yard, on the other side of the tall wooden fence. I contemplate turning the music on. That's all; I just contemplate it. Just like I contemplate getting more cheese from the dining room table. If I sit still enough it's like I have no feeling in my body at all.

The vine is growing up the brick wall of the main, two-story house. Even though the owner persists in tearing it down, the vine comes back, always, just like the grass grows between the bricks of the deck no matter how much we pull it and mow it. It's determined. The grass is almost thicker here on the deck than it is in the rest of the yard, which lies in the shade of the tall trees. Tall shrubs line the fence on the other side of the yard, so there's no worry that anybody will see me, or notice me. Not that I'm doing anything. I couldn't do anything if I wanted to; there's no music playing, there's no cheese in my hand and he won't ever be coming back here again. It's a good thing.

I didn't like it when he was here and I didn't like being at his house. He didn't like either of those things any more than I did, so why did it take so many months to make this break? And why do I feel the desperate need to call him and beg him to come, or let me come over, just like we did to each other seemingly endlessly over the past few months?

A Cat Who Wants to Be Outside

I woke up one morning to my partner explaining that he had been on his morning walk and had found a kitten in box. She was clearly abandoned and probably was too young to live if left on her own. Suddenly, it seemed, we had a new kitten.

Cleopatra was named for the markings that looked like eye makeup. (We called her Cleo for short.) There wasn’t much of a transition issue for her. She settled in; she ate, understood the litter box. She was a kitten with kitten energy and eyes that were in a constant state of wide-open, like she was always surprised.

Cleo dearly loved Barry’s cat, Ms. Polly, who was far too old to want to have anything to do with kittens or cuddling or mothering. No matter how much Cleo walked up to her, droopy-eyed in half-sleep snuggle mode, it wasn’t never well-received. When our cat population expanded by six cats (a friend passed and we took her cats in) Cleo more or less kept to herself. if she couldn’t have Ms. Polly, she didn’t want anybody.

By and by, Cleo took to sitting by the storm door, looking out at the back yard. We would step over her while coming into an out of the house, so she had plenty of time to dart outside if that had been what she wanted. (She also had time to move out of the damn way, but wasn’t interested in that, either.) Barry and I decided that she remembered having been outside alone and abandoned as a kitten, and had no desire to relive that experience. So, she just watched the world happen from her safe place of shelter, food and water.

The change in her mindset about the outdoors was very gradual. I suspect that she saw the strays who had taken up residence in the back yard. She watched them lounge in the sun AND get fed. Her cat brain began to question the truths she had accepted. She realized that the love and care that we showed her inside was available to cats outside as well. Hmm…

She snuck outside a few times. Barry was very unimpressed with me when this happened. He’d run late to work because he’d insist on crawling under the house to get her out from under there and bring her inside again. She went under the house because almost as soon as she had managed to get outside, she became a little spooked—no longer sure why she had wanted to be out there in the first place. Dreams of warm sunbeams forgotten because she was too busy thinking about the fact that there were only a few precious minutes before the man who lived inside the house and brought her food (Barry) would come out and chase her back inside. So she panicked and ran under the house to hide.

A few years went by like this. Then one day a confident new hunky cat named Tomcat began to strut around the backyard. Cleo mostly watched him with the same detachment as she did with the other cats and possums. As winter set in, though, and it began to get cold outside, Tomcat began coming inside at night, and was allowed back out during the day.

This was the last straw.

Not only did the cats outside enjoy food and fresh air and sunbeams, they were allowed into the house as well, and then back outside whenever they pleased? That was too much.

She rediscovered youth in her desire to be outside. The storm door doesn’t slam; it has a pneumatic closer that catches it and lets it come to a slow, quiet close. This gave Cleo ample time to allow us to walk outside and then charge from two rooms away through the door before it completely closed her in. She got better at making sure we were either out of sight, or that she engaged her cat stealth as she ran by so that we didn’t notice her.

She no longer wasted any time being frightened and confused under the house. She’d lie in the grass, soaking up the sun. Or curl up under an esperanza bush. She could alternately sleep and watch the world around her for hours before standing on the back step, announcing that she’d like to come inside again please.

