In the “Age of Innocence,” (if there were ever a time), they used to say, “I didn’t think they’d try it on,” meaning, I didn’t think they’d have the guts to do it. Some may have said that about my mother, but not me.
I’m not sure she ever really knew how brave she was. I know she wanted to be. I guess I knew first, because my grandfather told me. Standing in the kitchen, opposite the sink – grandma in elbow deep – in front of the window that framed the stripped and hanging cow from the tree, he told me I could turn in, or turn out. That I could armored like my Aunt Kay, or be open like my mother. He didn’t mark either as good or bad, both would be difficult, it was just a choice. My mother returned from the other room. Broken, she had the guts to still be ruffled in white. I had already made my choice. To be wounded, but still believe in love, I would ever be “trying it on.”
It was years later, I relayed his message to her. She hadn’t known that he saw her. It wasn’t the way. I suppose it was thought, “Well, it goes without saying…” but mostly I think that means it simply goes unsaid. I can’t let it be one of those times. Ever ruffled in ruffles, I come to the page, to the canvas, to you, wide open, daily. And on those days when you think you don’t have the strength, the courage, the will, you will think of these words, these images, see my mother’s face and heart, and you will find yourself “trying it on.”
All papers are different. Some work better with water colors. Others, pencil. Acrylics. Pastels like it a little rough. If gessoed, you can use oil. I dance through all of them. Mixing. Matching. Stumbling. One working better than the other. Some not at all. But every once in a while, the color goes on so perfectly, so easily, so accepting of all my imperfect strokes. And the beautiful irony is, this doesn’t lock me in, but sets me free. It dares me to try. To move forward. To experiment. To attempt. To get better.
I had three such “papers” growing up. My grandfather. My grandmother. My mother. All so very different. One stable. One carefree. One dancing between. And when I came to each, of course I tested them as a child will test any paper. Will you love me if…? Each one did. No matter what I scribbled. They loved me.
Even with all this love. This undeniable proof, I’m not proud of the fact that I can still worry. But I learn the lesson, again, and for the first time, daily. In the midst of creation, I forget all of the what ifs, and get completely gathered in the what is — and what is it? — beautiful. Even on the roughest of days, I have to laugh and think, today, I’m a pastel.
Just writing the words, “worry less. create more.” — the curve of each letter carries the love that dares me to try.
