On Tuesday we hosted the ALS Association Bay Area Chapter fund raising luncheon.  This event sort of snuck up on our little household.  We only collectively realized this was actually happening a week before.  The fairy garden was awash in dry Bishop’s Lace and the “lawn” was a bit frayed around the edges.  The party was a good excuse for us to overhaul the untended spots.  Mattie forked up the dough, and we bedecked the fairy garden in brand new perennials; Chocolate Cosmos, Dianthus and Coreopsis,  to name a few.  Even the abandoned succulent garden got a face lift.

I thought before hand that I would be fine with this event.  Seth unearthed his hoard, and bedecked the garden in fairy stones.  He wore his shirt that I painted with Grandma Belle when I was six.  We both gave our little speech about how mom was an artist, and her legacy lives on in us.  However, when it was time to leave for the park I felt relieved.

I don’t seem to relate my mother’s ALS experience and death with her.  I remember and cherish all my memories of her, but when forced to confront ALS I skirt the issue.  I can’t even get my brain to concentrate on it.  When you tell people that you mother died of ALS, you might as well have turned a search light on a deer.  ALS is currently an incurable disease with only one outcome.  As humans we survive by not dwelling on the unpleasant and unfixable.  It is easy to be a cheerleader for cancer because lots of people survive it.  No one survives ALS.  That said, I really admire the staff of the ALS Association.  I think they have one of the hardest jobs/life experiences, yet they were all so confident and professional.

Although the event was filled with faces and people, I couldn’t help but notice the empty chairs.  Every time I noticed an empty chair I envisioned my mother sitting in it.  I saw her reading, cutting with scissors, dialing a telephone.  I saw her doing all the subtle quiet activities that make up most of our lives.  The nature of ALS is subtle.  Although each transitional stage of ALS has it’s drama, the disease forces subtlety on everyone.  Days become slow and quiet, and those giving care are forced to listen more closely for the slightest movement that signals a need of their loved one.

Our garden rejuvenation, although cheery reminded me nothing of ALS.  I left feeling that our efforts had no connection to the event.  I have no regrets, I’m sure that everyone thought it looked lovely.  However, next year I will have a much better idea of how to reconnect with my experience of ALS.

I’m turning 37 tomorrow and I’ve decided to sit down with the charcoal and see where I am at.  It will be good to return to the basics and see what I discover.  I’ve been pondering self portraits for the last few weeks.  For me it is easy to see myself in natural objects.  I am famous for carting around  bits of nature from home to home becasue I have extended self attachment to them.   Of course it is always easier to get lost in Seth’s art, or Seth himself.  Afterall, he is a reflection of me mixed up with reflections of the world around us – a joyful indulgence.  It only recently occured to me to take my own photo.  I was putting the camera away and walked past the mirror, no premeditation, just a pause infront of myself.

Welcome to the family Violet.  It strikes me as interesting that this is the card Seth made for Judy and Violet.  It’s such a powerful image with all the energy of birth and not so subtle purple overtones.  I wish I had photos of the onsies that Seth painted for Violet.  He went big on the purple and red.  He pounded the purple laden brush on the white cotton loudly announcing, “Celery will like this”!

My feelings towards her are equally visceral, but perhaps more complete.  This is a girl who will grow to be a woman that I will engage with for my entire life.  Here I am holding a child that I already adore and she has done nothing but be born.  Here I am holding Violet, my niece that I already dote on.  I am all set to watch her, to learn her ways, to experience her view of the world.  The love of kin is inexplicable.  The joy of holding the “new blood” of family is uparalleled.  Violet may be the only female child in this next generation.  Good thing she has a powerful spirit.

Blessings!

ADDENDUM

It’s raining today, but on Tuesday it was sunny.  We hitched a ride with Martina and hit Natural Bridges running.  When it’s 75 degrees on the beach in January it’s hard not to take advantage of the unexpected weather and play hard!  The jist of the day looked something like this.

The children came and went, but Teacher Laura held strong at the edge of the surf.  Every time children switched in and out of the chain the dynamic changed.  I was particularly fond of this moment because it showcases Seamus in his shining role, as mayor of the 3/4s class.  Seamus is a natural at facilitating social interaction.  His grandfather like charm combined with his bemusing stories make him a lovable leader.  Everyone is at home around Seamus.

Teacher Laura has a knack for getting right in there and playing with the kids.  This is helpful, because it gives me a chance to disengage and observe from a distance.  So often I am in the thick of it with Seth, asking questions, answering questions.  Instead I got to wander around with a camera and a clear head.  I guess I should have paid more attention to the incredibly sweet collaboration in front of me…

But instead I kept looking at this…

Lily.  Lily in her own world.  Occasionally she stopped to look at the action, but the frolic was not for her.  Lily is an artist at work.  She tries to engage, but often it seems that the very act of joining the other kids is too much for her artistic temperment and she cries out in dismay.  I get the feeling that Lily sees things I don’t see.  Maybe see’s a world I used to see when my life was ruled by imagination.

