“Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow.”
He doesn’t always want his picture taken.
I have to sneak more these days. Pull my phone from my pocket and hold my breath until he turns, catching me with his open tooth smile.
And all I see is beauty. The perfect shade of winter rose on his 8 year old cheeks. And I want to tell him, “You are a piece of art.”
Do you know how beautiful you are?
With your cracks and your textures and your sweet soft strokes and hard thrown growth. You.
You are a piece of art.
And I think of the mamas with their hands soothing, stirring words over boiling water, tying knots over warm chocolate, steaming. Hands deep in dough, kneading tender hearts. White canvas wonder spread out over clean counters.
Her nuance, her flair, her marshmallow finale. Curtains drawn. Bow taken.
There is the impulse to make something, to bring it to life, to see its little heart beat for the first time. You are the maker of things, the cutters, the knitters, the bakers, the spreaders, the cleaners, the healers, the soothers, the wishers.
You are an Artist mama.
And all of the dreams you’ve dragged around like muddy footprints on hardwood floors, written word by lamplight, folded laundry plotlines, the nursing eyes closed over paint still wet.
Journals full, spilling over onto tables, car seats, beverage holders littered with pens and caps still missing, gum wrappers neatly smoothed into balls perfectly sized for ten year old hands.
And your hands documenting each moment in photo and deep amazement, honor spread across instagram feeds. Moments revered, secured in time.
This daily oil and pastel life.
Move quick, Artist mama, your heart is beating fast, ball of yarn hopes caught on running feet, sometimes lonely, hands caught between yarn and needle, eyes torn between a mounting pile of uniforms turned inside out and the deep forest path leading you into the place of daydream.
And the sketch, the one with the coffee ring corners, will turn into written word, painted hills, stitched castles, the framed black and white escape back into his small eyes.
Lift the sail, mama.
And this lake, with her waters frozen in time. I wonder if she still feels her power underneath, stirring. Waiting for the day the sun will melt her into soft puddles of carved diamond light.
Because sometimes it means standing at the edge, Artist mama, peering over gates still closed, painting doors open, stitching paths through the solid ground.
Camera tucked inside diaper bags, plastic baggy lens caps. And the eyes that catch the morning light silhouette, running for open doors while the angels rest their wings.
Because there is no catching up, no slowing down, just the kaleidoscope swirl of day and night, sweet smiles stretched like stars pulled from the sky, changing with each turn of the handle.
And some days it will feel like spilled paint, the cardboard box dinners and waitlisted creations.
You, Artist mama, finding beauty in the soiled war torn moments of raising little people, sketching laughter over broken glass fear, seeing the world in its simplest and most deep form, the art hung inside museum wall hearts.
And there are the eyes that may never see the rich pigment of love spread over a diagonal cut cantaloupe or the sweet scallop crust or the words you breathe onto computer screens read only by you.
But I hear you. I see you.
Your words, your smoky lens light, your spring garden heart, greenhouses full with memory and black photo holders, seeds in hand.
You are an Artist. You are a mother.
And it is this mother inside you, crafting, creating a world more beautiful than before. A place you can set your children free, running between the turned pot perennials and your blueberry inked hands.
And you will never be defined by approval, but by the wonder, the awe of small eyes turned up, as they find your Artist mama heart. Alive in them.
And sometimes something lives inside you so long, you forgot to let go.
And the pull, the sometimes haunting dreams blooming late into the night as you sweep away a risen nightmare, legs curled around tiny toes, deep breath sleep, sweet dreams rising like clouds against the nursery blue ceiling, a color cataloged in the steep cliff files of ideas and pallets hanging inside your heart.
Rest, Artist mama.
There is time.
And the pen on paper, collecting the last dew drops of a written storm. Author. Writer. Singer. Riser. I send you my love. Press on. Collect. Forge. Stir. Piece together your life, these characters, your breath.
The stroke of paint between fallen spoons, the coffee deemed warm enough.
The lines read and memorized, the string of song softly pulled behind shower curtains, each note a sail pulling your vessel heart through the clear sea of possibility.
And the ball of yarn tossed behind sofas, caught on wee toes, the sewing machine stammer between arguments fallen from the edge of niceties, petals pressed by the sweet toes of curiosity. The pull of thread, the scraps saved in boxes and tubs and bowls once measured. The paint smeared, the skin caught under brush, washed, tainted, stained with attempt.
Don’t give up.
And the gray cloud of guilt for a door closed too long, savoring each new stitch, new word, new color weaved, landscape spread across blue skies, clay pressed into vessels that will hold petals cupped in small hands.
Stay. Just one more minute, Artist mama. Just one.
Chest heaving. Milk rushing.
Into the place broken open, every part of yourself cracked, where the fear shakes in the wake of a path built from hope filled leaps.
In the broken open, where you pour yourself out, leaving bits of yourself, clutched in confetti hold, thrown in each moment of unconditional love.
And the sunset still, the cilantro cut, carrots shaved and neatly stacked, the icing smoothed over a canvas of flour made fine. The smiling faces with cheeks of plum purred to perfection.
There is the dream.
The one not just for you, but for the eyes that watch your hands turn whipped cream into clouds, painting blue skies around their sadness, silver moons shining light into dark corner nightmares.
You are mothers.
Full time dreamers, part time eyelash blowers, tying each wish to the eyes of your children, open, staring back into these mother hearts.
And I thought I didn’t know. I thought I’d never find the answer. This thing of how to be an artist, a map maker to uncharted lands and still be their mama.
And then I found his eyes looking up at me, staring back into midnight’s deep lake.
Will you draw me a picture?
The one with me fighting the monster?
The one with the magical sword.
Can you draw it mama?
I will paint you the world.
And there in your mama arms, heavy with exhaustion, lit with some kind of forever love, a canvas, covered in small fingers pressed and pulled, hands deep in spring’s moppy soil, small boots pushed against doors left ajar.
Your most beautiful masterpiece.
Drop your sails, mama.