We did venture outside today, but not for too long. The blowing snow was intense and Treva started to cry right away.
Self-improvement, ha ha. Not really at all, actually. Just making space for the elements I need in my life, in order to stay sane. I have been thinking so much about women, lately, and how the fundamental question of our time–maybe every time–is how to negotiate selfhood and identity. It is a weird dance. To live in a place with so much potential, and so much pain. I had the crushing realization a few days ago that I have brought a daughter into a world in which women are still discriminated against and destroyed because of their sex, daily. All wisdom and personal experience seem to point the paradox of finding self and space through surrender to the particularities and beauties of the present moment.
It is a similar paradox that for so many women and mothers, carving a sacred space for one’s own rituals of creation can (and does, I believe), grow our ability to care for our families more calmly, incisively, decisively.
In a way, I have noticed that having space in the early mornings allows me to schedule my meltdowns, in a way. Meltdown as religious and creative practice, rather than as response.
For me and for the kids, making art is fairly necessary. When things get to be too much, simply getting out the paper and crayons shifts the focus to creation [rather than destruction]. It can sometimes be hard for me to muster the energy for full-out messy projects, but we all love to paint with hard watercolour discs, and cleanup is minimal. And often in the evenings after the kids are asleep, Lee and I will draw or make ink paintings at the dining room table.
We have been making lots of gifts for our loved ones.
And I have been dreaming of spring a little bit. Dangerous, I know.