The space in between. In between two paper turkeys that hang on the wall from over a year ago. Above the kitchen table, many meals shared. The crows cawing loud today. What are you cawing about crow? September heat rot summer figs. Dried dark purple corpses, tears down the middle, reminiscence of pink and yellow juicy insides. The leaves on the fig tree so large now, they canopy the sand box, crisp dried fig leaves crunch under my feet. I walk to my green chair I put in the corner at the beginning of summer. I sit down, it’s cool here, the coolest place around. I wonder if I should put away the trucks for the winter? Will they deteriorate if I leave them out in the rain and wind? Should I put up new paper turkeys? These are baby paper turkeys, just dollops of paint, glue, brown and orange construction paper, and googly eyes. Jack and Fiona are three and a half now. Their Thanksgiving decorations this year will be more sophisticated. A few little baby paintings are still taped on the wall. Fiona is drawing “The Green Faced Man” now. Jack rode a scooter down the sidewalk this morning to school and stopped at all the driveways. Time that passes between is a growing time, a learning time. It’s hard to let it go, of the past three years, the baby phase. It slipped through my hands like sand in the sand box. The narrative was set, predetermined. The baby is born dependent on the caregivers, the child learns to be interdependent and become caregivers themselves. I never think about the time they spend away, in their communities without me. I think of them as they are with me. Fiona started helping a younger child we were with yesterday in a very mature way. I can only imagine she is a caring person on the outside. Jack likes talking to everyone. He looks older than he is and speaks clearly. He looks at people’s eyes when having a conversation. What’s happened in between the spaces here- two babies have grown into confident, individual children. Maybe it’s time for new paper turkeys.
Category: One world
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Afternoon. Monday the 30th of December. Studio. Painting. Just wrote a piece about how I’m “Feeling”, politically. Can’t publish it. I’m scared. Scared of a police state. Loop in my mind. Back to the same thing here, again. Nothing we can do to stop them. Except something I’m afraid to write publicly. I don’t feel safe anymore. My computer doesn’t feel safe. Maybe it’s best if I don’t write anything about politics. Every time I think about what’s happening now in our government I start thinking the worst. I don’t feel like the politicians we have on our side are tough enough to stand up to the Trumps and Bannons of the world. I need to stop thinking. Breath. Worked in my studio today. Made some nice marks, once I let go of my literal mind. I can only do that. Make art and let go of my literal mind. I am completely totally open. Even in my pessimism I am a walking talking fully engaged smiling person. I love people. Sometimes I hate people too, but mostly my heart is filled with love.
Saturday, we went to Limatour Beach. The weather was perfect, sunny, fine sand. Jack and Fiona ran their hands through the sand and watched it fall to the ground. My husband, brother, and I drank wine and ate roast beef sandwiches. I felt like I needed to celebrate the last days of life as I’ve known it. I felt things shifting, my brother told me not to worry, that the courts can prevent a lot of what Trump is doing. It was a great day at the beach, and every day is a great day for me. I work in my studio, I write, I take care of my family and my dog, and I enjoy life. I’m one of the lucky ones.
I have one hour left. I feel the toll the stress I’ve gone through over what’s happening has taken on me. My back is tight and I’m tired. I got in trouble by my friends on Facebook this morning for sounding pessimistic about our resistance against the Trump presidency. I apologized, I don’t want to sound discouraging. I feel right now that my body and mind are fried. I am frightened about the fate of our world. I am disturbed about what’s going on. I say I shouldn’t write about politics anymore and here I am again. Maybe I’m panicking?
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 