The view from the lens of love is breathtaking.
Write the stories
you like to read.
Make the music
you like to listen to.
Paint what you see
with your heart not your eyes.
Take pictures of the things
that delight you.
Weave magic and wonder
into your life.
Love passionately all things creative
including yourself.
Girl Warrior. Create the soundtrack for your life. You’ve got the music in you. Let it out. Wherever. Whenever. Don’t be shy about this. Or embarrassed. Don’t listen to your inner judge. The one that says you’re tone deaf. Can’t carry a tune. Or have no talent. For it’s not about that. It’s about joy and wild abandon. Glee and harmony in hard places.
It’s one of the best things you can do for your body, mind and spirit. So get musical. From your bobbing head to your tapping toes. Put a song in your heart. Let it rest easy in your soul. And flow through your veins like Tupelo Honey.
Pick up an instrument. Shake a tambourine. Beat a bongo drum. Stomp your feet. Snap your fingers. Clap your hands. Play the air guitar. Sing in the shower. Or while driving the truck. Join a choir. Or form a girls’ band. You don’t have to be a virtuoso musician. You don’t even have to be any good. In fact, you can be terrifically terrible. There are far worse things Girl Warrior.
Like dying with the music still locked inside you.
It was inevitable. Bound to happen. I’d reach a certain age and life stage. Then bam. Smack. Thump. I’d start thinking about unfinished business.
Well here I am. Signed. Sealed. Delivered. Right on track.
On the one hand I think, ‘Yay for me. Look at all I’ve done. Little Miss Smarty Pants.’ Then the grim reality sets in. The ugly truth. The road ahead is shorter than the road behind. Then I think, ‘I’m just getting started. I haven’t done anything yet. Shit.’
Age and stage notwithstanding, two things over the past year triggered this obsessive unfinished thinking. E’s cancer diagnosis. And a painting of Ma’s that I pulled out of storage.
Dealing with E’s cancer has brought me to my knees on more than one occasion. I’ve felt a rainbow of emotions. From fear to anger to sadness to joy. And now gratitude. This experience has reminded me of the fragile and fleeting nature of life. How quick it all passes. The cliche is true. Time flies. Especially the older you get. I can barely catch my breath on some days. I just want to scream, ‘slow down!’ I want to freeze frame the good stuff. Fortunately, the older I get the more I realize it’s all good stuff. Regardless of how it may appear on the surface. I want to hold on tight. Squeeze the life out of every last thing.
I’m overwhelmed at times by the immensity of this thing called life. The fact that we’re here at all is utterly astonishing when you think about it. Big bangs and creation debates aside, it’s mind blowing.
Then there’s the insignificance of my little life in the grand scheme of things. My humble place in this mysterious cosmic eternal universe. We are all less than a blip on the radar of time. Practically nothing. Or perhaps not? Why are we here anyway? I don’t know. But I want to know. This, and the answers to about a million other philosophical and spiritual questions. I’m a seeker.
I’m pretty sure that this pursuit will be the biggest business I’ll leave unfinished.
Then there’s Ma’s painting. The unfinished one. I found it in the attic at 204 after she died. Vibrant yellow and orange color streaks across the canvas with etherial wisps and airy brushstrokes. From a distance it looks finished. A bit abstract for Ma’s typical style, but done. It’s only when you get up close that you see that it isn’t finished at all. Not by a long stretch. You can see that the yellow and orange were just the beginning. The first few layers. The background for the real painting. Up close you can see the pencil marks where she had sketched in the foreground images. The Sleeping Giant on the horizon. Sail boats reflected in the water. I don’t know for sure. I only know that this painting was intended to be so much more than what was left behind.
Over the past year, I have spent time contemplating this painting. I have struggled with the desire to finish it. Complete this one little piece of her work here on earth. But I won’t. This is her unfinished business. Not mine. And quite frankly, none of my business.
But this painting is a gentle reminder of all the things that are my business to finish. Truth is, I know I will go to my grave with tons of things left undone. Not sure I’m okay with that.
