Oh, Mom

What is art but a medium for change—in perception, in thought, in direction of life patterns? New footholds in all levels of consciousness may be the experience for both the artist and viewer or audience. Visual, performing, or literary arts—even new avenues in engineering or reaching beyond previous limits of the body’s performance—all have the capacity to expand the heart of the human race. Water finds its own level. So does each Soul.

"I used to wish I had the time to write," she says. "Now I have the time, but where’s the inspiration?"

I tell her, Just write of anything—in sight, in mind, or what you hear right now in the moment.

"But how?"

Oh, Mom. When I didn’t understand your words, your voice spoke to me of love. Your hand, your kiss, your hug, your breast. Each was a word, a phrase, a volume of much needed succor. I learned at your knee.

Now you tell me, there is no inspiration.

Remember me. Recall each of us. As we remember you. In joys, in sorrows, in chores. The holidays, the garden, the car on the way to church. All are frames for the picture in words. Paint us like we were. You know us well. You brought us from womb, across your knee, to where we are today. You gave us crayons then. Where is your pen?

Remember the porch in summer, where the wringer washer churned. And butter from the cream that rose off the milk of our one cow that only dad could handle. I fed it hay thrown from the loft of the barn. And you held its calf, after the fact of the vet with his rubber gloves. Cost us some bucks, 'cause we had no bull.

There are thousands of rocks in the driveway between the barn and the house. And a thousand stories between then and now in you. Write what you recall, and make up what you don’t. It’s all in the picture of words. You can bring me up again.