Eighteen

April 14, 2016

Kansas City, Missouri

Dear Babette,

Our lilac bush is starting to bloom, what a lovely scent that dances on a warm spring breeze as you step onto the patio.  It's subtle now, but I'm paying attention.  If we ever find a decent and affordable set of patio furniture, I know where it will go, because coffee in the morning with a sweet serving of lilacs is a no-brainer.

Oh dear friend, it's currently 5:42 AM.  A time I generally wish to be doing nothing at all, except sleeping.  And yet, (I'm a big fan of the phrase, and yet, because it's so full of promise, so full of wait, wait, listen to this). And yet,  I had a dream in the early morning hours, I often do, but this one had me wandering to consciousness.  I could smell the coffee from the kitchen and knew there would be one extra cup not poured into his thermos.  He's spectacular like that, but I rarely get up early enough to enjoy it warm. Today, something was different and new. From under the blankets, disproportionately on my side (whatever); I thought, I could get up and write. Now, blankets and darkness and quiet are pretty convincing characters, but the next thing I knew, I was standing on my feet.  I poured that coffee and here I am.

This weekend, we packed in a picnic with friends and then dinner with others on the same day.  It was a bold extroverted move for us introverts, but life seems to go that if you don't take the opportunity you'd only see friends on the 7th Saturday of never, so when it all aligns and everyone is free on the same day, you fill the day right to the brim. (And then there's no need for conversation for a whole week).

There was lots of catching up to do and many questions about my latest creative projects, which were approximately, zero.  Many questions that received answers such as: I'm making nothing, well bread, I'm making lots of bread, but nothing else..  I sweetened the statement with excuses or reasons, but my honest translation would have been more like an angry growl, I'M NOT MAKING ANYTHING AT ALL. I'M NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT.   I imagine that would have scared away the few friends we do have here.  

During dinner that evening, the same conversation began, my same excuses or blah blah blah, stuck, stuck, stuck, but this time our friend wasn't interested.  He said, you know, people don't understand, but when artists are not making anything, it sometimes feels like what is the point? What am I even doing?   It's dramatic, but true.

I ended the weekend a bit frustrated, the kind that starts as a low growl.  

Last week, my son drew a picture of a sunset, and suggested that maybe I could paint my own beautiful, orange sunset. I uttered a shaky, laugh and said, maybe, I don't know.  He said, no you could! don't you want to paint again?  These people, they won't leave me alone.  They are not respecting my very serious state of being stuck. It's terribly rude.

There has been a general malaise in the air as of late, two creative souls, far from creating, full with the demands of life, crashing at the end of the day.  We talk about it like a plague, like those we don't speak of, he who shall not be named.  A low, growl rising.  

The story of an artist is like the tide, a rise, a fall, the fervor, the force, a lull, and begin again.  We face it differently and display it in endless ways.  I've been here before, so many times; the cycle is the same, the dry spell and frustration, but the breaking point has often been a single moment where the light catches just right or a beautiful, inspiring story. 

This instance is not one of those.  It's raw and fierce.

It's the desperate words of a prayer, awake my soul, oh God, awake my soul.  

I had this serene winter scene hanging in my bathroom for the longest time and this weekend I replaced it with one of my most random paintings.  It's a jagged, broken sunset, light breaking through fog and darkness. The canvas is covered with all the odds and ends I could find and then painted-- old watches, coins, keys, zipper pulls, this knotted-something-resembling a bird.  It's mad and brilliant.   I find myself staring at it as if I'm searching to see something that I haven't seen yet. What could the artist be saying here? And that low growl, it's getting louder.

Babette, you're so dear to come along this rabbit trail of a story, to endure the thoughts of an artist who is once again, trying to find her way.  I write all of this, every single word to say that yesterday morning, that low growl, was not so quiet anymore.  I woke up, made breakfast, drank coffee and it was ringing, shaking the walls of my soul.  It would not be ignored.  

It was something of a primal roar, on a Wednesday morning, in the kitchen of a little rectangle house, in a whole row of rectangle houses, on a sleepy little street.    Right there, I knew, I was done with it. 

Our lessons could wait just a while longer, this could not. I called upstairs, GIRLS, WE'RE PAINTING! And two little girls ran down the stairs squealing.  We made a great, big, holy mess, smearing paint around and reaching for all the light of heaven, summoning life back into dry, empty places.  At one point I looked up and saw my daughters standing on either side of the easel, encased in radiant light-- heaven reaching down to us.  

We went to the art store, to replenish my neglected supplies and my son was looking at the model cars for the longest time.  We should get one for dad, I bet he'd like to build a model.  Oh, this boy and his deep awareness.  He couldn't wait to hand it his dad when we got home.  When I finally could get a word in after the children ran off to play, I informed him that we were done being stuck and we making things again and if he needed to start somewhere, he could make this.

I suppose this story won't ever mean as much to you, but I have to write it, because the deepest, honest parts are so important.  Maybe it's not always beautiful with hazy, glowing light and snapshots of inspiration, but rather, fierce and gripping, a holy roar, a desperate cry to summon back to life the person who we know we are.

I have to finish now, because the day is waiting.  Send Bennett our love and send more of your cookies.

All my love,

Olivia