I want to join her in play.  I envy her contentedness there on her own.  Often times I find myself on the fringe of “real life” in my own artistic world.  Given a moment alone I revert to my inner Lily, and I too get grumpy when society demands that I disengage.  I try to tempt her with a bumble bee that I found in the wet sand.  I find that bugs are about the only thing that Lily will stop what she is doing to look at.

Not today.  I will have to be content outside her shell for now.  Perhaps someday she will let me in.  Maybe when she is older and makes artists books with enigmatic metal medallions.  Maybe later when she…I love to speculate about the future paths and careers of the kids.  It’s in my nature, my imagination is not all gone, just channeled.  I often catch an essence and can’t let it go.  I am compelled to spin the yarn, even if it is my own private projection.  You can take the Barbies out of my grasp, but you can’t take their stories out of my psyche.

Another “own world” one is Charlie.  Charlie is self propelling.  His own drum is so loud that he can’t really hear you, so don’t take it personally if he does not even register your existence.  I came across him burying his nose in sand.  He seemed to find it funny, although no one was there to watch.  It’s nice when children find humor all on their own.  Self entertainment is a good trait, and key to self preservation.

I love this shot.  I don’t care how cool you are Charlie will win you over with his completely unpremeditated antics and clear soul.  Charlie is what adult comedians strive to be, a straight shot to the funny bone, it’s in his marrow.

Well, back to the rain.

Love + Mommy Alis

At a recent circle meeting “Austen’s Mom” was asking questions and sharing some second-hand advice. She sat with calves crossed, Mountain School binder open on her lap. She was dwarfed in an oversized chair, like Lily Tomlin in that 70’s comedy sketch. I listened, longingly from my own comfortable spot. Safe at home, sandwiched between a sleepy carpool partner and a new friend on the cozy sofa. Ashleigh was describing how she had asked her own mother, a former mountain school parent about how to observe Austen. Her mother’s advice was to pretend she was looking into a fish bowl. I thought this was such a great metaphor, and I relished Ashleigh’s contribution to our conversation dearly.

Listening to people convey advice from their mothers tugs at my heartstrings because it is a dialog that I crave. My own mother is long deceased. I’ve learned over the years to take mothering where I can get it, but still there is always something in my life that is missing. Like anyone my recollections of early childhood are dim. It was a time when my mother did the lion’s share of the parenting. My mother was not a “talker” and she died long before I was even thinking about becoming a mother, so I never asked what it was like for her with little kids. I have tried over the years to ask friends and relatives for recollections to piece together a better understanding. But in the end, I am left with not much to go on, and a vague point of reference.

As life would have it, I’ve been left to carve out my own path of maternal wisdom. So far this has proved intuitive, but not easy. One of the techniques I have found to be most useful is to write. Every time I sit down to write about my son, he and I become engaged in the creative universe. The act of writing helps me sort out what matters in our life right now. It helps me identify what his needs are in that moment. Most of all, writing helps me embrace the humor in our lives. If I make one tangible thing while my son is 3 it will be a record for him. Not a record of day to day life, or a sentimental overview, but a collection of poignant vignettes. In the future these may help him understand himself, and give him insight into my experience and how our interactions informed our relationship as mother and child.

I sometimes wonder if it isn’t so bad that my own mother is not here. In many ways my circumstance has forced me to create my own experience of being a parent. Perhaps it will get easier as my son grows older. Because, presumably there will come a time when I can access my own memories of being mothered. Regardless I refuse to languish, I just keep engaging. I witness “what is” and commit it to paper – creating my own points of reference. I find myself listening, and drawing on wisdom from the universe of parents all around me. Maybe someday Seth will join the universe of parents, and find my observations helpful, or healing. Maybe he will just chuckle to himself, because every time he does I catch a glimpse of his grandmother.

Where there could be a void we have constructed a house. Where there could be sadness we have made our own joy. – Alis Whitman, 3/4s Mom

S:  Grandma Belle died and another one came?

A:  No.

S:  Grandma Belle died and another one didn’t come?

Pause

A:  No sweetheart, no more came after she died.

S:  Can we grow one?

A:  A Grandma Belle?

S:  Yes.  I want a baby.

Before becoming mine, this chair lived in my grandmother’s basement on the Stanford Campus. No one seemed to know where it came from, and no one seemed to want it. The fact that it had no history makes it ideal for my vintage mint green mission!

