Flowers. While on a call a couple of days ago I doodled spirals. Nothing so new. But, then flowers. The kind I had never doodled before. I was struck by it. They felt light and hopeful.
I made Play-doe from scratch today. I missed creating. I needed it. Memories of working with porcelain. How eager I was to touch it and bring it to life beneath my hands to it’s outer edges of ability. Porcelain was my life saver as my mother slipped into dementia under my care. A slide toward death that took years of her life. Years of my life. And our life together. I never cared about glazing and firing. Just give me that porcelain again and again under the cells of my hand and through my fingers. I crave it. Let me stay here.
And now, running my nails through the irritating muddy mess of play-doe that has too much rock salt. or too little table salt. Never enough. Never perfect. I work for too long pulling it apart not wanting any part of it to be smooth but achingly imperfect. Raw as if pulled apart at the seems. Taking photos at different angles and cursing myself for the muddy mess that was my phone. Noticing a bunny jumping for joy in a framed picture on the wall. Always seeing the rabbit bouncing away, but in this moment I witness him moving toward me. Remembering my mother giving me that wee painting. She loved me. My God I miss her. Turning the clay over and over and asking it to bring it’s fierce dark edges out. The roughness of imperfection.
Round and round. More turns, more falling apart and at once two petals of a flower emerge as if out of the dark. I stop. I didn’t mean for that or even want it. I want raw. I want anger. I want tears. But, they beckon. And, so I carefully dip my fingers in cool water and go hunting for the flower in the jagged misery. Where did she come from. I do not know.
