It’s interesting how time and place can bring up memories. I read once that the body remembers things; it internalizes things that stick deep inside. My daughter was born with hearing loss, and just after Jack and Fiona were born, I went to a family support group at Early Start, an early intervention program for parents of children who are deaf and hearing-impaired. I remember when I talked to the group at Early Start, I was very emotional. I stood up, bouncing Fiona; I was holding her in a blue baby wrap I wore, trying to get her to fall asleep, and Jack was asleep in a Pack n’ Play. I told the women in the group about everything; told them about Christopher, a baby I had when I was fifteen who died when he was only six months old, and my whole fertility story. I remember feeling so fragile and raw. I had never confronted those experiences of birth and babies. I internalized so much pain about my reproductive system; I remember thinking, when Jack and Fiona were a few months old, I had uterine cancer. I made the doctors run a bunch of tests. I thought for sure there must be something wrong with me. There must be a reason my body rejected a baby, wouldn’t get pregnant. I carried these feelings for so long. This year, as Jack and Fiona turn four years old, I feel whole again, not broken. It sounds like I’m saying having children has healed my wounds, but with time, I’m sure I would have healed through my art, even if I hadn’t had kids.
Month: February 2018
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I was staring at a painting in my studio, hung with six push pins. I hung the paper up today, painted it and collaged it. It’s a large piece of thick water color paper, 50” x 48”. I started it and finished in one day, which is impractical. It’s delicate paper, it’s large, where will I store it? If only I had another show lined up or someone to buy it? I need to start working smaller. I love working big, but I need to work small. I went on a walk today, up the trail, past blue bells and hedge parsley. Past the decaying tree stumps, getting smaller than they were last year. So many kinds of little green plants, clovers, grasses, dead leaves on the ground in ruby red and dark brown. The air was cold, my hands freezing. The sun was out, the sky so clear, I thought it would be warmer. It was my last day of having three-year-old children. My last day I could get away with calling them babies. I love Jack and Fiona so much, they have turned out to be good kids. It’s hard to believe when I reminisce of the past, of Jack and Fiona as infants, of life before they were born, my mind is filled now with beautiful memories. The sad memories of my most difficult times have diffused, leaving a stain, but not a strong stab to my heart. I have healed in the past four years. I have a collection of paintings that document feelings I’ve gone through. Lines and color, paper and canvas, lots of the work framed. My studio needs to be cleaned, to make space for my new collection, my new work, from the new me. Or the same me? The original, more confident, less broken me? I don’t know. I just know that this year I have changed.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 