I notice tiny little leaves at the end of each branch on our fig tree. They look like green origami ready to move in slow motion and take a new shape. I tell my husband I can’t believe winter is over, it seems like it never got cold, that the yard was never barren this past winter. Green covered the ground all year long. Fiona picks a tiny yellow daisy flower, she passes the tiny red flowers that grow up the side of the retaining wall. The ratio between the flowers growing and the length of Fiona’s legs are markers of time. I remember when I planted those wildflowers, spreading the seeds, so excited for them to grow. I remember the years I waited, the flowers didn’t grow right away. I would buy more seeds each year to plant hoping they would finally grow. I read once that wildflowers can stay dormant, for years sometimes, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t one day grow. I imagined my yard covered in wildflowers, but I never imagined my little girl, my daughter in her pink one-piece unicorn tutu, the outfit she wears everyday if it’s not in the washing machine. I watch my daughter, picking wildflowers I planted years before she was born. Little strings hang down from her sleeves and the tutu on the skirt is shrunk up. It’s not as long and flowy as the day I bought it for her. Spring, moving away from the gloominess of winter, days get longer and brighter, except on rainy days. Memories of tragedy that get stirred up in late December start to fade back again, making room for joy and happiness.
-
I wrote a chapter today for my new novel. When I went back and re-read it I started crying, it is a sad, tragic story, about when I got pregnant at fifteen years old. I’ve been writing and re-writing this story for years. I had to question why am I writing this story? Why am I writing at all, going through the same questions I’ve asked previously about my painting practice. It’s a dumb question, really, it’s what I do. I write and paint. When I first started writing it was for the school newspaper in High School. I wanted to be a feature writer, I wanted to interview people. I remember my first interview was at the mall. I interviewed a security guard in a department store. I don’t know what made me choose that subject. I used to love writing interview questions and thinking of all the people I wanted to interview. For the novel I’m working on now I’m interviewing myself. I’m asking myself questions about things that happened in my past, trying to remember. Lots of things are still buried deep inside me. I can’t remember feelings I had during my most tragic experiences. Occasionally, something will surface, then I remember a few more key facts, like a detective solving a mystery.
I realized today, through my mining for information I have lived double lives twice in my life, once at the very beginning of my fertile years and once at the very end. Both times I was filled with shame, I had to keep painful secrets, and my life was de-railed. It all stems around fertility, around only being able to talk about things that are normal or common having to do with my reproductive system, my sexuality. Because the things I went through are shocking and uncommon. I’ve been painting about these things, ghostly figures come out. I am going to start stitching and printing on silk.
After writing and painting like I have the past two days I always feel so tired. I need to take a couple days off, but I know it will be hard with the writing. I’m in the thick of it, the structure is starting to come to me. If I had complete freedom and didn’t have kids or responsibilities I could get lost right now in my work. Maybe it’s good I have these restraints. To make me step away and be present.
-
Little Pink Pigs
Lettuce pinned under my left arm, tongs stir bacon with my right. Grease fills the pan, bacon shrivels up. Jack and Fiona keep asking, “where’s my dinner?”. I bring out broccoli, beats, onions, sautéed asparagus. A bowl of lettuce. The bacon goes first, Jack and Alan eat most of it. Fiona only takes a couple bites. They eat the sautéed broccoli but won’t taste the asparagus or beets. The next night I make asparagus and broccoli soup, my kids won’t taste it, even though they love broccoli. I decided Last Wednesday to become a Vegan again. I explained it to the babies, I told them I was eating vegetables, fruits, and grains, and that I wasn’t going to eat animals anymore. It didn’t seem like they understood. I focused on the health aspect of eating a vegan diet. I said it’s the healthiest way to eat. My husband does eat meat, he loves meat. He was also brought up Catholic. I get nervous to talk about my belief in God the same way I feel nervous to talk about vegetarianism or veganism. Animal rights, animals as sentient beings, that bacon is a pig, one of those cute little pink pigs in your story books. God and Animal Welfare are such sensitive topics. I am nervous about talking to my children about these topics. I don’t believe in God and I believe animals are sentient beings. I would love my children to follow my footsteps. But I also don’t want to influence them or make them believe what I believe. They can make their own choice.
I wonder why I feel like I can’t be free to talk about my own beliefs? I have always felt uncomfortable telling people I don’t believe in God, they always seem shocked. Now that I have kids I feel they are judging me, “how can you raise your kids without a belief in something?” They say. But I do believe in something, that we’re here and then we’re not. We can leave behind our words, our art, our buildings we build, but we turn back into earth when we die. Why is one belief system more valued than another? Why is any religious belief better than being an atheist? But I’m not going to tell my kids, “You’re an atheist” because I do believe when they get old enough they can decide if they believe in God or not. That’s how I grew up. I visited all kind of churches and learned about religions, and ended up an atheist, vegan(ish) person.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 