PALETTES AND PATTERNS

The time change last weekend means it is dark here at 5:00.  In a few weeks it will be mostly dark by 4:30 (and barely light in the morning by 8!)  I just ordered two new Peter Pauper Press - Studio Series ("for colorists of all ages") coloring books, which sort of elevates the whole "coloring" idea in my judgement.  I also have a new set of my favorite brush tip watercolor markers.  I'm ready.  I alternate between coloring and crocheting this time of year while I watch TV in the long winter evenings.  And that, my friends, is how I can tell I have become my mother.  The adult coloring book craze didn't exist then, but she did knit or crochet at night and I thought "What a boring life! I'll never waste my time like that!"  Hmmm....

I've come to realize that any creative outlet that is enjoyable and relaxing is not a waste of time -- or of a life.   She sewed, knitted, crocheted, embroidered, painted landscapes, wrote family histories and short stories, drew the plans for the building of my teenager years home (her dream house in 1966), went to school and opened her own business -- a beauty shop in our home -- at age 43, and did all the traditional "housewife" stuff that a woman did in her adult life in the 1940's, 50's, 60's, 70's, and beyond.  She took great pride in "keeping house" while caring for our family.

If I possessed half her creative talents and had half her energy, I'd be happy.  My life is more of the contemplative, personal growth, activist, and spiritual quest variety.  My nod to traditional creative pursuits lies only in writing, crocheting (only blankets and scarves -- nothing that has to actually fit anyone!) and coloring (within the lines someone else has drawn, in low light conditions, maybe without my reading glasses.)  I've painted a few little watercolors that I like and many more that ended in the recycling bin.  I like to take photographs but don't like the technical aspects of "real" photography.  I keep thinking "maybe someday I'll do something with all those photos".  Maybe.  Someday.

As I settle in to the dark season my thoughts turn to settling into the Autumn of my life as well.  I like to tell my doctors I fully expect to live another 30 or more years.  Yet I know that would be beating the odds a bit.  My plan is to do all I can within my power to keep myself healthy, but there is so much that is out of our control that my other plan is to make peace with whatever comes that I will never foresee.

And I know that 30 years is not that long.  I've already seen projections of projects and plans around various political aspirations and community planning ideas that are that far out and more.  I realize these are plans for others, not for me.  I won't be here to see them come to fruition.  I've reached that stage in life when I both mourn that reality and pray for all these wonderful things to become manifest for my children and their children.  All I can do is do what I can now to help further those goals for future generations.  I find some peace in that.

I don't mean to sound maudlin here.  I'm not really.  I'm just finding myself in a place of contemplation and acceptance.  I don't mind a bit slowing my pace, sorting out priorities, making a meaningful life in connection with others, prioritizing home and family and contentment.

I'll still take to the streets and bug my representatives and practice yoga and hang out with my grandkids and travel a bit....

But I'll also leave ample time for color books and crochet projects -- choosing palettes and patterns that speak to me, that a provide a fleeting bright spot of beauty as darkness engulfs for a time, before the return of the light and the cycle begins anew.

At least, that's the view from here....©

MOTHERHOOD REIMAGINED

I never longed to have children; I just assumed I would.   So after I was married for a few years and the time time seemed right, I felt “ready.”  I fantasized about those sweet Mothers Days I would soon have with my perfect children.  But try, try, try as we did, nothing happened.  Mothers Day then became a day to dread and grieve, until we came to the realization that what we were ready for, what we wanted to be was parents, with no strong desire to duplicate our genes.

We were fortunate to be able to build our family through adoption, our boys coming to us two years apart.   Mothers Day was mine!  But, during the most exhausting of those years of caring for young children, I often wondered:  Shouldn’t Mothers Day should be a day set aside for not having to be with my children?  Shouldn’t it be a day when Mom gets to go to the spa?  Or read a book?  Or see a matinee alone?   Yet on Mothers Day we hold up the ideal of “mother,” that mythical being who is full of self-sacrifice and unconditional love, not the mom who doesn’t have a clue and gets it wrong most of the time, or just wants her own version of a “time out.” 

Over my 29+ years as a mother, I’ve spent some time reflecting about Mothers Day.  I never took the day all to myself; instead finding, amidst the exhaustion, the simple joy in opening a handmade card and exclaiming over a plate of syrupy pancakes and runny eggs.  