Ironically, I love lists but I’m not a bucket list person. At least not in the formal sense, with an actual physical list. Like the one I make at work every day. I think I’m too lazy to sit down and compile such a thing. Or maybe mine would be too long. Endless. From here to eternity. It would take me forever. When people talk about checking something off their bucket list, I’m perplexed. Where do they find the time to both make the list and do all that shit on it?
Having said all that, I do have things I still want to do. I also have things I wish I had done when I was younger. These are the things that require a much more youthful body and brain. C’est la vie.
So I focus on what I can still do.
Instead of attempting to accomplish, achieve, attain or actualize, I focus on what really matters.
When do I start? Here. This place. This present moment. As much as possible, I try to stay in the now.
What can I do right this minute to have a more meaningful life? It doesn’t matter. Meaning can be found in anything. And everything. Doing the laundry. Mowing the lawn. Climbing a rock. Soaring from the top of a mountain. Lying on my back gazing at the sky. Kissing my love goodnight. Holding the hand of the broken hearted. Eating spaghetti. Writing a song. Running barefoot through the grass. Standing still. The list is endless. And very personal. That’s the supreme beauty of it.
Who can I surround myself with? Who are my people? My tribe? My dear ones? They’re already here. Every last one of them. And more will come. Some will leave when our business together is done.
Where do I need to be to make a difference in the world? Make it a better place than when I arrived? Improve someone’s life, even in the smallest way? Everywhere. Anywhere. People need help all over the place. In my own home. At work. Down the road. Across the street. The country. The ocean. The earth.
How do I get it done? One baby step at a time. Occasional giant leaps. Little tiptoes. One foot in front of the other. Maybe I’ll strap on a cape or sprout a pair of wings. I don’t know. I just know I’m going to die trying.
Why bother with all of this hullabaloo? Why not? Just because. That’s all I got.
I’ll take a crack at some dreams. Hatch a few more schemes. Make a new plan or two. Write another story. Wish upon a star. Cause a ruckus. Blow out a few more candles on the cake. And keep going down the road. For as long as I’ve got.
Will I die with some business left unfinished? Most undoubtably so. I am a work in progress, after all.
Just like Ma’s painting.
Long piano fingers so elegant and lovely.
I miss Ma. Sharing cups of tea. Or lingering conversations on a quiet summer evening. Laughing until we cried. Long walks through the neighborhood. Enjoying the pleasure of each others company. Mother and daughter stuff. All such lovely things that I cherish and hold dear. But of all those things, it is her hands that I pine for. Reach out and wish that they were resting next to mine. Hand in hand. Beautiful. Comforting. Tender. Reassuring.
Her touch was my first. My touch was one of her last.
Her fingers were long, thin and graceful. Pulsing with veins. Like indigo rivers across translucent terrain. We used to call them piano fingers because they could easily span an octave of keys. She never played an instrument. Except the music of her heart.
Her hands were hard working. Dependable and strong. They understood the connection between soap, water and a scrub brush. A dish rag and a scouring pad. Intimately. Thoroughly. Hardwood, tile, linoleum and wall to wall. Down on all fours. Scoured and cleaned. Washed and wiped. Polished and shined. Gleaming with pride.
Ma loved clean laundry. Before washing machines were automatic, she filled her wringer washer daily. Pulled her family’s clothes, piece by piece, through the hard rubber rollers. Filled her wicker basket then meticulously hung the day’s laundry on the line to dry. Wooden pegs and twisted wire. Summer or winter. Spring or autumn. The sparkling laundry fluttered and flew and often froze. Board stiff long johns and flannelette nighties. Her magical hands orchestrated it all with ease. Held it close and let it go.
Hands that could cook up a storm.
Her hands were a sight to behold in the kitchen. She cooked and baked. Stirred and tossed. Kneaded and coaxed. Folded and cut. Meals were prepared with tenderness. Cookies were baked with love. Cakes were dressed and adorned for every occasion. Table was set. Dinner was served. Dishes washed and carefully put away. Countertops glistened. The floor was swept. The refrigerator hummed with contentment. Such power in those hands.
A paint brush found its place to dwell. Between her thumb and pointer finger. Strokes and splashes across the canvas. Dabs and feather light lines. Details drawn. Smudges and smears. Oil on canvas. Flowers and trees. Fruit in bowls. The Sleeping Giant. Artistic. Expressive. Imaginative wondrous hands.
