The Woman Who Learned to Make the Circle Bigger

I've been thinking a lot about belonging lately.

This month in my Creative Strength Training work with Jane Dunnewold, we're exploring several archetypes—the Advocate, the Networker, the Guide, the Stranger, and the idea of the Village.

During our conversation this week, one archetype kept tugging at me.

The Stranger.

I realized she's been with me for a very long time.

The Little Girl Outside the Circle

As a child, I often felt like the outsider.

I was five and six years younger than my brother and sister, and I never really felt like I fit into my family. I remember actually wondering if I had been adopted because I felt so different from everyone else.

Later in life, I learned things about my childhood that helped me understand some of those feelings. I spent a lot of years striving to be the best I could be, perhaps hoping that achievement would somehow bring the love and acceptance I needed.

And somewhere along the way, art became tangled up in that feeling of not belonging too.

I have loved art for as long as I can remember.

When I was a child, we were given an assignment at school to draw a map of the United States. I was so excited about it. I worked hard on my map, and I couldn't wait to present it.

But when I did, my teacher accused me of copying it.

He didn't believe I had created it myself.

He brought me to the front of the classroom, turned me over his knee, and paddled me in front of everyone.

I ran away crying.

And I didn't want to make art anymore.

Something I had loved suddenly didn't feel safe.

Creating meant exposing myself to criticism. It meant risking rejection. It meant standing out.

And standing out had hurt.

Finding My Way Back

It took me many years to find the courage to create again, and even longer to understand that finding my artistic voice meant trusting the very things that made me different.

Even then, I had to work through that fear of criticism and that little voice wondering whether what I made would be accepted.

But eventually something began to change.

I stopped trying so hard to make what I thought I was supposed to make.

I began experimenting.

I started asking, What if?

What if I use this material?

What if I try this technique?

What if I combine things that aren't supposed to go together?

What if I stop worrying about the rules?

Somewhere in all of that exploration, No Rules, Just Art® wasn't simply a phrase.

It became permission.

Permission to create differently.

Permission to see differently.

Permission to be different.

And perhaps the little girl who once felt like the Stranger grew into an artist precisely because she could see things from outside the circle.

Strike a Pose — an original fiber artwork inspired by the colors, architecture, and character of Southern Arizona.

When the Stranger Becomes the Advocate

Something happened this week that brought all of this together for me.

I came across an opportunity in the art world that really interested me. As I read through the information, though, I noticed something missing.

Fiber and textile art weren't mentioned.

There was a time when I might have quietly thought:

Well, I guess my work doesn't belong there.

The Stranger would have simply stayed outside the circle.

But that's not what I did.

I asked.

Was there room for fiber art too?

The answer was yes.

It hadn't intentionally been excluded. It simply hadn't been thought of.

That moment stayed with me, especially as I was exploring these archetypes this week.

How many times do we assume a door is closed simply because we don't see ourselves represented on the other side of it?

How many times have I done that?

This time, instead of allowing the Stranger to walk away, the Advocate stepped forward and asked a question.

Just like that, I saw the connection between two of these archetypes.

The Stranger had become the Advocate.

And perhaps that's one of the gifts the Stranger has given me.

Because I know what it feels like to stand outside the circle, I've become much more willing to ask whether the circle can be made a little bigger.

Not just for me.

For the next person standing there wondering if they belong, too.

Fiber Art IS Art

This is something I've become increasingly passionate about.

Fiber art is art.

It isn't somehow "less than" because our paint happens to be fabric, thread, fiber, beads, dyes, inks, or other materials.

When people see reproductions of my work, they're often surprised to discover they're looking at fiber art. I've had people think my work was a painting or even a photograph.

I love that moment.

Because then they look closer.

They discover the fabric.

The thread.

The layers.

The texture.

The thousands of little decisions that went into creating the piece.

And perhaps their definition of art becomes just a little wider.

I think that's part of my role as an Advocate now—not only advocating for my own work, but helping create space for fiber and textile artists to be recognized as artists.

Period.

Finding My Village

Then there is the Village.

For most of my life, belonging seemed to mean figuring out how to fit inside someone else's circle.

I'm beginning to understand it differently.

Belonging doesn't have to mean becoming like everyone else.

Today my Village consists of many different circles—my students, fellow artists, galleries, teaching locations, creative communities, friends, and my CST family.

Sometimes I'm the Guide.

Sometimes I'm the Advocate.

Sometimes I'm the Networker connecting people and opportunities.

Sometimes I'm still the Stranger standing slightly outside the circle and seeing things from a different perspective.

And sometimes I'm simply a member of the Village who needs someone else to guide, encourage, or support me.

That last one hasn't always been easy for me.

I've spent a lot of my life being strong, capable and independent. I've been much more comfortable giving help than receiving it.

But I'm learning.

The Village isn't only about what I contribute.

It's also about allowing myself to receive.

Making the Circle Bigger

During our CST conversation, a sentence came to me that I haven't been able to stop thinking about:

Maybe the little girl who stood outside the circle eventually became the woman who learned how to make the circle bigger.

I love her.

I love that little girl who got back up.

I love the woman who eventually picked up fabric, thread, paint and all sorts of crazy things and started creating again.

And I even love the Stranger.

Because I don't think I need to overcome her anymore.

I needed to discover the gifts she brought with her.

She taught me to see differently.

She taught me to question.

She taught me that just because there isn't already a place for something doesn't mean it doesn't belong.

And she eventually taught me to ask:

Why not?

Is There Room for This Too?

So maybe there's something you've been wanting to do.

Maybe there's a class you think you're not ready for.

A show you don't think will accept your work.

A technique you've been told isn't "right."

An idea that's a little too strange.

Or maybe you've simply spent too much of your life standing outside the circle, wondering what you need to change about yourself before someone lets you in.

Perhaps you don't need to change at all.

Perhaps the very thing that makes you different is what you're meant to bring to the Village.

Sometimes courage isn't walking boldly into the center of the circle.

Sometimes it's standing at the edge, exactly as you are, and asking:

Is there room for this too?

And if there isn't?

Maybe it's time to make the circle bigger.

No Rules, Just Art®