This is a video series from my studio overlooking Lake Michigan. It’s where I slow down, listen, and make art that brings light into the world. This is Echo Base Dispatch—a brief transmission from here to wherever you are—where I share what I’m working on, what I’m wrestling with, and the lessons I’m learning along the way.
–Jason
Dolly Parton said, “Find out who you are. And do it on purpose.”
I love this quote. I think it’s the key to success in life, and I believe it should be the objective of every parent, teacher, coach, boss, and counselor of any kind: to help a person find out who they are, and then encourage them to do it on purpose.
Frankly, that’s our family’s entire homeschooling philosophy in a nutshell. Our job isn’t to manufacture our kids into something impressive. It’s to help them discover who God made them to be.
I love the idea that you spend the first part of your life figuring out what cards you’ve been dealt. You need to spend the rest of your life not wishing for someone else’s hand, but to play your own cards well.
This process takes time. You have to do a lot of exploring and experimenting to discover what lights you up and uncover your particular strengths and weaknesses.
It’s made all the more difficult by an overemphasis on fitting in and measuring up. Much of life makes us feel deficient for what we’re not:
In school, we receive poor grades in subjects we aren’t gifted in.
At work, we keep getting promoted until we land in a job we’re not particularly good at.
In front of the mirror, our so-called flaws and imperfections monopolize our attention.
Many of us feel broken.
But what if the truth is that we aren’t broken at all?
What if we’re just trying to do something we weren’t designed for?
My friend tells a story about when her nephew was about three years old. The boy handed her father a white crayon and said, “Fix it, Grandpa!” Grandpa already had a solid reputation for toy repair, so he chuckled, slipped the crayon into his pocket, and took it home.
The next time he visited, Grandpa returned the crayon. But this time, he placed a sheet of colored construction paper in front of the boy.
“I fixed it.”
The boy tried the crayon.
His eyes sparkled with wonder.
Of course, Grandpa hadn’t done anything to the crayon.
It wasn’t broken.
It had simply been given the opportunity to finally do what it was made to do.
Many of us are just white crayons on white paper.
Maybe we don’t need to be fixed.
Maybe we just need a different piece of paper —
so we can finally shine.
☕ What’s a new situation you could put yourself into that would give you a new chance to shine?
This is a video series from my studio overlooking Lake Michigan. It’s where I slow down, listen, and make art that brings light into the world. This is Echo Base Dispatch—a brief transmission from here to wherever you are—where I share what I’m working on, what I’m wrestling with, and the lessons I’m learning along the way.
–Jason
I love a fresh box of new crayons. For one, the smell is a time machine, instantly taking me back to more carefree days. Plus, something is inviting about seeing all those new, unused, flawless crayons standing at attention, ready to receive marching orders.
What’s the mission, Captain? Are we drawing rainbows today? A peacock? A portrait of Grandma and Grandpa?
They practically scream, “Make something!”
We’d always rather have the pristine box with every color accounted for over the big box of castoffs.
You know the one.
The used crayon catch-all is a melting pot, from the worn-down stubby ones on their last legs, regularly passed over as they beg to be used for one more assignment, to the otherwise immaculate but broken-in-half variety.
Make no mistake, there’s a good chance that all the colors you could want are on hand…somewhere. They are not easily spotted by a mere glance, as in a freshly opened box. The color you need will require excavation, as you agitate crayons this way and that, eyes scanning intently for the hue you hope to rescue from the sea of wax.
This box of castoffs has approximately sixteen green-yellow crayons, each in various stages of life. Every possible length is in attendance, most with torn paper, some completely naked, while others have the paper fully intact but sport a decapitated tip. Then there are the chunky crayons for tiny preschool hands, and the cheap stowaways from some restaurant, made of wax more suited to birthday candles than crayons.
The only ones with any chance of remaining in mint condition are the white ones, which are practically useless for all but a few specific scenarios.
The rest are used, broken, and beat up, a hodgepodge of runts, rejects, and retirees.
Just like us.
I hate to say it, but you and I, we’re somewhere in the box of castoffs.
We are flawed. Lacking. Imperfect. Less than ideal.