Her hands held books and magazines. On topics diverse and sundry. Her hands were eager to learn. To grasp the meaning of life. To find the truth. To seek wisdom. To scratch her head when none of it made sense.
Fabric was transformed in her hands. Curtains from calico. Tablecloths from cheerful colorful cotton. Dresses from wool or the softest silk. Jumpers from baby wale corduroy. Skirts that twirled and flared. Slacks that zipped or buttoned. Shirts were crisp or casual. A surprise dress at the end of a school day. A new wardrobe to start the year. Machine sewn. Hand stitched. Embroidered edges. Guide me home.
Hands that gripped life and love and held on tight.
The exquisite hands that caressed my newborn head. Supported me while I learned to walk. Clasped my hand on my first walk to school. Tended to my scraped knees. Wiped the tears from my eyes when my heart was torn and broken. Touched my shoulder with the language of love. Embraced. Hugged. Carried. Stroked. Hands that gripped and held on tight. To love. To life.
Young hands. Mother’s hands. Old hands. Grandma’s hands. May they reach down from heaven and touch this daughter’s heart tonight.
Pregnant with Daughter Number One. Great expectations in the tweed version.
I like to stare out the window. It’s a relaxing and meditative diversion. Some people experience this by looking heavenward to the stars. Or by sitting in front of an aquarium filled with exotic tropical fish. Others like to watch the tides roll in. But I’m a window gazer. A peaceful tranquility washes over me whenever I sit in front of a window. And look out.
Little back story. In our house at 204 there was always a chair in front of the living room window. Or at least from the time the house was renovated and a large picture window replaced the small wartime paned version. This window cried out for a comfy chair and a place to watch the world outside. With this in mind, Ma arranged the furniture so that there was always such a chair. And within arms reach, the treasured pedestal table with its sundry potted plants over the years, and always a coaster conveniently placed to support a cup of tea or coffee, glass of milk or Pepsi.
Daughter Number One liked to window gaze too.
It wasn’t exactly a big world to gaze upon. Not like looking up at the infinite sky on a clear August night. But it was my world for many years. This was the cherished spot where I honed my observational deftness. Even long after I had flown the nest I loved to return to the chair by the window. To daydream. To reflect. Or rest. Often to recover from the battlefield of life.
Over the years, several different chairs occupied the space next to the window. They all had a few things in common. First and foremost, the color orange was represented in them somewhere. Solid, tweed, plaid or striped. Ma used to say that she loved color and she wasn’t kidding. And when it came to decorating our living room, orange was undeniably her color of choice. Something I never fully appreciated until I looked at Ma’s albums filled with scads of photos of family and friends taken on the various chairs. Not only orange chairs. But Curtains. Lampshades. And wall to wall carpet. It was a dizzying sea of riotous color. Autumn lived perpetually in our living room.
On the outside Ma was a quiet, soft-spoken demure woman. But if a person’s color preference reveals anything about their true character, than Ma’s interior spaces were filled with fire, passion and fervency. She was a courageous artist fearlessly expressing herself in the boldest of possible ways. Orange.
The First Born having a snack in the striped version.
This common thread of orange aside, these chairs all rocked and swiveled. This made them very practical because you could position them in any direction depending on the need. They provided a 360 degree panorama of our downstairs. Swivel slight to the left for television viewing. To the centre back and you could watch all the kitchen activities, in particular Ma cooking up something spectacular. To the right and you could engage in lively conversation with whomever was on the couch. And centre front, there was the view of our street.
These chairs were also enormously fun. Swivel and rock in a full circle. One way and then the other. They turned us all into whirling dervishes. Spinning tops. Every bit as good as the old leather and chrome stools at the food counter in the basement restaurant at Eaton’s. Giggles and glee. Tee-hee! Plus, they were all so comfortable you never wanted to leave. No matter what was going on in my life, whenever I sat in the orange chair by the window everything was right with the world.
In truth, there wasn’t a whole lot to see out of that window. Mostly just the houses across the street. The mauve lilac that grew on the edge of our lawn next to the lumpy sidewalk and the Manitoba Maple on the boulevard. I watched it grow from a tiny sapling to a magnificent old sentry watching over our little wartime house. In summer it shaded our front yard. In fall it graced us with glorious red, orange and yellow leaves that danced and quivered in the wind. In winter it held strong and steady while the snow collected on its barren branches. In spring came the buds of hope and great expectations.
