The first dive is the hardest

Chunks O' Goodness #1

Hey, friends, I’m trying something new! A series of “illustrated” newsletters about little moments that maybe help us believe that humans aren’t as horrible as they often appear to be, especially in this particularly difficult historical moment we’re living through. I’m calling it Chunks O’ Goodness, like a sweet candy bar chocked full of hope and joy. I am new to this whole illustration thing, but having fun with it.

At the end of the newsletters, I’ll have a sort of blooper roll of the sketches and alternative versions I did. Showing my work, so to speak. This week that part is free, but after this, that part will be for paid subscribers only, because while I’m having fun, it’s also quite a bit of work. So if you want to see the alternative version of the barrel of noodles going forward, become a paid subscriber.

Thanks for being here and welcome to Chunks O’ Goodness, episode #1!

At the public swimming pool where I do water aerobics, they have swim lessons for little kids at the same time. This means a lot of little kids jumping off the diving board as all of us old ladies dance around in the shallow end of the pool with our noodles or do resistance walking against the current of the lazy river.

One day last week, a little girl climbed up onto the diving board, the lifeguard waiting in the water below her. She was clearly terrified. From where I was paddling around in the deep end, I could see her little arms and legs trembling. The rest of the old ladies were all in the lazy river, walking around and around in circles.

The little girl stood there for so long that the old ladies started to notice her. They watched her as they walked their circle. They shouted words of encouragement. They told each other stories about their own kids and grandkids and nieces and nephews and students and children they’d known who had been afraid to jump off the diving board. Or afraid to put their face in the water. Or afraid to touch a dog. Or afraid that every time their mother left the house, they’d never see her again.

There’s so much to be afraid of when you’re little. There’s so much to be afraid of when you’re big. There’s so much to be afraid of when you’re an old lady, treading water in the deep end or walking around and around in the lazy river. There’s so much to be afraid of if you’re a human person, living in this world.

The little girl stood there trembling. The lifeguard held her hands out, waiting for the little girl to jump. She took a step closer to the edge. We all held our breath. At last she jumped into the lifeguard’s waiting arms. The whole pool erupted in cheers. The little girl came up out of the water smiling. She swam to the ladder and climbed up onto the diving board and jumped off again and again, each time to a chorus of cheers.

I don’t know all the old ladies at the pool. I didn’t know the little girl. I don’t think any of the other old ladies knew her, either.

She wasn’t our child or our grandchild or our niece or nephew or student or a child we knew. But, also, she was. She was our child, because, really, all of them are.

Like I said, in the future, this will be where the paywall begins, but as I’m totally new to this, I thought it would be fun to show all my work. How the sausages get made, so to speak.

I did two watercolor version of the barrel of noodles. This one I was trying to be more dynamic with my brushstrokes, like in this great exercise from

Patrick Visser

. Watercolor is hard to control and I was leaning into it here. My husband liked this version better. I think it certainly conveys the chaos that is a barrel of noodles.

These are sketches I did trying to figure out how to exactly capture the posture of the little girl, standing at the end of the diving board, scared to death. Obviously, I did not have a picture of this, as I was in the pool, watching her. I did find one internet image of a girl on the end of a diving board and that helped.

Her hands were in fists and I wanted to convey that, so I did a study of my own fist. Here’s the crazy thing to me about drawing. I drew this and I thought, “Wow, that looks nothing like a fist.” Then I showed it to my husband and asked him what it was. “A fist,” he said. And then I looked at it again after setting it down and was like, “Oh, yeah, that’s a fist.” Which is all to say, drawing is fucking magical.