We are all broken crayons.
But…when you look at a crayon drawing — whether from the hand of a child or a great master — can you tell if it was created with brand new crayons or broken ones?
Nope.
The adage is true: Broken crayons still color.
Odds are that you often feel broken, rejected, cast off, past your prime, all used up. You might feel too big, too small, too dull, too exposed. That’s ok. You still have an important contribution to make.
You might be missing a color you wish you had. Or maybe you have an excess of a particular hue that seems to serve no purpose. What you do have is an exact shade of something the world needs.
Your paper may be missing, making you feel extremely vulnerable and unsure of just what color you’re supposed to be. The label doesn’t matter; you’re just supposed to be you.
Or maybe life split you in two, and you can’t figure out how you’ll ever feel whole again. You don’t need to feel whole to be useful. Just give what you have.
We prefer an impeccable set of undefiled, unused crayons. And we sometimes think that we need them to create something great.
Don’t be tricked into believing that the only crayons that can be useful are perfect ones. Don’t worry if it seems you don’t have all the colors you think you’ll need. And be open to the possibility that those parts of you that seem superfluous may in fact serve a very important purpose.
No matter how spent, insufficient, or unimpressive you feel, if you’re still in this box of life, there’s an empty page somewhere that needs your contribution.
Broken crayons still color.
We need you to make your mark.
☕ In the crayon box of life, what color or type of crayon best describes you these days?
This is a video series from my studio overlooking Lake Michigan. It’s where I slow down, listen, and make art that brings light into the world. This is Echo Base Dispatch—a brief transmission from here to wherever you are—where I share what I’m working on, what I’m wrestling with, and the lessons I’m learning along the way.
–Jason
It’s said that absence makes the heart grow fonder.
I’ve learned that it also makes the eyes grow clearer.
Oftentimes, while working on a painting, I have to step away from it. I back up a few feet, observe it from a different angle, or even remove it from the easel and keep it out of sight for a week.
If I don’t step back periodically, I can’t see the painting through the brushstrokes.
Pausing may seem to slow down the process.
What it really does is help me make better paintings.
There are a few reasons for this.
Sometimes I’m stuck, struggling with a certain area. Despite my best efforts, it’s not coming out quite right, and frustration mounts.
Stepping back to look at the big picture helps me pinpoint problems. Distance allows me to notice issues I can’t see when I’m up close. I can examine the overall composition, observe the balance of color, and judge if the values are working together. It’s not uncommon for the solution to reveal itself after only a few moments standing five feet away. One purposeful pause and it’s immediately clear that something’s too small, too big, too crooked, too straight, too dark, too light, too round, too flat.
Indeed, the best thing we can do in the midst of any frustrating challenge is to step away from it for a while, so that when we return, we look upon it with new eyes.
Sometimes life gives us a gift and does it for us. Now, it never seems like a gift at first, especially when it takes the form of an extreme weather event, a medical emergency, or a global pandemic. But amidst the inconvenience, anxiety, and suffering, the forced stop is an opportunity to distance ourselves from the canvas of our lives, break from our busyness, and see from a new perspective.
Maybe you’re in the midst of one of those unwelcome interruptions right now.
I’m not saying you have to love it, or even like it. But could you use it as a chance to examine the big picture of your life? Look for areas you might be neglecting or those you’ve been spending too much time on. Take stock of any people you’ve been taking for granted or inner whispers you’ve been ignoring. And then, when the opportunity comes to resume your life, make the adjustments to make your “painting” better.
Even if the painting is going great, it benefits me to step back and look at things from a new angle. It either increases my confidence that it’s progressing in the right direction or enables me to see potential problem areas so I can address them before they derail me. If I don’t step away every so often, I’m liable to wander down a wrong path or get stuck overdoing part of the painting, potentially ruining the whole thing.
This reminds me how important it is to take breaks, observe some form of Sabbath, and enjoy periodic vacations in our lives. They should not be reserved for seasons of burnout. Their regular nature can keep us operating at peak efficiency and can help us identify potential pitfalls while they’re still easy to correct. My best ideas consistently come when I’m on vacation, taking a walk, or making dinner.
