Drawing Mom and Nutcrackers

Happy holidays, contour drawings, and a stream of nutcrackers

Dec 24, 2023

I am at once frozen in time in ways I resist and frozen in time in ways I hold close.

A small snow globe in an antique store. A. Cowen

Happy Sunday!

I debated about timing for this week. Posting today feels a bit like crossing a line. I hope the post is not an intrusion. I like to imagine that you might have your morning cup of something and be sitting just ahead of the day for some time to yourself, time to reflect, maybe some holiday lights, and time to simply soak in the quiet. We all need this kind of time, however we find it, however we cobble it together.

This morning, editing my words, erasing and polishing and adding and then whittling some more, I wonder about the fact that I am always here, always here with the words and the prompts, just in case you come by to sit in your chair. What color is your chair? Over and over, no matter how many weeks or years pass before you think to stop by again, you may find me waiting, a new bundle of words and images in hand.

Shake the snow globe…. what do you see?

The index of my posts shows me how long the estimated reading time is for each one, and I worry about the fifteen minutes many of the Sunday posts average. It is a lot. I know I am long-winded and meandering. Some of you have told me so. Putting oneself out there— in essays, in lists, in sketchnotes, in graphic novel or diary panels, in journal pages, in podcast episodes and spoken word —is an act of vulnerability and trust. It also requires believing, again and again, day after day, week after week, that it matters. This believing is whimsical, the bell you tuck in your pocket or hang on a tree, a symbol. But believing also requires strength and toughening. No matter how vulnerable it can be to expose whatever tumbles out of the sharing, there is an inner core of conviction, of strength, of self.

The days have been hectic. I am far less graceful in the juggling than I would like to be. I always think I will do better, be calmer, be wiser, be more patient and more peaceful. The me I think I am so often gives way to the me others think I am in these family days. Sitting and writing one night at the library, preparing for this post, I heard my voice echoing the words as I typed. I heard my voice, my words, the chime of a bell tucked in my pocket, and I took comfort in it. This is the me I know.

I never understand why there is such a disjunct, why we are often so fractured by the differences in the story we tell ourselves about who we are and the stories other people hold onto. The stories on our shelves may be the same every time we pull them down and open the covers. We know what to expect from seasonal classics, from childhood favorites, from our lifetime picks. But when it comes to people, stories are always shifting, always in the process of being written.

Our day-to-day stories are not written in stone, are not predetermined, are not at an end. Even if there is a rough outline, the chapters may change. The anecdotes are still to be determined. The next example or foothold or pivot may still be in the future.

We change. It is possible to become better than we were. We can grow. We can learn. We can make new habits and patterns. We can go through phases. Maybe you no longer only eat peaches and cottage cheese. Maybe you grew somewhere along the way to like grilled onions. Maybe you love the glow of white lights on the tree. Maybe you get by with less. Maybe you have an appreciation of enough. Maybe you are not exactly who you were five years ago, or ten, or twenty, or fifty.

Stories can change. People can and do change. It is sometimes complicated, however, for people to adapt and adjust, to go along with the shifting of stories, and to embrace whatever new threads are being woven, whatever dips and valleys, clouds and storms or twinkling fields of stars are taking shape. We often embrace our own change but find comfort in thinking that all of the other stories we know stay the same.

I am at once frozen in time in ways I resist and frozen in time in ways I hold close. The snow globe is one of my favorite and most magical touchstones.

🎧 If you have time, I hope you listen to Episode 457: Snow Globe.

Like so many things I write, record, or draw, that show contains something that has stuck with me, something unfinished, a soft moment that beckons and invites a gentle shake. In the sea of things I have written and recorded, it is a lighthouse show for me. I hope someday, I find my way back.

A snow globe holds a story frozen in time. It cycles through periods of snow, but it isn’t a story that changes. Maybe it is a house, a Christmas tree, a pair of deer off to the side. Maybe it is a lighthouse with holiday lights, a line of trees, a small boat anchored to a pier. Maybe it is a small cottage in the woods, a circle of trees, a cardinal in the snow, or a small rabbit. Maybe it is a woman in a simple house, a wreath on the door, a small gray dog in the window. Whatever the story, it is a frozen moment, a beautiful moment made more beautiful by a softly falling snow.

In that brief moment, the story changes, a tiny, momentary change, but it is a change that can be enacted again and again and again. The story, however quotidian, can be warmed by the bit of sparkle, by the smallest of shakes, which send glitter into the air.

“Snow flurries began to fall and they swirled around people's legs like house cats. It was magical, this snow globe world.” ― Sarah Addison Allen,The Sugar Queen

I hope if you celebrate in any way over the next few days that your days are peaceful, that you have moments of laughter, moments of memory, and time to breathe and simply be. I hope that no matter what other stories surround you, you have time to appreciate the story you are writing, the story you are living, the story you tell yourself about who you are, what matters to you, and what has meaning.

