The Art of Letting Go:

A Parent's Reflection on Creativity, Craft, and Unfulfilled Aspirations

There are spaces in the heart filled with echoes of the past, reverberating with the pain of what could have been. As a parent, it's those echoes that often speak the loudest. As the founder of DLTK's Crafts for Kids, I've had my fair share of triumphs, but it's a certain failure that continues to haunt me — the stifling of my daughter Tasha's creative spirit.

Crafting and art. Two seemingly similar realms, yet so vastly different. Crafting is the skill, the teachable, the measurable. It's a science, a process with a beginning and an end. A task that can be graded, evaluated, and improved upon. However, art — it's the soul's language, spontaneous and untamed. It is the unexpected, the rule-breaking, the inspired. It's the essence of individuality, the pulse of creativity.

As a craft enthusiast, I advocated for the importance of craft as a foundation for art. Like learning to say "hello" before writing poetry, crafting techniques could be the stepping stones for artistic exploration. But in this advocacy, somewhere, I lost sight of the precious balance between fostering craft and nurturing art.

Tasha was a born artist. Her essence flowed into her creations, transforming ordinary craft projects into extraordinary pieces of art. She had the ability to defy the norms and weave in her emotions and experiences, crafting a world as unique and profound as she was. Yet, the world was not ready for her. Or perhaps it was me that wasn't ready.

Her grade school years were a testament to this. Tasha, the artist, was misinterpreted in an environment that thrived on conformity. The rules of crafting became shackles, imprisoning her creativity and forcing her into a mold that was not meant for her.

A faded memory makes me uncomfortable to this day. Tasha had painted a magnificent black-and-white piece, the assignment was based on the iconic Ansel Adams. But in her artistry, she dared to splash a poignant streak of red, a symbol of a lost family member. She expertly followed crafting rules, employing the rule of thirds, the use of s-curves, but she broke away when her soul insisted, creating a piece of art.

But her art teacher, blinded by the rigidity of grading systems, saw it as a violation of the project guidelines. She marked Tasha down. Despite my attempts to illuminate the teacher on Tasha's creative intentions and emotional expression, the grade didn't change but something in Tasha did.

That was the last art class she took.

Looking back, as a parent and a crafts advocate, I feel a deep pang of regret. I wonder if I unknowingly contributed to a system that valued grades over creativity, crafting over art, conformity over individuality. I wonder if, in my enthusiasm for crafting, I had overlooked the innate artist in my own child.

Tasha is now 29, and we share a strong bond. But the memory of that incident, the memory of a system, and a mother, that failed her child, continues to sting. Her artistic journey was interrupted, her creative spirit stifled, and I couldn't prevent it -- in fact, I contributed to it.

In a world that's quick to grade and slow to understand, I feel a deep sense of failure. Not as a craft teacher, but as a parent. I wish I could have done more to protect her creative essence, to encourage her to break the rules, to applaud her when she dared to be different. But all I have now are echoes of the past and a hope for a future where art is appreciated as much as craft.

In this retrospective journey, I realize that art cannot be caged in the confines of crafting. It's a free bird, yearning for the open sky, needing the space to explore, experiment, and express. Art needs to breathe, to grow, to be. And as a parent, it's essential to understand and respect this fundamental difference.

As Tasha's mother, I'm learning to let go of the guilt and the regret. I'm learning to acknowledge my mistakes, to learn from them, to grow from them. I'm learning that I can't turn back time, but I can change my perspective. I can understand, accept, and celebrate Tasha's uniqueness, her creativity, her art -- but I'm not sure what my grade would be if my efforts as a mom were marked.

In the labyrinth of life, we all stumble, falter, lose our way. As a parent, I have had my share of missteps. But every stumble has been a step towards a new understanding, every falter a push towards a new perspective, every loss a step closer to finding a new path.

As I watch Tasha now, all grown up and exploring new facets of life, I see an echo of that little girl with the paintbrush and the vibrant splash of red. Her spirit is unbroken, her creativity untamed. She may not be creating art on canvas, but her life is a testament to her artistic soul.

In the grand canvas of life, Tasha has painted her journey with hues of resilience, courage, and individuality. She has broken the rules, defied the norms, and charted her unique path. She may not have continued with formal art classes, but she never ceased to be an artist.

And that's the essence of art, isn't it? It's not about following the rules or acing the grades. It's about staying true to oneself, about expressing one's feelings, about creating something uniquely personal. It's about finding one's voice in a world filled with noise.

So here I stand, a mother filled with a mingling of regret and pride, looking back at the past and forward to the future. I see a failed system, a stifled artist, a regretful parent, but I also see a resilient woman, a creative soul, a proud mother.

Life, like art, is about contrasts, the yin and yang, the light and shadow -- Ansel Adams' black and white. It's about learning from our failures and drawing strength from them. It's about acknowledging our mistakes and growing from them. And it's about loving, unconditionally and relentlessly, even when the canvas of life is splattered with a vibrant splash of red.

We are all artists, painting our life's journey with strokes of experiences. The canvas may be flawed, the strokes may be shaky, but the art, the art is always beautiful. Because it's ours, uniquely ours.

And as I embrace this truth, I hope to continue my journey, learning and growing with every step, cherishing every memory, every echo. After all, parenting is an art too, a beautiful, messy, heart-wrenching art.

And like all artists, we parents too are always a work in progress.
Leanne