artistmother
So while keeping things tidy—both in my physical studio and in my schedule—may feel satisfying in one way, I need to leave things a bit messy. Since every artist’s process and working style will be different, an artist should keep their studio at just the right level of tidy AND messy in order to create their best work.
Read MoreAnd that's hard. It's hard, because I want to feel so badly that I truly am making my work a priority without letting things fall off the domestic sphere or pushing my children away. And then it's gut-wrenching, because I truly want to do right by my children and family without letting a client down or missing a deadline.
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With a baby in arms, you often have to do things with just one hand.
It's tricky. It's a new skill to learn. It's a new rhythm of thinking and being.
And one hand doesn't mean you're putting in less work.
One hand, whole heart.
One hand, whole mind.
One hand, whole self.
My youngest has grown beyond the one-handed mothering phase, but the echo of that season carries far into the now. I'm always reminding myself that my motherhood is an integrated part of my being. It neither diminishes nor enhances. It just is, like the flavor of a soup, or the texture of a fabric.
One hand, whole self.
I pull the minivan up to the garage door, inching closer and closer until the headlights reflect back, burning into my retinas. Turning the key, all goes black. My neck and shoulders tense as I prepare to step into the cold. I fully intend to rush into my warm house as quickly as my feet can carry me.
Yet when I clamor down from my driver's perch and slam the door, I pause to look up, letting the fingers of the chill creep up my wrists and around my ankles.
About this time (when I usually come home to rest) I can see hundreds of stars on a clear evening. And this time of year, Orion shines down just above the trees in perfect view, as though he ran to greet me by the side of my car.
My heartbeat slows. A wisp of fog drifts slowly out of my mouth. I shiver.
As I inhale, my shoulders fall. More fog. More starlight. More wonder.
I hear my own footsteps, and warmth and incandescent light wash over me. I'm home.
When observing my children, I notice (with jealousy) how little they think before they pick up their tools. They listen to their impulse to create, and do not stifle it. They use it as a language, as a way to process and share their lives. It's a beautiful thing to watch.
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