There’s one more reason for stepping back in the studio.
Every so often, I step back to simply admire what I’ve created. One of my favorite parts of making art is the moment of pride I have when something turns out so well that I can hardly believe I did it. Especially if the painting presented a new challenge I wasn’t sure I could handle.
Likewise, we all need to step back once in a while to celebrate our wins, cherish the gifts that aided in our victory, and smile at how far we’ve come.
If we constantly busy ourselves with brushstrokes, we risk losing sight of the big picture. Stopping to step back and examine our lives makes it less likely that we’ll end up with a mess on our hands and more likely that we’ll create something spectacular.
In our modern culture, the temptation is strong to maintain full speed, plowing ahead at our breakneck pace.
This is exactly what Adultitis wants: for you to stay busy, distracted, and more likely to veer off course.
Stopping might make you feel less productive.
But what it really does is help you make life better.
☕ Where in your life could you benefit from stepping back?
This is a video series from my studio overlooking Lake Michigan. It’s where I slow down, listen, and make art that brings light into the world. This is Echo Base Dispatch—a brief transmission from here to wherever you are—where I share what I’m working on, what I’m wrestling with, and the lessons I’m learning along the way.
–Jason
Drawing isn’t really about how good your hands are with a pencil.
It’s about how good your eyes are at seeing.
I was a guest art instructor at our homeschool co-op, helping a student draw a monster truck. Most things, at their core, are a combination of simple shapes. Any kind of truck is just a few rectangles on top of four ovals. That’s where we started, slowly building up details by adding more shapes along the way.
Beginners delve into details too early. The first step in drawing is figuring out the primary shapes and lightly getting them down to provide a starting point for asking questions. You’re constantly looking at all the parts in relationship to one another, asking, “How big is this compared to this? How far apart is this from this?”
But here’s the key: do not assume these initial shapes are correct. In fact, you can expect they are most likely wrong, and you’re free to leave them behind.
As your drawing progresses, even if those early shapes were off, it’s ok, because they served an important purpose. They got you started and helped you get to where you are now, in the middle of a drawing that’s getting better.
This is why we start with a loose hand and a light line. Not only is it a reminder that we’re not committing to anything, but we’re making it easier for our eraser to undo those early steps later.
Think about it like this: You don’t get married on your first date, and you don’t make your first date a monthlong trip to Europe. Start a drawing the same way.
Beginners rush to draw what they think a face, a tree, or a truck looks like, rather than the one in front of them. They make assumptions that often turn out to be wrong, because they don’t realize that drawing isn’t really about drawing.
It’s about seeing.
It’s an exercise in truth-seeking.
If I’m drawing a face, these are some of the questions I might ask myself as the basic shapes start to accumulate:
How big is the space between the upper lip and the nose compared to the space between the bottom lip and the chin? Is what I’ve sketched so far true or false?
Does the edge of the mouth really line up with the edge of that eye? If not, I need to make an adjustment that aligns with the truth of what I’m seeing.
Likewise, in our daily lives, we make assumptions about people and ourselves all the time. We develop expectations (aka predictions) about what we think will happen in our lives, our careers, and our relationships. And sometimes the information we collect along the way becomes outdated, irrelevant, or was just plain wrong to begin with.
We need to continually evaluate our understanding of the world.
We do this by asking questions and comparing our current situation with the truth.
Do I have all the skills and resources I need to succeed in this endeavor, or is there something I need to attain first?
Is there another way to look at this issue that I haven’t considered?
Is this person as bad (or as good) as I’ve made them out to be?
Does this need to be done by me, or am I holding on to it because I’m afraid to let it go?
Am I holding on to something that’s no longer serving me, even if it once did?
Is there another way to look at this roadblock? Is it as insurmountable as it seems?
Is it possible for something good to come out of this difficult experience?
In life, as in drawing, details don’t matter if they’re built on a foundation that isn’t true.
Most people mistake drawing as an exercise of the hand.
It’s really an exercise in seeing.
The better you are at seeing the truth, the better artist you become.
☕ If your life were a drawing, what part of it needs to be adjusted to better align with the truth?