She didn’t interact with the cats outside much more than she had with the ones inside, and she also didn’t care who was around. Most cats won’t walk through a door or around a corner if another cat is standing nearby. There is a code in cat life that states, in no uncertain terms, that if another animal walks across your path you must swat it. It could be another cat, a human, or a dog, it didn’t matter. It had to be swatted, and it might need to be chased, depending on the circumstance. (Possible exceptions are possums. It is unclear why, but possums can get away with all kinds of nonsense that other cats are not allowed.)

But Cleo didn’t care about all that. She was a big girl (almost 20 lbs.) and she knew her strength. More to the point, she didn’t care about those other cats. She had places to be and she proceeded, regardless of how many cats were on the back step or nearby. She walked right by them, or jumped over them. To her, they were mere objects in her path. She knew that time was somewhat limited. She may be a badass cat, but she knew that the man with the food would be around sooner or later to scold her and chase her inside, so she wasted no time.

I, myself, long to learn this lesson. Not only learn it by watching Cleo chase her dreams, but I want to really feel it in my bones. To KNOW what I want, why I want it and to make no excuses about not going after it. If the door is closing, who says you can’t reach it from two rooms away before it locks you in? If other cats want to play by their rules, that’s their business, but I have things to accomplish and work to do.

I want to go at life with the conviction of a cat who has decided to be outside. Nothing can stop a heart on a mission. Cleo showed me that.

Move over. The door is closing now; I don’t have time for nonsense.

To Those of You Who Hurt, I Understand

All of you who hurt quietly. Who wonder what’s wrong with you, who feel like you have everything going for you, but then it all seems to fall apart.

To those of you who are paralyzed, like a deer in headlights, when you hear what sounds like a raised voice, even if it’s only somebody talking loudly. To those who don’t know how to make people understand what’s going on, because you don’t understand it either.

To you, I say, I understand. I understand, even if you haven’t realized that there’s anything specifically wrong yet, if you just get into these moods sometimes and need some time alone. If you don’t want to watch psychological thrillers, because the sound of screaming victims puts you in a bad mood.

And You. I understand. When you try to tell people that there might have been something a little strange about your upbringing and they assure you that every family has one member like that.

When you choose not to go to crowded outdoor festivals or parties, and your friend laughs and says that they don’t care for crowds either, that they’ll probably just go for a little while, to make an appearance. When you know that once they’re there they will stay.

And they tell you about a boat party at the lake with loud music and drinks and everybody having a good time, so many people on such a beautiful day, and then they tell you that they understand, because they don’t really care for noisy places either. Just every once in a while.

And you think, ‘No. I don’t think that’s the same as what I feel’.

And you feel bad because they are inviting you to have fun, and you really don’t want to go, but you think you probably should. Get to know more people. Get out more.

And to those who think that fireworks are not as much fun as other people seem to think. Who get a headache even from thinking about it. And leading up to the time to go, you find yourself struggling to breathe regularly.

And people tell you that you’re in a mood.

Again.

You get in these moods. Why don’t you go do something about that?

And why can’t you hold a job?

Why do you sleep so much. You’ve gone to bed at 8 o’clock every evening. Do you really need that much sleep?

I understand why you sleep so much. I do.

Because when your friends and the people who love you have had it, and they ask you why are you like this all of a sudden, and you don’t know. You don’t know why.

You think that being a nomad might be a better lifestyle for you, moving from town to town, working odd jobs and sleeping where you can find a place. Or you dream of a small house far away from the nearest town.

If you wonder whether or not the loud voices that startle you have anything to do with excessive sleep, they probably do. They’re likely related. That and much more.

Every family does have that one person who sticks out, but I’m here to tell you that this does not make your situation normal. Even if, when you heard that explanation, you took it at face value, you knew that this wasn’t the same thing. But you convinced yourself that they were right. If you’re having second thoughts about that now, it means something. It does.

And I understand.

When nobody seems to know what’s going on, least of all you. When you try to explain and they tell you that we all have stress, we’re all dealing with things. If it makes you feel small, try not to let it.

And forgive the people who can’t understand. Not everybody knows that there’s even anything to understand. If they don’t know what it’s like when you hear two people fighting, then they don’t know.

But I do.

And you’re not wrong. You might be crazy, but you’re not mistaken. There is something wrong.

And I understand.

You Can, If You Decide To

“If you want a life you’ve never had before, you’ll have to do things you’ve never done before.” Jen Sincero, You Are a Badass.

