Pilgrimage

I counted this year and figure it has been 16 years since we started "doing ARTrails".  It is our annual pilgrimage, my once a year communion with Art (plus cheese, grapes, crackers) and nature.  Art, with a capital A.

When I was a small girl, one sure way to get my attention was to utter that word.  I knew I wanted to be an artist almost as soon as I could tell which was the front side of my underpants (which actually took a disturbingly long time).  In fact, for me, my only 'life mission' that predates that of Artist is that of Mother.  I have been blessed to become both.

I have always painted and sculpted -since high school, and on since Guy and I were married, now going on 20 years- but honestly, I have done more art in the past 2 years than in the prior 18 years combined.  Up till recently I had let myself believe that having children precluded me from doing much art, and to be sure, having SMALL children did, but now that the larger cretins can mostly wipe their own butts, and even help with the wiping of smaller butts in the vicinity, I have claimed a certain amount of midnight oil to grease my artistic wheels.

Going to ARTrails is my Mecca, it is my holy pilgrimage.  And I mean no blasphemy in saying that.  Art fills my soul the way music or nature do for other people.  I marvel at the scope of the human imagination and the skill of the human hand.  I am blown away at the things artists think of, and how they then execute those ideas.  I am inspired, I am in my temple, my chapel of candles and sweet bells.  I have, (I will say it) been moved to tears by art.  Not snot-dripping-down-my-chin tears, but more than misty eyed, for sure.  Because Art is the very act of creation.  It is the story of the universe, from the beginning of time, and it is the story of God.  From the first man that knew to  grab a cold coal from his spent fire to sketch a bison on a cave wall, to the child that is so bold as to try to capture his small human experience in a time capsule of paper and crayon, Art has brought people and cultures and time together.  It is for all who have eyes or hands to feel with.  And no matter what you say, no matter if you think you can't make art yourself, I think there is art out there somewhere that each person could see themselves or their lives reflected in.  Art imitates the very act of Divine creation, and as a child imitates his Father, the artist in a humble, hopeful act, echoes God.

And going to ARTrails, seeing the art an inch from my nose, laughing and talking with it's creators, is so moving and enriching for me.  It makes me believe I can become better; better at Art, and then, knowing that is true, I believe that I can simply become better at whatever life asks of me.  I come away filled with energy, ideas and resolve.  I am renewed.

Cheryl at Nichibe Pottery 

This year's pilgrimage was not without its less savory moments.  We took the Littles and the Middles, leaving the big boys at home.  That meant a whole day of telling Jonah all the things you tell a rambunctious 4 year old boy when in a studio full of blown glass.  It had its very stressful moments. On the flip side, we got to spend the entire day with Francine, which is like Christmas.  I got a private lesson from generous and kind Cheryl at Nichibe Pottery to help me with my first firing to take place this week (more to come on that!).  And just before driving home we saw sweet Willow, who is a woman that deserves a post all of her very own.  Our two baby girls played together, really played, and it felt like a full- and gorgeous -circle moment.  It was also the first time Willow had met Natalie, since Nat had been in the NICU when Willow was at the hospital as my doula, and out of respect she had decided she would not see my baby before I got to have her with me.  She said she wanted to meet Natalie with me holding her in my arms.

Well, that night she did.

Even though Jonah was a poop all day, Francine loved on him sweetly.

Hugs goodbye are always hard.

Tired baby, and full tummies at Jalisco's in Santa Rosa.  Yum.

 How I love this place.

To All the Tired Mamas

Photo by Ellie Holman, age 10

A while back I was chatting with my dear college roommate, Jackie, or Princess Gorkel, Daughter of Terri-lou Punk Frog of the Kingdom of the North, as she is known to me.  She was telling me how much she enjoys reading my blog when she is feeling down.  I told her that I sometimes picture myself writing to all the tired mamas at the end of the day, and what they might need to hear.  Now, I know that not ALL the tired mamas read my blog.  Certainly one or two go straight to bed.  But I bet all the mamas who DO read it ARE tired, because, well, duh... they're mamas.  It's tough work.  So this, my weary women, my tired-to-the-bone can't-fold-another-load friends, is for you.  And most of all, it is to Jackie.

To all the tired mamas at the end of the day,

I see you.

I see you up way too late, knowing that your day will be starting way too early again in the morning. I see you as you empty dishwashers and dryers and load them back up for a second, then a third run. I see you folding tired old towels with shredded ends, and breathing a sad sigh as you pull a little shirt from the basket to put in the donation bag, surprised at how fast it was outgrown by a not-so-little child.  I see your fury flare as you step on a lego, only to be extinguished by a sweet, sleeping mess-maker.  I see you turning out lights and locking doors, always the last one to bed.

I see you in the morning as you make your bed, though you'd rather climb back into it. Making lunches, planning meals, watching for sales to make the money stretch impossibly further. I see you clean a room over and over, only to come back through and find it destroyed. I see you welcome your children home, putting on a smile just for them, sometimes felt, sometimes not, but you smile anyway because you don't want them to think that what is troubling you is them. I see you batting the to-do lists out of the forefront of your mind as you listen to the chatter of a small one, telling you the plot to their favorite show. Again.

I see you.

I see the way you wrestle with how strict to be about a rule broken; the balancing act between justice and mercy. I see you fretting as you look into brooding eyes, worried because you aren't quite sure if there is more to the story than you are getting.  I see you trying to find teaching moments- to know when to leave it alone and when to speak up.  I see you wishing a hug and a kiss could take it all away like it did when they were small, and knowing sometimes the only thing you can do is pray for them.

I see you cooking and cleaning and helping with homework.  I see you rocking a feverish child, cleaning up what came-up, and offering comfort through a blur of sleeplessness.  I see you helping a friend, bringing a meal to someone in need, and giving your lose change to the woman at the corner, all the while feeling that you are not quite enough; wise enough, thin enough, organized enough -charitable, loving, kind- enough.  

I see you.

I see your heart of gold under your spit-up stained t-shirt, your beautiful face beneath a few lines of time and a few streaks of grey. I see your strength as you power through days and months and years of the sameness of tasks, and then take on tomorrow as well.

I see your eyes well with tears over ones you have lost, or never got to have at all (which is a loss all the same, is it not?); ones that were never born, or never grew older, or were never free of their own demons. I see you protecting your children from the world when you can, and comforting them when you can't, and carrying their pain as your own either way.

I see you.

And I know you.

And I am grateful, because when I see you, I learn.  I am inspired.  I am encouraged. 

When I see you,

I am free to make mistakes, because I see your grace as you try again. 

I am free from judgement, because I see your forgiveness and I can forgive myself.

I am free to follow that voice inside that whispers to me how to mother, because I see you follow yours.

I see you, Tired Mama.  You are doing a great job.  Now go to bed and try to rest.  It all starts again tomorrow.