This is a new video series from my studio overlooking Lake Michigan. It’s where I slow down, listen, and make art that brings light into the world. This is Echo Base Dispatch—a brief transmission from here to wherever you are—where I share what I’m working on, what I’m wrestling with, and the lessons I’m learning along the way.
–Jason
I recently taught a drawing class at my kids’ homeschooling co-op. Pondering some of the biggest mistakes I see beginners make helped me formulate the first lesson:
Start your sketch light and loose. Resist the urge to add details too soon.
I’ve seen it time and time again: In a rush of enthusiasm and naiveté, beginners focus on details too early, before the overall form of their subject is fleshed out.
Perhaps they got all excited working on the head, painstakingly capturing each wisp of hair, only to realize they didn’t leave enough room on the paper for the rest of the body. What’s more, they are heavy-handed, laying down marks that are too dark for these early stages, which becomes a problem when a mistake reveals itself. When it’s discovered that the head is a bit big or the nose needs to move a little to the left, it’s very difficult to erase those early lines.
Because they’ve already invested so much effort — and graphite! — and those dark, heavy details are hard to remove, the beginner is tempted to adjust the rest of the drawing to accommodate the mistake. This only compounds the problem and makes the drawing even more inaccurate.
When the disaster that develops can no longer be denied, the eraser finally comes out to tackle a job that’s now too insurmountable for its capabilities. What’s left behind is a smudgy, wrinkled piece of paper bearing the ghosts of a cavalcade of missteps and missed expectations.
Even worse is when he or she gives up altogether, proclaiming themselves “not an artist.”
All of which could have been prevented with a light and loose touch at the beginning.
There are a few lessons here for all of us.
Just because something doesn’t turn out the way we’d hoped doesn’t mean we are ill-suited for the job, we’re wrong to pursue it, or that we should abandon it altogether.
But it’s probably worth considering how we started.
Did we rush in before we had all the information we needed? Did we pour too many resources into one area before fully considering the big picture? Did we make assumptions that proved to be incorrect?
When starting something new, our enthusiasm often drives us to press hard on details before we can confirm if we’re even heading in the right direction.
Sometimes we drive a lot of miles in one direction before realizing that we took a wrong turn at Albuquerque.
Discouragement bubbles up when we become aware of a problem and realize things aren’t working out the way we imagined. It’s difficult to erase those expectations that have been impressed so deeply within us. Rather than adjust our course, we hold tightly to our initial assumptions, trying in vain to force reality to accommodate them. We plow forward, hoping for the best, but ultimately waste time and resources in the process.
But hope is not lost!
Maybe we can try starting again, from the beginning, with a new sheet of paper. Even if we can’t fully erase all the actions we’ve already taken, let’s avoid labeling the project as a mistake or ourselves as a failure.
You are merely human.
And on your next undertaking, start lightly, holding loosely to the results. Consider the big picture. How does this new endeavor fit within the context of the rest of your life? What are the main things you’ll need in place for this project to succeed?
Then, take baby steps that are easier to erase if you suddenly find yourself going down the wrong road.
Mind you, this is not a call to overplan. It’s a reminder to hold your initial enthusiasm in check, just for a beat, to get your ducks in a row. It’s encouragement to maintain a playful spirit of tinkering and a willingness to adjust course as you discover what God is up to.
Don’t delay in starting, dear artist.
Just start lightly, loosely, with a heart open to the big picture before getting lost in the details.
🤔 Is there something going on in your life right now you’re discouraged about and has you tempted to give up? Could there be a way to “begin” again, with baby steps and an open heart?
This is a new video series from my studio overlooking Lake Michigan. It’s where I slow down, listen, and make art that brings light into the world. This is Echo Base Dispatch—a brief transmission from here to wherever you are—where I share what I’m working on, what I’m wrestling with, and the lessons I’m learning along the way.
–Jason
The best part of living on the edge of Lake Michigan is witnessing the incredible, infinite creativity of God every day. Upon the simple canvas of sky and water, He paints an endless stream of masterpieces.
