To The Artist For Mother's Day

There are moments of anguish that come and that I sense so deeply that they leave me feeling, in every fibre of my being, that I wont make it through the day.

This all encompassing oppression comes in a wave unseen, unheard and devastatingly accurate every time. It knows exactly where I am at every minute of every day and it hits with with a quality that seems akin to vengeance.

It feels violent and angry with me.

Do all women feel it?

It comes when I have dishes to do and laundry piling up. No one here laughing with me. No one here asking for me. No muses.

It comes as the vacuum gets pulled out, every two days. It comes when I am choking on the dust in the air. It comes with the floor mopping and dish stacking. Spring cleaning is a deadly time. 

It comes with room re-arranging, ( for the 50th or 51st time in 25 years ) no one really cares about. It comes with the re design of the dining room table no one really looks at or even cares to sit around any more.

It comes with the constant bending over and picking up everyone else's belongs..the things they cant lose, need and must have.

It is so insidious as to have snuck into the garden while I am there.

Now it comes when I rake the leaves in the spring, when I carefully plan out the flowers and ‘pretties’ for the deck, the pool area, the cute little bar table and chairs.

It comes even tho I loath its presence. Who would go somewhere knowing they are loathed, I ask you??

The muses, they played with me. We sang all the time. We danced every day. I painted pictures for our house when we couldn't afford the store versions. I made the muses birthday shirts, and great parties. Held social gatherings, hosted weekly play dates, ran them to and fro and cheered!!!! Oh brother…I cheered and cheered…in my sleep I cheered them on…all of them, hubby too. I cheered my little heart away it seems.

I play the piano a little. I play the harp , a little. I play the guitar, I sing. I carve. I ride a motorcycle. I am a Reiki Master, a reflexologist, a budding writer, and I hope, very soon now, a budding painter…a wise woman at times. I feel the presence of Angels and Ascended Masters, Spiritual Guides, Ancient Ones, and I live with my heart wide open to the True Creator of this, my Life. 

I see my mother now. There she is before me. Fabulous singer, excellent piano player, baker of the most marvelous pastry.. a painter of portraits. A lover of all beauty. Of colors. Of textures. Of smells and feelings. An Empath and seer. Healer, friend to the elderly, caregiver. A woman terrified to own her gifts for fear of rejection on many levels.

She desperately wanted to let go and abandon herself to the creative process driving her. I understand that so clearly now. To live it out, listening intently to the voice that was for her only. To live outside of the constant judgment. To live outside of the expectations to conform, outside the four walls of a very plain and unadorned box. (Well, except for what she could adorn it with in her desperation ) 

She wanted to live HER life FIRST. Not waiting for the others, not beholden to the money maker, not waiting for acknowledgement or approval… not thought to be broken when grieving the absence of many of her own ( would have been ) stellar choices, accomplishments, unsung songs, unpainted and yet exquisite pieces of her art. Not sitting in silence in front of the television thirsting for a life every night.

She made it through every day for 90 years. But she had shut down way before that. Shut every door to the Creators expansive world except inner dialogue; prayer with Divine One. A constant effort to remain in that space of beauty took every ounce of her effort for her last 15 years.

There is something in an artist's soul. Deep and mighty, dark and so powerful. It must be present to be an artist of depth, a being of vivd colors, exciting textures, overwhelming smells, heart breaking stories. A Soul of life altering visions and mysterious wisdoms. A depth so vast and so energetic that with one touch she can heal or destroy. One word slashes or rebuilds. This, this is an artist’s existence. This is all we have ever known. This is what we long to abandon ourselves to. This is ecstasy. All of it. All of it. All of it. 

Sigh

You may never understand me…but today in that wave of energy that moves me ever forward, angry and taking me to task that I would ever want or entertain the idea of remaining still...

today I am free from that …

as I re connect in an amazing moment of understanding…

to
my
Mother.

Happy Mothers Day, Dorothy L. ( Skelton ) Schmidt, I think I am finally getting to know you.