Friday, June 24th

Oh, Lola

You cried when I told you
that I can't make art for a while --
"Maybe when you're in high school,
I'll start again" --
which sent you running to the
big grey chair for comfort.
You balled yourself up and wept.

If only you knew
that it's better this way,
significantly, markedly, substantially
better.
You'll miss my art
("But I love your art so much!" you protest)
but I miss me when I paint.
I miss me as a forgiving, patient,
empathetic mom,
as a get-down-on-my-knees-and-
kiss-your-and-Lucy's-bodies,
arms, legs and elbows
because I must,
because I love.

Me as painter and mom
is an entirely different proposition,
one that I needed to explore one last time.
(Sort of like trying gluten again
only to be proved right in my conviction
that it dogs my digestion.)

When I try to mom and make art, too,
my fascinating, ebullient children
morph into obstacles and bothers,
things (things!) that stand in the way
of my creative work.
It's an astoundingly different dynamic,
not susceptible to nuance or even muscle.
It just is.

When I try to do both
I get through the day rather than live it
(let alone expand into it).
I work to clear time for art,
to escape into my own mind.
This is by its very nature an exclusionary exercise.

Lola, you love my art
and I do, too,
but I can't let you or your sister
into that domain,
not really.
It is mine alone.
But as your mom I want to share.
I want to invite you into my world,
to keep the door open
to life.

And so here I am,
redefining my world,
definitively shunting aside the art
in favor of apple pies
(I just found a recipe
for a potato one that I yearn to make)
and runny noses
and amateur vegetable gardens
and botched potty training
and barely tolerated play dates
and hugs oh those delicious long hugs
and who knows what
because that's the point.

Lola, you might think my world shrinks
when I don't make art.
But you're wrong.
You're with me
and there's nothing bigger than that.