Sunday, May 8, 2011
[Just Gonna] Do It!
In honor of Mother’s Day, my first Mother’s Day celebrating such with three now grown children (Alice Jean now 18, Rebekah Lynn 16 and Carol Anne soon to turn 28), I realize there is a child I’ve left behind, and I’m going back for her now.
This child's story has been fully written for a long time. Once written I was very proud of her loud, brave voice and I shared her. People were interested, but hearing that interest I became ashamed and stuffed her in a drawer.
Later, during a move, I packed her away. Her voice became muffled in a box, having only been dug out recently a post-it note clinging to her front cover with the words “do it!” still firmly attached.
Do tell, do see if you have the strength to keep the little Jack, or in this case Jill, out of the box.
Let her live, so to speak.
So, this Mother’s Day, I’ve decided to let her live, this little girl, this story.
I’ve also decided I don’t care how incredibly emotionally challenging things have been lately, I’m going to write EVERY MORNING, and I’m going to do a piece of artwork EVERY MORNING, prior to starting work. Just like the 30 days/30 collages jumpstarts I’ve had to do in the past to break out of slumps, it all goes to show with perseverance it takes 30 days to make (or break) a habit.
Mark, my words (and collages) … and for now an excerpt, from the little Jack (oops, I mean Jill) I just let back out of the box:
This morning I’m drawing pictures on the floor of the machine shed with a stick. I trace careful so I don’t break any of my teardrops. My tears land quietly and then settle right in, caught up in the soft dust. They stay wet and round and whole. Dust scatters as each new drop falls, but none break. They're sprinkled with dirt like butter cookies with powdered sugar from the sifter. I can’t believe something as beautiful as this has come from inside of me.
The child dreamer is alone,
very much alone.
He lives in the world of his own reverie.
In his happy solitudes, the
dreaming child knows the cosmic
reverie which unites us to the world.
-Gaston Bachelard, Reveries Toward Childhood