His work effortlessly transitions from calm to mysterious to turbulent, and his use of color, form, and texture is breathtaking. One day, the sky is a watercolor painting, with subtle pastel hues bleeding into one another like a melting scoop of rainbow sherbet. Other days are oil paintings, with an impasto of thick, angry clouds scraped across the sky. Some days, He pulls out all the crayons, some days his palette is quite limited, and some days, I swear, He’s inventing new colors.
Since I’ve been living here, I’ve harbored a desire to capture what I see. I know my version can’t hold a candle to His, doomed to look like a dime store copy of a copy of a copy. A proverbial exercise in futility.
But alas, I can wait no longer. On the occasion of turning fifty soon, I have decided to undertake a quest in which I sit on the edge of the Master’s studio and create fifty copies of some of His best work. Fifty paintings of the same sky and water that somehow never look the same.
I’m calling the series of paintings “50 Shades of Great.”
As if this tinker project wasn’t challenging enough, I am adding an extra wrinkle: I can only use four colors on each painting.
[The four colors I’ve chosen for this one are Ultramarine Blue, Cadmium Yellow, Quinacridone Magenta, and White.]
There’s a reason I’m limiting myself like this.
Let’s start by hopping in a time machine, back to a time when a box of 64 Crayola crayons — complete with a sharpener in the back — was as valuable as anything on Earth. I recall it containing every color known to mankind, exotic hues not found in the pedestrian collections of 8 or 24: Periwinkle. Brick Red. Cornflower. Thistle. Goldenrod. And of course, Gold and Silver, which I was convinced were made with real bits of the precious metals.
The box of 64 crayons turned anyone into an artist. Everything was possible; there was nothing you couldn’t draw.
Nowadays, we’re still artists. No longer working in crayon, turning out drawings to decorate the fridge, we are now tasked with creating better communities, businesses, and teams. In this work, we often yearn for a bigger budget, less red tape, or more cooperation from colleagues, upper management, and politicians. We could use more training, more structure, more resources.
If only I had brick red! Can you imagine what I’d do with periwinkle? We could make a real difference with silver and gold in our crayon box!
How we long for the unlimited possibilities that box of 64 crayons represented!
If I had double the budget, I could really make some strides with these students.
If I had a few extra hours a week, I could make some real progress on this plan.
If I had another acre, an extra room, or a few hundred more square feet, I could be so more productive and efficient.
If I had a bigger team, we could get so much more accomplished.
Money. Time. Space. Manpower.
Silver. Cornflower. Brick Red. Periwinkle.
You may want the big box of 64 crayons, but there is never a time when you’ll have everything you wish you had.
Most of the time, it feels like you’re a few crayons short of filling the humble box of 8.
Short of the resources that would make your work significantly easier or more effective, it’s easy to feel paralyzed and tempted to throw your hands up in resignation. We let the disappointment over what we don’t have keep us from making the most of what we do.
But here’s an important truth to keep in mind. The best painters in the world can create a masterpiece with only four colors: red, yellow, blue, and white. That’s all you need to paint a rainbow.
Even though art supply stores feature walls of paint tubes in a dizzying array of pigments, the wise teachers implore their students to proactively limit their palette to a handful of hues to ensure a harmonious, pleasing result.
True creativity thrives when constrained by limitations. Ultramarine was the finest and most expensive blue used by Renaissance painters. It was made from lapis lazuli, a rare and expensive stone, often costing more than gold. But when you are using a lot of warm earth tones, as those master painters did, a neutral gray made from black and white can take on a blue tone by comparison.
Having access to all the colors does not make one an artist.
It’s about knowing how to use the ones you have.
Whether you are an educator, a healthcare professional, an entrepreneur, or a parent trying to raise great kids, I understand you wish you had more time, more resources, and more freedom to do the important work that needs to be done.
Unfortunately, that may never be the case. It rarely is in the real world.
But that’s ok.
You are simply called to do the best you can with what you have.
Don’t let your limitations hold you back, dear artist.
You may not have the whole box of 64, but you have everything you need to make a masterpiece.
🤔 Where do you feel stuck because you’re waiting for something you don’t currently have? Is there something you can do to move forward using resources you do have?