So I know Mothers Day can indeed be a lovely time of celebration, but I am mindful of those for whom it isn’t, because any day set aside to honor a person or event can also be a day that is just tough to get through.  One commemorative holiday does not fit all.  For some of us this day is tinged with grief.  Maybe we have lost a mother, or lost a child; when everyone else is celebrating, we are sad. 

I wish I had realized when I was childless that mother or not, perfect or not, grieving or not, we can  all claim the day with a shift in focus, using the best of the Mother Archetype to make it our own in our own way.  The energy that goes into mothering a child is the energy that also goes into birthing a dream, igniting the spark of creativity, holding a vision of completion. 

  Mothering energy is powerfully present when I love and care for a cat or a dog or a horse or a coop full of chickens; tending, feeding, doctoring, comforting, knowing each in its own way, giving to each just what it needs, enjoying the sweet innocence of give and take between me and this precious creature I love.  

Mothering energy is powerfully present when I plant a tiny seed in fertile soil I have prepared, waiting patiently for it to sprout, then coaxing it to grow by providing nutrients, water, light, and a sturdy stake upon which to lean until it bursts into full flower or provides food for my table, in the fullness of the harvest.

Mothering energy is powerfully present when I stand before the blank canvas, or sit before the blank page, and a germ of an idea -- a color or a word -- sparks its way from my creative source to find expression in my art.  Day by day I add, delete, expand, re-imagine, until, finally there is a painting or a poem gestated in quiet, private moments, ready to be shared with the world.  I may never know how many lives I will touch by sharing this song of the heart.

Just as a mother holds her infant close, letting go bit by bit as her child grows into being himself, independent and ready to take his own place on the planet, so too does a mother of creativity hold close her idea, manifesting bit by bit a vision, growing it to fruition to take its own place in the great fabric of creation.

To be a mother is to find that place of creation within, that place of selfless discipline, that place of overwhelming love, of exhausted frustration followed by heart-driven recommitment to that which we love, to that which we have no choice but to birth, nurture, and then eventually, to let go.

At least, that's the view from here...©

EXPRESS YOURSELF

When I was a kid I made up stories in my head about adventures.  I was always the star -- I was the leader, fearless and cunning; my side-kicks in this were two boys and together we led a pack of cool kids who operated on the edge -- sort of "bad", but in service to the "good".  Robin Hood types, I guess.  I never wrote any of these stories down.  But I played them out in my head, fantasies that moved across my mind like a movie reel, while I was drying the dishes or sweeping the sidewalk or sitting in class.  

This morning I am thinking about creativity, its source and its expression.  I just read a Facebook post by one of my writing heroes, Anne Lamott, where she admonishes us to not waste one more minute being timid and shy, procrastinating and denying the urge to create.

I started writing about 40 years ago.  I have boxes and boxes of journals, essays, poems, musings; a notebook full of newsletters I've written and edited for organizations over the years;  a file folder of published pieces of which I am quite proud.  I started writing and performing "stand-up" poetry 7 years ago; writing essays for UU Sunday services around that time as well.  I started this blog in 2012 and have written 122 essay posts for it.  I have four poems in a recently self-published chapbook by my women's poetry group.  Seventy people came to the book launch last month.  I just found out I will have four pieces (two poems and two essays) in a Northwest Women Writers anthology next year.  I've written song lyrics that are being performed and recorded by my musician friends.

So, why is it that when people ask, "What do you do?" my answer is "I'm a retired Social Worker." Why is it I can NEVER say, "I'm a writer."  Why is it safer to be a retired something or other (I had socially-recognized value once!) rather than to declare that the thing I most love is what I do?  (Even when a huge part of that career was writing -- home studies, grants, newsletters and other communications of all types.)

I think it's the timid and shy self-depracating tendency to not believe in one's creative urge that Anne Lamott talks about.  I think it's the rejection letters from magazines and Random House's reluctance to seek out my talent and make me rich and famous.  I think it's the little girl who still lives within me, who was quiet and anxious a lot of the time, who was taught not to call attention to herself, the one who always played it safe and never took risks, who played out being powerful (even the leader of boys!) within her rich fantasy life -- the fantasy that felt so impossible within the real world that it became a movie of the mind.