Thank you for sharing time with me, for reading and holding my story and all the little bits of story that are woven into each post. Each week, I hope we shake things just a bit and can then sit and consider the falling snow.

Below:

Happy Holidays.

Amy

"Just as one candle lights another and can light thousands of other candles, so one heart illuminates another heart and can illuminate thousands of other hearts." — Leo Tolstoy

A Journal Series — The Nutcrackers

Here are a few of the nutcrackers from recent weeks. I wanted to be working in color, but I haven’t had time. I would like to be filling the spaces more fully, but I know that there is ebb and flow in the journaling process. The nutcrackers have filed in, day by day, and I feel good about that. They are what they are for this year.

When I reached the point at which I drew first a stuffed nutcracker and then a little girl holding a stuffed nutcracker, I knew I had come full circle.

I started off 2023 with a drawing of a child holding a rabbit stuffed animal. That drawing in my illustrated journal was to mark the Year of the Rabbit. It turned out to be one of my favorite pages from the year. Throughout the year, I’ve taken almost any opportunity to draw a child holding or dragging along a stuffed thing. My boys are grown, but if I could generate a series of photos to work from, this would be a theme for me, something I would draw on repeat. I don’t know what it is about these small figures with their stuffies in hand or held under the arm or trailing to the ground, held only by an arm or an ear, but they speak to me.

I pay attention to things that speak to me, things that give me a sense of calm and satisfaction, as well as things that drift in and out of my awareness as symbolic.

A few nutcracker drawings in a hournsl — A few nutcracker drawings in an illustrated journal. A. Cowen, 2023.

Reading Sidewalk Oracles

I am looking forward to a shared reading of Sidewalk Oracles by Robert Moss. I feel drawn and hopeful even as I worry a bit about this reading. My whimsical and pragmatic sides are at odds. I think I may need to simply accept that this is part of my story. The question I’ve been asking myself, without fully hearing it, is this: What will happen if I give in and more fully embrace this part of me? If I step into this being and awareness, without worrying what others think and without justification, what doors will I open in my writing, my art, and my day-to-day marking of the map tracking and forging my individual journey.

I have put together a timeline for reading Sidewalk Oracles. I am worried about the first week of the year being too busy, but the first chapter is short, and I really want to kick this year off with the book. You can find out more here. I encourage you to think about the question posed and leave a comment.

Digital Contours — Drawing Mom

I didn’t have a plan for my panels this week, but one night after a few games of Clever 4 Ever (total hit for our family game this year), I sat on the couch holding the iPad and contemplating the empty boxes. I didn’t know at that point how I would connect the dots this week. I didn’t know that a day or so later I would sit in front of the fireplace at the library, my mom in a chair next to me, and take what felt like stolen minutes to open the door on my words and find that what was waiting was the disjunct in story, the offset between who I think I am and who I maybe “forever am” for other people.

My digital work still feels really detached from the portrait work I do in pen and ink, but I looked over at my mom, sitting in the chair, and I sketched her in with quick lines. I knew it was messy. It isn’t a good likeness. But I filled the box. The next morning, she was there again, holding her phone. I drew her again. I continued this throughout the week, sketching several quick contour portraits. A few of them are gathered here. (I did re-ink the lines later although I left them as simple contours.)

Digital sketches of a woman — Digital sketches of mom, December 2023. A. Cowen

These are not finished or refined pieces. They don’t give an indication one way or the other about my art. But something about this felt right. This was an opening of a door. As I worked on these, I also felt so glad to be capturing her, so glad she is here for this holiday, so glad we have this time. I am grateful.

I don’t think she ever realized I was drawing her. I know these aren’t flattering and are not the same as me doing a portrait on paper. But drawing these felt quiet, peaceful, and rooted in love. The me that others don’t really understand is the me that found softness and meaning in the drawing of these contours of my mom this week.

Year-End Questions and Sketchnote

I posted my year-end “creative life in 2023” questions and year-end sketchnote information separately. I hope you take a bit of time to look back at your creative year. The year-end sketchnote, especially, can be such a wonderful and fulfilling snapshot of a creative year. I will also share (later this week) a set of questions for thinking about your creative life in 2024.

″‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.‘” — The Velveteen Rabbit

Illustrate Your Week

🎯🖋️ it is the final week for this year! The Week 52 prompts for Illustrate Your Week are available.

Old Shows, The Velveteen Rabbit, and the Gift of the Magi

Mixed in with the list of some older shows from Decembers past, there are two “readings” — The Velveteen Rabbit and “The Gift of the Magi.”

Made It?

Thank you for reading.

Your comments are a special part of each weekly post. I really appreciate your words and the time you take sharing here with me and each other.

This week:

A haiku.
Sugar cookies, brownies, “party mix,” or “holiday trash.”
A favorite board, card, or dice game, if you have one.
Lights on the ____.

I appreciate your support in all the ways. Sharing with friends, restacking here at Substack, and commenting are all helpful! I need just a handful of new readers to help me continue to grow.