One summer the city added cement curbs and paved the street. We were delighted to say goodbye to the pot holes and annual tarring of our road. I have to admit though that the smell of tar triggers happy memories of childhood summers. It’s right up there with the scent of Coppertone, freshly mowed lawns, wild roses and hot rubber hoses.
The First Born sharing the plaid version with The Old Man.
One of my fondest memories is from the winter. I was home visiting over the Christmas holidays with my two older kids in tow. It was a large blue sky afternoon. The kind that only Northwestern Ontario can produce. Nothing quite like it anywhere I’ve been. On this particular afternoon Ma got a call from her sister Hazel to go over to the mall for the afternoon. Ma rarely turned down an opportunity to go for an outing. It didn’t really matter where. I sat in the orange swivel rocking chair by the window and watched Ma as she stood in the driveway waiting for her sister to come pick her up. The snow was crisp and clean. The snow banks were so high on either side of the window that they dwarfed Ma’s already small frame. She was wearing her gray fake fur coat. I don’t know what animal it was imitating. Her purse was draped across her chest. While she was waiting she traced the snow with the toe of her boot like a windshield wiper. Back and forth. Every now and then she would pause and look down the street for Auntie Hazel’s car. Her cheeks were blushed red from the cold air and her dark eyes were so bright and alive. I had to remind myself that she was in her seventies. She looked like a young girl. Full of life and eagerness. I will always remember her that way. And how the sight of her touched my heart with such tenderness.
Ma enjoying a moment of relaxation in the solid version.
In my room, the place where I write and dream, my computer sits in front of the window overlooking our beautifully imperfect garden, which is green and lush at the moment. Teeming with birds, squirrels and dragonflies, the occasional deer, raccoon, duck or heron. When I window gaze here I also see another time and place. I’m transported to an orange swivel rocking chair that sits by a picture window. It hugs me. It holds me when my heart is heavy. It comforts me when I’m full of fear and lost all hope. It rocks and swivels me to a place of peace. I see the street where I grew up. Played scrub ball. Rode my bike. Scraped my knee. Ran under the sprinkler. Sat on the neighbors front step and shared a first kiss. I see the place under the maple tree where I sat in the shade and drank Pepsi. I see the tarry road and the dreams of other roads to travel. I see The Old Man tending to his garden. Raking leaves. Shoveling snow. Blowing his nose in a big white cotton hanky. I see Ma waiting for Auntie Hazel. I see God’s hand reaching out and touching all of it with wonder and grace. I see love in the large blue sky. I am cradled in my mother’s arms.
The Crazy Quilt and the lifetime of memories it holds.
I love fabric. Everything about it. The look. The feel. The smell. Nothing puts me in a bright-hearted mood like walking the labyrinth aisles of a fabric store. There’s just something about the colorful categorized chaos that inspires me. It’s the playful paradox of cloth. And my life.
The inherent tactile nature of textiles is also intoxicating. With fabric, no matter how beautiful, getting an eyeful is never enough. It must be touched to be fully appreciated. For it is in the feel of the fabric that our emotions are thoroughly engaged. I am never in neutral when I’m around cloth. And the more senses involved, the happier I am. The richer the experience.
I love to run my fingers across deep luxurious smooth velvet. Or get lost in the grooves of the gorgeous cut versions. I’ve got a major crush on the crinkled kind. And don’t even get me started on my vibe for velour. I love the ridges of corduroy, whether barely-there baby wale or the chunky heavyweights. In the summer nothing says “the living is easy” like cotton. Bold and brilliant simplicity. Delicious ice cream colored pastels. Solid blocks of confident color. Or whimsical patterns drawn from nature. Sophisticated. Silly. Cosmopolitan. Or country. I love it all. And in the winter, my world is a wooly wonderland. I also love fabrics in the raw. Natural nubby silk, with its fusty scent, is quite simply divine. I could drown in a sea of unwashed denim. Even burlap is beautiful to me.
When it comes to fabric I am cut from the same cloth as Ma.
