He’s the kind of guy that would say
Hey, baby let’s get away
Let’s go some place, huh
Where, I don’t care
He’s the kind of guy that you give your everything
You trust your heart, share all of your love
Till death do you part <3
Hi. My name is Kate.
That's right. Just Kate. I...am American. I was born here. I like it here. I speak English- well. And I am not a terrorist.
Look ok, I promised myself that this would be a blog about homesteading, not my personal life, and especially not my religious practices. But recently I came under fire on another blog for commenting, and someone made an ignorant comment in response, regarding my race/religion.
It is not the miles that mark the distance, but the time.
No one but myself knows the anxiety I go through and the trouble I give myself to finish paintings which do not satisfy me and seem to please so very few others. (Claude Monet)
In the end, I feel that one has to have a bit of neurosis to go on being an artist. A balanced human seldom produces art. It’s that imbalance which impels us… The artist lives with anxiety. (Beverly Pepper)
Some consultation, at least, for the time passed and the time awaiting.
i don’t think i’ve ever started a painting only to end up on the floor in tears. i feel like i can’t paint. at least not today. i can’t think. the moment i have an idea, i shoot it down. and when i work up the courage to begin sometimes i can’t finish. i know my capabilities. but i feel like i’m reinventing the wheel. i need structure. i want to learn, but at the same time, i know i can’t keep sitting back watching others create. i have to fail, fail, and fail again. but failure is my deepest fear. until i can make 99 horrible paintings, i may never arrive at the one testament to my true talent.
today, lying in bed, i envisioned a beautiful portrait of daring flowers against a vibrant background. i wasn’t afraid of color. but somehow, just starting it became overwhelming. i need to get out something before the day ends. but i feel inadequate. i have no idea what my own voice is as an artist. so many textures and techniques i love, impasto, impressionism, hyperrealism, but i wonder if i will ever be able to do them. is it time that i need? i’m not sure. but i do know that time is running out. and fast.
Spinach, kiwi, banana smoothie. 9:52 AM on a Thursday of an insignificant April. My mind wants to write. Wants to get out. Dish out some thing of beauty. Art may seem like the logical outlet.
Painting/Drawing remains one of the few things I’ve done consistently over a period of my twenty-some years of living. Around the age of 7, my mom enrolled me in an art class for kids at the Newark Museum. Better to feed my love of drawing than to ignore it. I thought that would be enough.
I’d draw houses ferociously. By middle school, if you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d say an architect, because I wanted to design beautiful residences. Deep down, I may still want to be an architect when I grow up.
But I grew up. I grew up in high school as my mom convinced me that my witty mind and gift of gab should not be wasted on anything save a legal career. I resisted. I wanted to be a fly girl. And I loved art. But fast into sophomore year, I became a nationally-competitive debater, sparking my first bout of traveling. By senior year, I had been to Texas, Illinois, Yale, Harvard, and far too many prep schools in New Jersey. For a young girl from Newark (Brick City), this was quite an achievement.
And then college happened. More specifically, sociology happened. I fell in love with research. And although I was fast on the pre-law track, I resolved never to leave academia. This was my home. My professors convinced me that “Amira Rahim, Ph.D” was my birth right.
It was exhilarating. But it was exhausting. Thinking. Being a thinker. It has its costs.
So as I sit here–housewife of 3 months, Manhattan job long-forgotten, with a daily schedule consisting of self-indulgence and pompous resolution– I am finally able to recommit to my first love, my first passion: art.
But these other passions get in the way. I have this stubborn insistence on being a writer. Whatever that means. However that will manifest.
I want to start a few businesses. A few, not because I am insane, but because my creative mind deceives me into falling in love with a new idea, an innovation, as often as the seasons change.
Book writer. Illustrator. Designer. Mug maker. Painter.
“Stop thinking and paint,” is what I need to hear now.
Unfinished paintings, an unprecedented and treasured love for my newlywed-husband, health crazes, and cinema-on demand.
This is my current, regularly scheduled program.
So I’m sitting on my floor in front of the TV, winding down before my flight tomorrow, when I received a phone call from a sister-friend of mine, old enough to be my mom. She called to check on me, and said that I was on her mind. We’re not Facebook friends. I was so moved by this act of kindness– I thanked her repeatedly.
I hung up, with the intention to keep in contact with her, suggesting she add me on Facebook, when I realized: I don’t call distant friends enough for fear of “bothering them”, but what ends up happening is that all friends become, well, quite distant. Being an introvert, homebody, and, pretty self-involved (bad combination, I know), it never dawned on me until now.
I often deactivate my social media accounts–sometimes for a week, sometimes for a few months–just because technology tends to zap out the realness of Life itself.
And, social media will never replace the sound of a friend’s voice, good counsel, and a few hours of their time. I think I found my New Year’s Resolution, in February.
Alhamdulillah after a long journey, I am officially Mrs. Rahim. Newlywed to the love of my life. May Allah preserve our union, ameen.
I’ve, since, quit my job and proceeding to reconnect with what I love the most: globe trotting, exploring new cultures, reading, writing, and, of course, painting. More posts to come inshAllah!