So, you’ve decided that you want to change. Maybe you want to rediscover a passion that you left behind when being a responsible adult got in the way. You’ve decided that you’re not going to give up on your music again, or your art, or writing. Or whatever it is that makes you talk so much and so fast your friends look at you funny.

That’s great. Now, get ready to do some things that you’ve never done before, or at least not in a while. And a lot of those things will be just different enough to be uncomfortable. Make the decision right now; decide that you will not give up. Remind yourself every day that you are not giving up.

Consuming to motivational materials is an effective way to help us keep momentum when the doubts attack.

Personally, I need to hear encouragement regularly to reinforce a decision I made a few years ago. I’ve made the effort to get in front of myself by reading and listening to Jen Sincero, Anthony Robbins, Wallace Waddles, Twyla Tharp and many others. They help me keep doubt at bay so I can investigate my thoughts with a clear head.

I decided to be a writer. I usually allow myself to be talked out of my ideas, even when nobody is trying to discourage me. I just give up on myself, almost out of habit. “It’s too much work”, or “I’m not as talented as real writers”, or “they’ll just look at me as if I’m cute for trying.” Or, “I don’t have a degree” is always a good insecurity to fall back on.

At the end of the day, those are just reasons to let yourself fail, to give up, or not to try.

The more uncomfortable you are, the more creativity you’ll bring to it.

Last year my partner challenged me, himself and another friend of ours to have 5 paintings (each) done by mid-December for an exhibition in his studio. Not a problem, I thought as I penciled in time on my calendar. We’d already been painting with each other for over a year and we were in the flow.

There is a difference between dreaming and doing, and it is inside the chasm of this difference that most people give up. I want you to dream big. Huge. Then get to work. When you have an idea that’s so brilliant it makes you tremble, watch out for your worst enemy: You.

I had an idea for the paintings that I was really excited about. I knew it had potential and I couldn’t wait to see the series up and in person. Before that, though, I’d have to paint it.

Some time after having a great idea, the reality of its being possible becomes frightening. Especially if you’ve spent a large part of your life backing down, talking yourself out of growing. Reasoning with yourself.

This, though, is not the time for reasoning. This is the time to go. To do it. The more uncomfortable you are, the more creativity you’ll bring to it.

I just give up on myself, almost out of habit.

When I began on the challenge, I first had to have coffee. Then, I needed a nap. I was thinking about my wonderful ideas and how I would execute them. Which made me terrified. Like, I-couldn’t-get-out-of-bed terrified. I lay there, paralyzed by my reaction to my own enthusiasm.

I pushed myself a little. I told myself that I would start sketching and let that lead me. Just sketch, just to get the blood flowing. For now, it was just going to be me working in peaceful solitude, with my own music playing and cats keeping me company. So, I breathed and got out of bed.

And keep the inevitable mood swings to yourself as much as you can.

First I was angry at everybody. Then I had to find a reason to be angry at them. Why did they stack stuff on top of my canvas? Now it’s all warped. Who took my ruler! How am I supposed to draw a straight line without a ruler? And my paint brushes; where are they!? Doesn’t anybody around here respect my stuff?! I’m never painting in this studio again. I will find someplace to paint by myself. WHY DOES EVERYBODY HATE ME? I’M NEVER TALKING TO ANYBODY EVER AGAIN EVER!

After inspecting , I learned that the canvas could be fixed by getting it wet; it tightened up again. And the paint brushes were standing neatly in a container designed specifically to hold paint brushes.

Breathe. Get back to work.

Beware that getting started doesn’t mean that your subconscious has given up. It’s just lying in wait.

I approached the canvas. This was really, really frightening. I had been slapping paint on things pretty regularly for over a year, but this… this was an idea that I love and that I thought had true potential. If I messed this up I’d be messing up my dream. I thought about taking another nap right at this point. Tomorrow is a good day to start painting.

Breathe.

Lean on your team

I worked for a while, sketching and getting into a creative flow. Partner came in at some point and aimed a light at my canvas, which helped immensely. He could see what I was so clearly struggling with, and it took him two seconds to redirect the light. (Please don’t tell him about my fit earlier.) But seriously, this is why we need coaches in our lives. And editors, and people with outside perspectives.

Take a break

Make some quiet time for yourself. Do some Zentangle. Have a cup of tea. Sit on the porch and watch birds. Do your best to think of nothing.

