There are seasons of fluid, easy, purposeful work when it feels as though it is simply moving through me…this celestial energy, a force, using little old me as the maestro.
I never question where this inspiration comes from, I simply let it visit. I’ll know if it’s meant to be mine, if I’m willing to throw caution to the wind, let go of all logical reason, and jump in past my waders with delight.
This hasn’t been my reality for quite some time now. Small blips, what time has allowed, have appeared here and there, mostly in the ramblings of these posts.
While I believed, for a while, that mothering could be my creative bateau, I now know that my children cannot truly be my magnum opus, for children exist in and of themselves, like a spark waiting to ignite. It’s simply our job as caregiver, to fan the flame, provide oxygen, pattern and shape their environment until Whoosh! They’re alight– illuminating, incandescent.
Through mothering, I’ve held their faces in the palms of my hands, memorized each freckle and dimple. Pass me a brush and I’ll paint Irises. I’ve gone nightsss without sleep. I’ve wiped tears and noses, sat with them while they’ve toiled over broken phonetic sounds strung together. I’ve played, imagined and delighted alongside them. I’ve been here for every moment, waking and non, and now I can conclude this … children are made of themselves.
Yes, there is an art to mothering, and mothering is the very fabric of my bones, but my children cannot be my art.
What a tremendous weight to put on their shoulders, to be my only fulfilment
However, these past eleven years, I’ve been dedicated to the art of mothering and very little else. I ‘ll be candid. I don’t have a single regret about it. This was intentional. ‘Losing myself’ was never the problem, but rather that I built a new me, one who differs from the me before children. So I can’t simply pick up where I left off, but rather, continue to evolve.
Now I’m peering into a new chapter, one that gently overlaps the story I’m living. I’m ready and waiting for a new something.
Something to stir me from my hiatus.
A something to re-ignite my own creative fire.
Creativity is a crushing chore and a glorious mystery. The work wants to be made, and it wants to be made through you.”
— Elizabeth Gilbert.
Asking myself, what do I have control over?
The strangest thing I’m experiencing during this isolation are the strong, opposing feelings which are becoming a part of everyday life. I’m sure I cant be alone in this.
A bit of homeschool panic
notes from the inside…well, kinda
A thing I’ll be doing to document this strange period in our history.