the prisons we make and live in

This piece, "Rapunzel", was made while watching a loved one struggle with some hard issues, trying to get free of them.

Full Circle

Last week, my friend Ginger called to offer me a job. Her mom, Florence, following a gradual descent into Alzheimer's and a subsequent stroke, was nearing the end of her life and needed around the clock care. She asked me if I could take the night shift, to give her live-in caregivers some rest. The first night as I entered her home, I heard voices singing in beautiful harmony from upstairs. For a minute, I thought we were too late and the angels had already arrived. But it was some of Florence's children, around her bed singing to her. Florence had loved to sing and play the piano, and shared her love of music with her family, and now they were singing to her, sure that she could hear them.


That first night, armed with a large Diet Coke, I was more than wide awake. As the hours ticked by, I listened to the variations in her breathing pattern, terrified that she would die on my watch. I faithfully administered her morphine drops according to the schedule and swabbed her mouth with a moist sponge every hour. In the long stretches between doses, remembering the week four years ago that I kept vigil beside my dad's hospital bed before he died, I felt all those emotions again, and noticed how much nicer it was to be in a home instead of a hospital.



The next night I returned to find many family members gathered to sing , to pray, to bless, to say goodbye. After all the rest had left, Ginger kissed her mother, pressed her face against her mom's cheek, told her how much she loved her and that she would be right there, then fell exhausted into the next bed. I had only kept watch for maybe half an hour longer when I heard the distinctive rattling breath. I called to Ginger, and we watched together a minute, till we were sure. It wasn't scary or tense, just sweet and peaceful and holy. We closed her eyes and while Ginger began her phone calls, I gently supported Florence's chin to close her mouth , amazed at her beautiful young-looking skin.



I never met Florence when she was conscious, but still loved her. It was such a gift to be there for the last two nights of her life, and to witness the love and tenderness with which her children cared for her, as she had once cared for them.

"for a woman of your age and size"...

Years ago (quite a few) when I lived in Tucson, I was at a doctor's appointment, having my blood pressure taken as part of the exam. I asked the young woman who took it if those numbers were good, or what. "Not bad," she replied, "for a woman of your age and size." The snot-nosed little wench! Now a couple of decades older and a couple of sizes larger, those issues are with me more than ever.

I remember when I was a teenager, hearing my dad and his sisters bemoan the insults of middle age. I felt mildly sorry for them at the time, then with a toss of my shining acres of hair, forgot all about them and ran lightly off on long, tan legs. I had places to go, life-ruining choices to make.

But now, I so get it! Vision, for example. I got contacts at age fourteen and wore them for forty years. (Well, not continuously..I took them out at night). I wore them through camping trips, through dust storms, through all manner of agonizing, eye-watering situations, all in the cause of Looking Good. Then, it got to be such a hassle, finding reading glasses every five minutes, even though I had eight or ten pairs all over the house. It got to where I needed to put on the reading glasses to see my plate clearly, then take them off to look up at my lunch companion. I checked into Lasik and decided against it because I was unwilling to give up my very close vision. So at 55, I just gave up and started wearing bifocals full time. Just one more in a long line of little capitulations.
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What has this to do with art?" you may ask. "It smacks a little of the gut-spilling you claim to abhor." Well, here's what. It's that my clay women tend to have smooth, wrinkle-free skin, full, pouty lips, firm jawlines, and eyes that gaze pensively inward, unaided by corrrective lenses. Maybe it's part nostalgic memory. (Ah, Memory! There's fodder for another post some day!) Maybe it's sort of an attempted self-portrait of my soul, without the distraction of how I actually look now. Maybe it's just the only way I know how to do it, or the fact that I can make the clay look more or less how I want it to, which I can't do with my body.


Carried in Memory
Queen of Coins
Summertime

Don't get me wrong. I see beauty in people of all ages, sizes and descriptions. I just get the feeling that there will continue to be many emotional adjustments to changing physical realities. I visited my 89-year old Aunt Dene yesterday. She is limited by health issues, and told us she "hates being like this." But her white hair was such a beautiful color, and so soft around her face. Her skin was still lovely, and her hands, long and delicate, were beautiful. (I remember thinking she hadn't spent a lot of time with them in clay and plaster and cleaning Bondo off them with harsh solvents). She had lost some of her famous fiestiness, but was softer, gentler, more appreciative. I felt closer to her in some ways than ever before, and found her beautiful.



Why is it so much harder to see one's own beauty, I wonder?

Getting started (with many disclaimers)

My friend Sharon is encouraging me to start a blog, and has helped me get this far in setting it up. I don't think I am really a very good prospective blogger, as I am horrified at the thought of really spilling my guts to the world at large. But, I think I will try it as a way of sharing my art.

If I follow my goals, I should be spending most of my time in my studio working, rather than on the computer. (When I'm not out exercising diligently, choosing healthy foods, and promoting world peace, that is). But it's always good to have one more means of avoidance. So you guys (whoever "you guys" are ) can look on here if you want, but just don't get your hopes up. I do not promise to write very often or very well. We'll see.