Writing is what I know best; it is how I access my intuition. I can’t explain my process, if there is one at all. For starters, the words arise from my lifelong study of truth, but my own style is definitely in the mix. As I begin to type, I have no idea what I am going to say; I trust the process that much. Brevity is a key component; that’s just how I roll.
I like to reach down into the compost pile and turn over some dark, rotten, mulchy stuff to add to the light that interplays among the paragraphs. “And the worms crawl in, and the worms crawl out,” and all that good fertilizer. God created earthworms and skull bones and dark shadows that play in the light.
Who is writing these warped little words? Yesterday she spent a few hours watching her designer put finishing touches on her great room and kitchen. The designer is a watercolorist with a fine eye for detail. She admired the water colors that my mother had painted, as they are hung throughout my house. My mother had a wonderful decorating sense; me, not so much. I have some beautiful things I treasure, but they aren’t worth any money. I lean toward pottery and textured surfaces. I am also a neatnik and like everything in its place.
So when cancer crashed down around my ideas of motherhood, it didn’t sit too well. I was up to my eyeballs in crisis. I was contemplating how to grieve the death of our daughter and at the same time, give our son as normal a life possible. There was no way I could live up to what I expected of myself. I remember one winter day when my son had the flu and we had a new puppy. My son was delirious with fever and the pup was in the garage eating his poop. I became hysterical with rage. No more, no more! I thought.
But here I am on a soft Mother’s Day morning. My son gave me a dozen roses, almost white, and a lovely card and chocolates. My home is now becoming a true respite for me. I sit and look out the glass doors onto tall old tulip poplars now a succulent green.
There doesn’t seem much left to do but be.