After sketching for a while and writing for a while, I did need a nap. I was on the bed with my cats and after a short time I got a nudge from somewhere inside my mind saying that I didn’t have to stay 100% faithful to the reference picture. I lay still. The feeling inside me said I could move the angles of a couple of straight lines in order to make the perspective more dramatic. That ended up making a huge difference in the painting.

Taking a break is different than ‘lying in a fetal position in fear’, by the way.

Work, rest. Work, rest. Meditate. Breathe. Clear your mind, and then work again.

Giving up is not an option. If that thought comes up, work through it. We make a habit of quitting, as if life were a video game. When I began working on those paintings, nothing was even that difficult yet I was ready to quit, before I had even started. This is, if I’m not mistaken, when I usually give up. I have a great idea, I begin to put it together, get overwhelmed and stop. I might tell myself I need more research, or I need to learn a new skill first or something. But for the most part the project is abandoned.

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

Are you stronger than you believe?

If you take some time to look at your life, you’ll probably find some instances in which you demonstrated tenacity, even if it didn’t impress you all that much. Maybe you took a second job and worked seventy hours a week for an extended period of time. Or found rent money moments before being evicted. And it’s possible (likely) that you don’t give yourself credit for these things, but don’t sell yourself short.

Despite that I’ve always thought of myself as a loser, there have been times when I have persevered. When I decided that I would accomplish a goal, I accomplished it. In my early 20’s—in the middle of a depression that I couldn’t understand or control—I learned Spanish. I did it in spite of all sorts of discouragement being thrown in my way. My family was highly irritated with me. Some Spanish speakers made fun of me. Or got angry at me. And, I was just really, really bad at speaking and understanding Spanish. I was clumsy. I gave up several times.

But before I could even properly quit, I found myself listening to Spanish music again, trying to make out the lyrics. I couldn’t let it go.

This just shows that I CAN do these things; I just have to WANT to do them, and DECIDE to do them.

You can do your things. You just have to WANT to do them, and then DECIDE.

Maybe you’ve been exploring and came across this website. You find yourself researching something you’d like to do some day, and to your own dismay you feel that you are trying to talk yourself out of it. This is a good time to learn to be still, to be quiet and to meditate. There are more resources online about meditation than I could list, but don’t dismiss the idea of art.

Me, I find comfort in art. Even if drawing isn’t your thing, you should give it a try from time to time. I encourage you to pick up a pen and paper. Don’t think about anybody seeing it; just make doodles, repeat patterns. Let your hand wander, and focus on the act of moving the pen across the paper. Circles, half-circles, squares, arcs repeating themselves. Your inner champion is trying to talk to you. Get used to making quiet time for yourself. Hold your dreams in your mind when you begin and see what your inner champion whispers to you. Be still and listen.

Then get ready to work.

Stress Relief, One Stroke at a Time

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Notebook and Pen

Zentangle, an art of meditation

According the American Psychological Association, one third of Americans suffer from extreme stress, while almost half report increased stress compared to five years ago. That study was well before COVID-19 became a part of our lives; they warn that there has been an increase since the beginning of the pandemic.

There are many ways of dealing with stress, and I’d like to talk today about one that I have found particularly useful: Zentangle.

This topic may seem trendy—and a trend that passed a few years ago even—but it is worth considering. I came upon it just as the trend was fading, making way for adult coloring books. I’ll touch on coloring books in a future post, but for now let’s focus on drawing simple lines, repeating those lines to create patterns.

Where did Zentangle Come From?

Zentangle was started by a couple, Rick and Maria. Maria was a botanical illustrator and a calligrapher; Rick had been practicing meditation for years. One fateful day as Maria was working on a large letter, adding a pattern to the background, Rick asked her something. I believe he had to ask her a couple of times in order to get her attention. She was in the zone. As she described it to Rick, she felt “selflessness, timelessness and effortlessness”. He immediately recognized that as meditation.

What is Zentangle?

Zentangle is an art form in which you repeat basic line shapes to create patterns. In the classic style, it is done on 3.5-inch square ‘tiles’ which are a high quality, almost cardstock paper. You begin by making a light frame around the edge of the tile in pencil; this is the space you work in. You then use the pencil to draw lines to divide the space into three or four sections. After that you use a quality, fine-point drawing pen, such as Micron #1, and in each space you create one of the basic patterns by repeating strokes and lines.

A Pile of Tangles

Why do we need Zentangle?

