Happy Noise Making Day

Last week .03 percent of us celebrated Yom Teruah, the biblical name for the Jewish New Year.

Literally translated, Yom Teruah means Day of Shouting, or Day of Blasting.

In short, make some noise. Then atone.

We’re a complicated bunch.

A former Godaholic, I stay away from synagogues, so my teenage son and I packed up our art supplies and headed to the park to paint. Seemed like a good way to mark a day of noise making.

We’d been at it several hours—painting, listening to show tunes, and debating which version of the Color Purple had the better soundtrack (the original, hands down)—when a young girl approached.

Spotting us at a picnic table, she had screeched to a halt like the Road Runner at the edge of a cliff and was now peering over my shoulder.

Awww, she complained to her father, how come they get to paint?

Her words made me laugh but her tone was a gut punch. It was my own voice, the one I hear every time I read about someone who gets to make art all day every day when I don’t.

How come they get to draw? my soul screams. How come they get to sculpt? No fair!

I guessed she was about seven or eight years old, and she looked longingly at our spread of art supplies.

When I offered her a piece of paper, her eyes widened in disbelief.

For real? she asked.

She didn’t wait for an answer.

My son and I set her up with a palette full of acrylics and a paint brush and she quickly got to work.

I might have asked her a little about herself but she was the one asking questions: her only interest was in the task at hand.

What kind of paper had I given her and why it was so thick?

What kind of paints were we using and how did they work?

How did one make brown, and how much water was needed?

She wanted to put the liquid acrylic into the palette because it looked ‘so satisfying’.

Her face lit up as she put brush to paper, and she wasted no time figuring out her subject.  We were in a park and the day required documenting.

As she played with the paint, her father took a seat on the bench beside her.

He had opinions on where to place the birds, on how big they should be, and on what shade of yellow the sun should be, and he shared them with his daughter.

It was a rookie mistake—one I’d made a million times.
Having shown considerable restraint, the young girl finally lost patience with being directed. She looked up from her painting and calmly faced her father.

Dad, she said, this is my masterpiece not yours.

We all had a good laugh at this but later, as we drove home, my atonement began.

I’m such a twat, I told my son, I should’ve given the father some paint too.

He’d have enjoyed making noise too, I was sure of it.

In classic teenage style, my son rolled his eyes and laughed at me.

Mum, he said, that kid’s going to grow up to be an artist.

I felt better but I was bummed.

What if the father was the same as me? What if deep down, he too needed to make art?

What if his soul screamed as he watched us play with the paints?

How come they get to paint? No fair!

I should’ve brought more paintbrushes.

It was a rookie mistake—one I’ll never make again.