Feathers, Feathers, Feathers

As most reflections go, there is one main setting, however, mine has three. To start, we have to go back to my seventh grade self. Looking at me, you see at that time, you see a 5’2” blonde with her hair in a messy ponytail and wearing a baggy t-shirt two times her size. Seventh grade was my personal rock bottom. Name after name, joke after joke, the group of boys in my social studies class had no idea that they were continuously driving me closer and closer to the edge. Before I got close enough to take the final leap, I was pulled back by a movie and the symbolism of feathers.

The next place we have to go is my suburban home in Marietta, Georgia where I was raised. My grandparents would come visit at least once a year, and there was always one thing I would look forward to as their visit drew closer: my grandpa strumming his banjo. If I close my eyes I can still hear the twang of the strings being plucked in such a way to form a melody. I can still see my grandpa, in his usual attire of jeans, a button up plaid shirt, and his favorite baseball cap. I especially remember the baseball cap. This cap had a Native American chief on it. The chief was looking brave in his headdress flowing with feathers.

The final and most expressive milestone to mention is my trip to Zephyrhills, Florida in 2011. My family packed up the car and made the seven hour trip to my grandparents’ house for Thanksgiving of my junior year. This holiday turned out to be one of the most important holidays of my life. My grandma, who is an avid painter, brought the world of watercolors into my life. Little does she know just how big of an effect watercolors had on my life.  I can still vividly picture my first inspiration. There was a decorative pot in the corner of the living room, with long, tall beautiful feathers coming out of it. I picked up the paint brush and pushed purples, blues, greens and gold across the paper until I had finished my first piece of art, a peacock feather.