But what would happen if we all lived our passion out loud?  What if we identified by our creative center rather than the practical worldly way we support ourselves.  (Sometimes, if we are lucky, they are the same thing, but often not.)   What if we asked "what do you love?; who are you?" instead of "what do you do?"  The checker at Safeway might answer: "I am a dancer."  Or the teacher may say, "I am a potter."  Or the longshoreman could respond, "I'm an opera singer."  Or the computer programmer declare, "I'm a farmer."  Wouldn't that be a wonderful way to know each other?

And maybe that would free us to claim our own power, not relegating it to live within a fantasy life, but rather embracing it in the real world.  Who doesn't feel more powerful when actively living the "real me" rather that the one we try to fit into a mold of who we are "supposed" to be?  Maybe I would have been a classroom leader, a force for good, rather than the little girl in the middle of the pack, hoping for cool friends and accolades by association.

We all have a creative urge, a rich inner life that is moving through us, rising and falling, looking for expression.  What if our very purpose for being alive in this world was to allow this spark to ignite; to practice, fail, keep going; to know each other's deepest longing for expression and to support that quest joyfully and with celebration.  What do you love?  Who are you?

I'll start:  I'm a writer.

At least, that's the view from here…. ©

BIRTHING CREATIVITY

Annually I partner with our Unitarian Universalist Fellowship's music coordinator to create a Sunday service of Music, Movement and Spoken Word.  This past Sunday, Mother's Day, was that service.  I wrote a "testimonial" for it.  Here it is:

Mother’s Day.  I have an ambivalent relationship with this day.  For many years, this day meant a reminder of something I didn’t have and desperately wanted -- children.  

Then, finally, I became a mother through adoption and during the most exhausting of those years of caring for young children I decided Mother’s Day should be a day set aside for NOT having to be with my children.  Shouldn’t it be a day when mom gets to go to the spa?  Or read a book?  Or see a matinee alone?  

On this day we hold up the ideal of mother -- that mythical being who is full of self-sacrifice and unconditional love, not the mom who doesn’t have a clue, gets it wrong most of the time, or who through bad luck, lousy choices, or impossible circumstances seems to love any number of things more than her own children.

For some of us this day is one tinged with grief.  Maybe we have lost a mother, or lost a child, and when everyone else is celebrating, we are sad.  

Any day set aside to honor can also be a day that is just tough to get through, since one size (or one commemorative day) does not fit all.

Yet, mother or not, perfect or not, grieving or not, we can reclaim this day with a shift in focus, using the best of the mother archetype and making it our own in our own way.  

The energy that goes into mothering a child is the energy that also goes into birthing a dream, igniting the spark of creativity, holding a vision of completion. 

Mothering energy is powerfully present when you love and care for a cat or a dog or a horse or a coop full of chickens...tending, feeding, doctoring, comforting -- knowing each in their own way, giving to each just what it needs, enjoying the sweet innocence of give and take between you and this precious creature you love.  

Mothering energy is powerfully present when you plant a tiny seed in fertile soil you have prepared, waiting patiently for it to sprout, then coaxing it to grow by providing nutrients, water, light, and a sturdy stake upon which to lean until it bursts into full flower, or provides food for your table, in the fullness of the harvest.

Mothering energy is powerfully present when you stand before the blank canvas, or sit before the blank page, and a germ of an idea -- a color or a word -- sparks its way from your creative source to find expression in your art.  Day by day you add, delete, expand, re-imagine, until, finally there is a painting or a poem -- gestated in your quiet, private moments, ready to be shared with the world.  You may never know how many lives you will touch by sharing this song of the heart.

Just as a mother holds her infant close, letting go bit by bit as her child grows into being herself, independent and ready to take his own place on the planet, so too does a mother of creativity hold close her idea, manifesting bit by bit a vision, growing it to fruition, to take its own place in the great fabric of creation.

To be a mother is to find that place of creation within, that place of selfless discipline, that place of overwhelming love, that place of exhausted frustration followed by heart driven re-commitment to that which we love, to that which we have no choice but to birth, nurture, and then, eventually, to let go. 

At least, that's the view from here...©