Little back story. Ma loved to sew. Her sewing machine, a chrome blue Kenmore beauty that The Old Man bought for her at Sears, was set up in our spare room upstairs next to “the boys” room. It sat on a table in front of the window, that stared directly into our neighbor’s identical window less than twenty feet away. In winter it was frigid wool-sweater-wearing cold in that room. In summer it was hotter than a baked potato fresh off the fire. But regardless of the temperature, the sewing machine hummed happily. The Kenmore came contained in it’s own case but because of its frequent use, the lid was rarely on. It was a wonder of modern post war technology. In fact, the basic design of that old lovely hasn’t changed all that much from the one I use today. I was in awe of Ma’s ability to thread the machine so quickly and efficiently. Expertly, her nimble fingers drew the thread through the various miniature levers and around the slits in the tension knob. Up and down. And all around. Through the eye of the needle with ease. And filling the circular silver bobbin. Pure magic. Connecting all of that mechanical mumbo-jumbo to turn fabric into something fashionable or functional. Nothing short of miraculous.
I loved all the brightly colored threads that Ma collected in her fabric covered sewing box. They were sweeter than candy and enough to make a rainbow envious. I loved their little barrel shapes. The hole punched through the paper top from their turn on the spool pin. The notch in the wood that held the end of the thread in place. Perfection all of it. The large-sized spools, with the basic black and white threads, were pragmatic and useful but not quite as interesting. It was the collection of small ones that grabbed my attention and set my imagination wandering. Even used-up naked spools had a purpose. I entertained myself for hours with these little squatty wooden people. I was the kid who had more fun with the cardboard box.
Ma used to make most of my clothes. What began as a necessity, became a passion. She had a flair for fashion and an artist’s eye for design. Fortunately for me, I was one of the main benefactors of this talent. One of the beautiful things about making your own clothes is their uniqueness. The one-of-a-kind distinction. There’s not another one quite like you walking down the street. This is universally appealing. Sometimes we want to blend in, be like everyone else. Feel like we belong. But we also want to stand out. Be special. Bask in our individual singularity. That’s what Ma’s designs did for me. I especially appreciated this once I became a teenager and my need to be “different” trounced my need to be just another cog in the wheel. Of course, for the most part I was just like everyone else but try telling that to a sixteen year old.
One of my fondest and proudest memories of childhood is that of wearing a different “outfit” to school each day. My favorite was the corduroy jumper. It pleased me to receive compliments on Ma’s handy-work, in particular from my teachers, whom I held in high esteem. I couldn’t wait to get home to tell Ma what the teachers said, watch her eyes light up to hear such honored praise for her sewing skills.
I don’t know if the ability to sew is in my genes exactly, but the love for it was definitely passed on to me from Ma.
By the time I got to grade seven, Ma started to teach me everything she knew about sewing. In Home Ec class, which was mandatory back then, the first thing we had to make was an apron. Without Ma’s guidance I would have failed that class. As it was I was challenged to knit a perfect pair of baby pink slippers and my macaroni cheese casserole was abysmal. But my apron was good and got me the passing grade. Once I was in high school, Home Ec was an elective. I gave it a pass in favor of music. I was much more interested in playing an instrument than playing with a measuring cup. Besides, by then Ma was the best Home Ec teacher a girl could ever have.
In high school I became fashion conscious. I was awakened. Had an epiphany. A sudden revelation. For the first time, I realized that clothes actually said something about who you were. They were a way to express yourself. Make a statement.
I loved to comb through magazines picking out fashions that I thought were cool and reflected my inner being. Styles that spoke to me. I would show Ma little dresses that I liked and ask, “Can you make something like that Ma?” I remember so vividly one little dress in particular. It was a “baby doll.” All the models in the magazines were wearing them. Twiggy, the doe-eyed waif, looked especially smashing in her little number. I had to have one. Despite the fact that I was half Twiggy’s height and twice her weight, I knew I could look just as groovy.
