Murky Waters. Today. Loss. Death. Strange quiet highways. Nap Time. Jack and Fiona will be up soon. House still quiet. Today is the anniversary of my mom’s death. Paintings Murky and dark. Mind murky and dark. News not good. It’s impossible to remove myself from politics and what’s happening in the world. I try to not get affected by it and think, “Maybe it’s going to be O.K.” But then I hear another piece of the puzzle. The picture on the puzzle says War. I hung out with some friends the other day, people I don’t know super well. I started picking up on some things so I asked them who they voted for. “Trump”, my legs get weak. I turn pale. So many thoughts are running through my head. They are nice people and they said they did it for fiscal reasons. They are two out of three people I know who voted for Trump. I’m stumped up on Trump. I think what’s going on in politics is frightening and extremely sad. Today I thought about a conversation I had with my friend’s Israeli mom, she told me Trump was her pick for US president. I asked her why, she said “He will protect Israel.” When I heard the news today about David Friedman becoming the US ambassador to Israel, I realized Palestine was the next Target. It’s sad. We are in a War, and America’s not the good guy. A lot of people around the world are dying and suffering because of us. Trumps agenda will have lots of collateral damage. He’ll align himself with the most powerful, most rich men of the world. They are power hungry, they do not care who they take down along the way. Guns and money always win.
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Walking down the trail this morning the wind starts to blow, the trees that still have leaves rustle, I hear a chime in the distance. I think of my mom, how she is part of everything, how she blows through me with the wind. I think of her laugh, her face, her skin, her voice. I don’t feel sad, I feel her presence in myself. I feel like she is here with me. She is part of me. Her birthday is Friday, December 16th and the anniversary of her death is on Tuesday the 20th. It’s been the hardest part of the year for me, the past seven years, mourning, trying to just get through the holidays. This year it’s different, I miss her every minute of every day, but I feel something new. I feel a new connection to my mom, a connection that transcends death, as if she’s been reborn into a new form. Reformed into the air I breath in and out. I have boxes of memories, trinkets and jewelry packed up after she died, I open the box and smell a bracelet, I can still smell my mom’s perfume on it. I close the box quickly, not to contaminate history, not to contaminate my present state of mind. It’s a connection to that time, the sadness I feel, the loss. A box of loss. It’s not a place to dwell, or hang out anymore. I honor her gifts she gave to me, who she was and how she influenced my life. My mom loved Christmas, she would have loved seeing Jack and Fiona decorating their tiny toddler tree, spending the holidays together. I miss her so much, she will be with me forever.
It’s a quiet Tuesday afternoon, babies sleeping, Billy sleeping, I hear her long body stretch out on the carpet. Pink Bear and Jacks giant stuffed dog toys sit here with me at the kitchen table. This morning Fiona came walking into the kitchen with Pink bear, dog, and all three of her tigers in her arms. The stuffed toys were bigger than her, her cheeks rosy, smiling. Jack grabbed his stuffed dog and gave it a big hug. They are filled with love. Jack gives the best spontaneous hugs. They are very sweet children. Aren’t they all though? Children are angels. It’s hard not to spoil them! I have chores to do, but don’t feel like doing them. My mind is fighting itself, “I should be productive while the babies are sleeping” it says, then it says, “Just relax and do nothing, read your book.” Then it says, “you’ll regret not going to your studio and working on naptime paintings and notebooks.” Then it says, “but it’s cold down there”. What wins? As I let out a big yawn. I want to take Pink bear and Dog to the couch and cuddle with them on the couch.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 