Kylie Fuller wrote an interesting article regarding a link between stress and dementia/Alzheimer’s disease. There have been countless studies done relating stress to high blood pressure and heart disease, both of which can shorten a person’s life span, not to mention the diminished quality of life when the person is overwhelmed with it. Add to that the prospect of stress bringing on dementia prematurely and it is clear that there is a need for something to aid in stress management.

Zentangle is a good answer to that because it is readily available. You can find books on how to do it, or you can go directly to the source at the Zentangle web page. Supplies are also easy to get. If you don’t have the tiles and nice pens, you can use any writing instrument (hopefully one with a fine point) and any piece of paper. The main part is the practice of repeating the lines “one stroke a time”.

There have been many scholarly articles written about the connection between Zentangle and mental health. In every one that I’ve looked at the answer comes out the same in at least one aspect: Zentangle helps.

How does Zentangle work?

When you follow the established instructions, you begin and end each session with appreciation. You hold the paper at the beginning, touch the surface and feel the quality. You hold the pen and consider the quality of the instrument you are using. Basically, you are putting yourself into a state of gratitude, which puts you in the flow with Source Energy, which some call by the name of God.

You decide which pattern to draw in each of the sections. You begin by drawing the first line, then continuing, usually drawing the same sort of line, using the same stroke. You do not rush. You focus, not on the overall picture, but on the one stroke you are drawing. You make deliberate lines. Focus on beginning and ending the line, rather than just sketching them out as you might do when writing. This is where the meditation happens. As each pattern is abstract—there is no up or down, so you are constantly rotating the tile.

Tangled Divider

One of the most important things to remember: There are no mistakes.

Let me say that again. There are no mistakes. This is a practice, not an exhibition. If something is drawn not as planned, you either move on, or you incorporate it into your design. Dismiss the urge to curse, or erase, or to be upset in any way.

Furthermore, do not get upset with yourself if you do become irritated. As with anything you practice, you will improve over time. That means your lines will become better, your mind will become more calm and you will more easily allow unintended strokes to become a part of the process, rather than a source of irritation.

What are the results of studies?

In studies that I have read, people were asked to grade themselves on their stress levels before and after a Zentangle session. In charts, the stress levels visibly decrease.

One interesting point is the question of participants’ attention to mental health. For the most part, people are aware of the importance of mental health on their lives. And, for the most part, people do try to take time regularly to address it. The ones who rated themselves the highest on the stress level tended to state that they did not take time to work on mental health.

Feedback included comments regarding the community aspect of it. Working with others and looking at the work others did helped to reduce the anxiety that would naturally creep in when doing something labeled as “Art”.

Myself, I’ve done it both ways. The majority of the time I’ve spent tangling has been alone, with music playing. For me that has had the greater effect on my stress level. I’ve been an artist for years, so perhaps I’ve become accustomed to the anxiety that a blank page causes. However, I have worked with a creative group, and had good results, beyond just stress-relief. Working together, we have grown and pushed ourselves to take on bigger projects, with a good amount of success.

More traditional meditation—sitting quietly, focusing on your breath, relieving your mind of any thoughts—is helpful to your life overall and you will never hear me say anything against meditation. It is also a practice, and one that can be difficult to master. From my perspective Zentangle is more accessible. Either as a community or alone, drawing lines on a piece of paper is a lot more natural than trying to have no thoughts for five to twenty minutes at a time.

Most people struggle with stress to some extent, and we can all use some time to slow down, pay attention to, and take care of, our minds. I came to Zentangle with debilitating anxiety—more urgency than anything I’ve ever felt before. I wonder how things would have played out had I begun earlier to take care of my mental health. I could have kept things from getting out of control.

A person must have the presence of mind to realize that their stress needs to be addressed, so it’s a good idea to do calming exercises regularly. Be it with Zentangle, mandalas, meditation, or anything else you can find, you will benefit from time you spend taking care of your mental health.

Thank you for reading.

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References:

Stress a Major Health Problem in The U.S., 2007, American Psychological Association, Viewed 08 October 2020, https://www.apa.org/news/press/releases/2007/10/stress

Stress in America ™, 2020, 2020, American Psychological Association, Viewed 08 October 2020, https://www.apa.org/news/press/releases/stress/2020/report

Immel, R 2020, Zentangles for Mental Health Awareness, viewed 9 August 2020, https://scholarworks.bgsu.edu/honorsprojects/491