Ma and I went straight to the fabric department situated on the top floor of Eaton’s. The Mecca for sewers in our small northwestern town. It was awash in bright sunlight and cheerful colors. First we scoured the pattern books for dresses that looked like the ones we saw in the fashion magazines. There were no exact matches but Ma was a wizard at adapting patterns and adding her unique touch to achieve my voguish vision. It was Spring and the seasonal cottons were in abundance. We combed through the sundry bolts of fabric until we found the perfect motif. Navy blue background adorned with tiny hot pink flowers with little viny green stems. Just like in all the magazines. Perfect for my baby doll dress. Ma had this idea to add some pink cotton lace around the bottom edge of the bodice and tiny pink buttons as accents on the sleeves and neck front. A Navy zipper, thread and seam binding completed our purchase. I was beside myself with excitement and anticipation. Step aside Twiggy.
Although I was learning my way around the Kenmore by this point, making a baby doll dress was not in my wheel house. I had managed to avoid making anything that required zippers or button holes and wasn’t about to start with something of this magnitude. Ma would be flying solo as the seamstress on this project. And I trusted her unconditionally to do an impeccable job. And she did not disappoint. In addition to being a wizard on the Kenmore, she was a bit like an elf in her industriousness. I went to school in the morning and came home to find a brand new baby doll dress waiting for me. It was perfect. Beyond my wildest expectations. Better than the one Twiggy wore in the magazine. It fit perfectly. I felt fantabulous wearing it. I wore it to school with navy tights and navy Mary Jane shoes. It was the best outfit I ever wore. And in many ways, nothing has made me feel that good since.
The Old Man and Ma in the powder blue gown I made for her.
Over the years Ma made me many dresses. And I have made myself many as well, including my first wedding dress. I even made one for her. A soft powder blue floor length gown that she wore to some function with The Old Man. She looked beautiful. It was a labor of love. Payback for the baby doll dress and all the other marvelous clothes she so tirelessly made for me.
People who sew tend not to throw away fabric. It’s all so precious and dear. There are always scraps, bits and pieces left over from each project. Ma saved all these little bits from her sewing history. Then she gave them all to me.
Early in my first marriage, shortly after my oldest daughter was born, I began a project. It was ambitious, and as I look back on it now, I was probably suffering from post-baby hormones. The ones that make you do cuckoo things. What else could have made me embark on such an enormous undertaking? It was in this frame of mind that the crazy quilt began. It took about a year to hand embroider all the random pieces from a lifetime of sewing and stitching into a six foot by six foot masterpiece of psychedelic irregularity. Asymmetrical. Crooked. Uneven. The story of my life.
I used brightly colored cotton embroidery thread to hold all the individual pieces together. The delicate stitches were all the ones Ma taught me. Blanket, cross and chain. The occasional french knot just for fun.
As the crazy quilt grew bigger and bigger, it was like I could see my entire life unfurl before me. The bright pink checkered dance costume. The turquoise, teal and red baby wale corduroy jumper. The long multi-colored hippy peasant gown. The short lime green mini dress with the purple flowers. The white eyelet skirt. The embroidered dashiki top. The wedding dress. Assorted kitchen table cloths and placemat sets. They were all there. And when it was all done, I carefully spread it out on the bed I shared with my husband. It took my breath away. My heart and mind drifted back to that little room at the top of the stairs where Ma sat with her beautiful elegant piano fingers. Guiding the fabric along the steel plate of the blue Kenmore. Her foot steady on the speed pedal. The rhythm of the needle keeping pace. By day’s end a baby doll dress for her much loved daughter.
Ma’s Sunflower painting wide and open.
I love sunflowers. They are such a cheerful good natured flower. If they were people they would be the kind with the wide open faces and big toothy grins. You know the sort. The ones who always see the sunny side of things. The good. The optimistic. The hopeful.
Little back story: My love affair with this blithe bloom actually began as a seed. As much as I loved the flowers, it was nothing compared to my love for the seeds. Not the healthy versions that you buy in health food stores or in the bulk food section at the grocery store. I’m talking about the ones you buy in the chip aisle or at your neighborhood corner store, the depository for all things so good tasting yet so bad for you. I’m talking the super salty variety in their shell. The ones that you suck, crack open, chew, swallow, wash down with soda. One bag of Giants and your mouth is begging for mercy. This is my idea of the perfect sunflower seed.
