Turning Point

Some come in an instant, like when there's a tragic accident or a woman learns that she's pregnant. Others take time to build - kind of like a pressure cooker and boom! It lets off steam and there you have it: the new side from which you're looking at life. You've turned a corner. You have a different vantage view. You've experienced a turning point.
Mine, actually, was neither of the above scenarios. It came gently, on a weekend day (I can't remember which) in my eighth or ninth year of age. I was at home, and trying to draw yet again; the knowledge of exactly what I was drawing has been lost to time. But as I drew, or tried to draw, I became increasingly frustrated at my ineptitude. Undoubtedly my budding wanna-draw was more sophisticated than the wobbly, wavy-sided blobs I called people when I was four years old. But four or five years apparently hadn't made me that much better, either. Come to think of it, I made a fuss about those "people," too. But mom's "No! They're good!" reassurances did little to assuage, to placate. (Years later, I would bring that up to my mother. "Well, they were good for a four year-old!" she defended herself with.)
Now, my mother, on the other hand, CAN draw. Really well. She's particularly good at drawing people. She's illustrated cookbooks, created a picture of the Blessed Mother (Virgin Mary) and adorned it with calligraphy; it hangs on the dining room wall of my parents' home. She's taught art classes and helped kids with art projects from time to time. And while her art also encompasses her lovely singing voice, illustrations are her specialty.
Anyway, my frustration grew out of my inability to draw like my mother. People, as subjects of art, have always confounded me. My renditions always come out looking like Picasso's lopsided men and women - only unintentionally. Recreating the muscles in the legs or illustrating a proper torso-hip ratio is a problem that's always vexed me. And forget sinews or the lines on fingers or wrists; I have enough trouble trying to keep my people from looking like stick figure scientific experiments gone horribly wrong.
But at least I'm better than my father, who, by his own admission, messes up said stick figures in his attempts at pencil to paper. (Perhaps he, in his own frustration, instigated the scientific experiments as revenge.)
But it was my caring father who got me to put the lines together, finally. Upon seeing me in my worked-up state that day (complete with tears - I was nothing if not dramatic), he invited me to take a ride with him as he ran an errand. It wasn't a long one, but long enough to ask me what was wrong. "I can't draw like mom can!," came my anguished wail. Dad then explained to me - there's a strong possibility that it was in an unintentionally patronizing manner - that God gave each of us different talents and that even though I couldn't draw (oh, the pain of having it confirmed!), there were other things I was good at. And so after that day, that turning point, I felt better. No, I still can't draw people, or much of anything else. But I have gotten better, somewhat: I can do a decent-enough job of leading my team to victory at Pictionary. And I am good at other things, like my dad pointed out. I can sing, whistle a mean tune and get up to level 19 (the highest!) on Tetris and stay there longer than 10 seconds. (You try it!) I'm caring, have a wicked, silly, off-the-cuff sense of humor and remember faces, numbers and music, as well as details of past events, exceptionally well.
And when it comes down to it, come Halloween - which isn't too far off - being able to at least draw wobbly, wavy-sided, ghost-like "people" is a big plus.