One summer The Old Man and I planted sunflowers all around the perimeter of our back yard. They grew tall. And confident. And winsome. They were magnificent. I loved them. The Old Man Loved them. Ma loved them. The birds especially loved them. Everyone was happier that summer. Sunflowers have a knack for bringing out the best in all. Perhaps that explains their popularity.
Ma wasn’t a gardener. She left that to The Old Man and me. Ma was an artist. I didn’t really appreciate her artistic abilities until she turned sixty. Not that Ma suddenly became Picasso or even Grandma Moses on her sixtieth birthday, and then we all took note. It’s more that Ma’s creative talents weren’t so clearly defined, at least not to me. An “Artist” by my limited definition, was someone, most likely bohemian in nature, who had abstract paintings in uptown galleries, SoHo cafes, coffee table books or at the very least was someone like the quirky art teacher in my high school. Not my mother. But her domestic talent was always present, manifested in everything she touched. From the one-of-a-kind clothes she sewed for me to her scrumptious baking and homemade pasta and bread. Everything she made with her expressive hands was a work of art. A masterpiece.
At sixty Ma went back to high school. At night. To study art. Oil and charcoal. I can only imagine the bravery it took to embark on such an endeavor. What a personal challenge it must have been. But also what an adventure. What a magnificent obsession she must have had. I say this because she was so painfully shy and timid. Her voice, at times was barely audible. You had to really listen to Ma when she spoke or you would miss all the good stuff. The wisdom. The gems. The humor.
Off she went. Courage mustered. Heart full. Audacity emblazoned. Once a week she headed out to my old school where she studied fine art. Drawing and painting. Life and landscape. People and places. Her imagination was set free. She was firing on all cylinders and having the time of her life. She was in bliss. Cloud Nine. Heaven. And yes, it was oh so fine.
Ma’s life as an artist could have started much earlier than age sixty. Raising a family, time commitments, financial struggles, shyness and fear aside, there was something far more sinister holding Ma back. She told me a story once that both broke my heart and made me angry. When she was a young girl in grade school she drew a picture. I think it was of a cat. Proud of her drawing, she showed it to her teacher. Instead of praise and encouragement she was met with accusation and shame. The teacher accused her of tracing the cat, berated her, saying that she couldn’t possibly have drawn it so accurately without having cheated. Needless to say, this crushed Ma. Her spirit. Her talent. From that moment onward she kept her artistic dreams a secret. Locked away inside her precious little-girl heart for decades.
I have no idea what the catalyst was for her change of heart, for the unearthing of her secret desire. I don’t know what made her push the fear and shame aside in favor of following her dream. It seems that one day she just did it, as if out of the clear blue. She had a notion and acted on it. And I’m so glad she did.
Ma had many many joyful years of painting. In particular, she liked to paint flowers. I remember towards the end of her life, when she was in her late seventies, I asked her to paint me some sunflowers. By then, she had pretty much abandoned her easel, canvases and paints. She simply stopped. Almost as quickly as she started. For no apparent reason. Another notion perhaps. Again I had no understanding of why. It was all a mystery to me. The enigma of Ma. The request for the sunflower painting was my vain attempt to coax her back into doing the one thing in life that brought her such joy, that had nothing to do with raising kids or managing a home, taking care of The Old Man. It was just Ma’s. Uniquely hers. I also really wanted a painting of sunflowers for my living room wall. But she kept putting it off. Said she’d “get round to it one of these days.” Then I dropped the subject. She was getting old. Then she had the heart attack. And everything changed.
After Ma’s funeral, on a cold February night in a small town in Northwestern Ontario my siblings and I visited the home where we all grew up. This would be the last time I would ever step inside this place. It was cold outside but even colder inside. It struck me that without Ma, there was no warmth. This was now just a small wartime house in the west end of nowhere. I visited each room for one last time, collecting little mementoes and treasures that once belonged to Ma. My siblings did the same.
Upstairs in the room that was once occupied by my older brothers, then by me, and was one of the places where Ma liked to paint, I found the most resplendent keepsake of all. The sunflower painting. There it was. Waiting for me. Even after she had moved on, she was still giving me gifts. Suddenly the room grew warmer. My heart was light. My face open and wide. My grin big and toothy.
My Thing About God 