I stripped the paint off this chair when I was 18. At the time I thought I would either paint it shiny black or cherry red. Those were the Axel Rose years. And frankly it is probably better that I didn’t paint the chair then, because it’s not a good idea to commit to anything when you are 18. The chair actually looked great for exactly 18 years after it was stripped. The bare wood kinda’ meshed with my previous driftwood and lavender aesthetic. However, after many a wax puddle and the general wear and tear of non varnished living the chair just looked and felt dingy. Every Martha Steward knock off mag on the shelf will tell you that the best way to reclaim not so high quality furniture is to give it a fresh coat of paint. Well my life needed a fresh coat of paint.

I was initially going for whimsy, but then I spent all of last summer agonizing over the paint color. Then the winter passed with the unopened can of paint on my seed sideboard. This really took the whimsy out of it. Mint green you might ask? Well, it’s complicated…I’d been obsessing about the colors of late summer, spent hydrangea, water starved lavender, iris stem. But really the driving force was the house. This house/the ghost that resides here is really bossy about colors (and chintz, and four o’ clocks, and climbing roses). Granted she is usually right, it’s just weird to crave mint green, and wintergreen blue, only to notice that every chipped door frame, and missed cabinet interior reflects this palette!

I have to confess spending a lazy summer afternoon paining an old chair in the shade of rustling poplars is heavenly. It’s days like these when I miss my mom. There was always time in summer to spend an afternoon just the two of us doing something nonessential and crafty. We would visit thrift shops looking for the ideal chair to recover. This was the 80’s and grandparents were dying left and right. As a result the thrift shops were filled with 1950’s and 60’s wardrobes. My mom couldn’t really understand why anyone would want to revisit a fashion era that included crinolines, but I understand now that those were stolen moments with a relaxed teenager. It was a way to communicate that did not involve team sports, over achieving, or malls. It was probably a time to watch and nurture self discovery. Perhaps I romanticize the past, but she was so real then. I can almost taste her warm remarks about personal style, and a confident posture.

Speaking of confidence, I can definitely thank my mom for encouraging me to take risks. Not many people would paint anything mint green. It’s nice to have the inner gumption to follow your taste instead of bending to the e Crate and Barrel of it all. Although art school did a pretty good job of bauhausing the kitsch out of me, I still follow my heart when it comes to my personal space. I really respect the personal space that my mom carved out of a 1950’s track house on the not so artsy side of town. The inside of our house was so interesting, full of inquisitive comforts and carefully selected rituals. My mom gave such great care to her interior choices, and put such hard work into restoring, recovering, polishing, placing and preparing that the minute you walked in the door you felt instantly graceful in your own skin.

On that note, it’s time for me to stop taking risks and start ironing my wintergreen hydrangea sheets.

We got in the spirit of Memorial Day by hitting the attic stairs at Gramps’ and diving head first into unearthing the family china. Charlie’s attic is awash in Victorian relics clothed in dust soaked cardboard boxes. When my grandmother moved into a retirement home all extraneous china was packed in wobbly boxes and nestled in 1980’s news paper. When my own mother died all the treasures that lived in custom cabinets carefully designed for them were packed willy nilly by a stranger and housed in boxes marked “Kitchen” for 10 years. Now that the kids are grown up and moving back in with toddlers, cousins are getting married, having babies and nesting double-time it seemed like the right moment to let the blood bath begin.

Apparently my brother Cary has a thing for china. The story goes that as a tiny child he saw some china plates and let it be known that he liked them. Ever since then this particular set has been referred to as “Cary’s China”. If this is not embarrassing enough, his wife Judy when ever given the chance tells the story of how picky Cary was about china in their wedding registry. Apparently he claimed he, “didn’t care”, but when dragged to the store became rather controlling about china selection. Apparently Judy went online later and removed all his choices from their registry . It must be true love because they are still married.

It was amazing to see Cary so galvanized about the whole thing. He swooped in like a lots-of-$-an-hour management consultant and organized the whole engagement. Not only did he bark orders and keep the junior associates scurrying, he had this incredible China Matrix in his head. He made executive matching decisions expertly, while at the same time defining new sets and subsets on the fly. He knew which box to put things in, and which box was full. We were all so cowed by his flawless execution that we pretty much praised him when he admitted that he broke a plate. Even gods make mistakes, that’s what makes them so endearing.

Everyone knows that all good swat teams have a talker. You know, the one who seems innocent but is tasked with distracting the client to delight while the rest of the team is busy squeezing the knowledge base from their underlings. That is my stepmother Mattie. According to her she had the most insane post Victorian mother anyone could have. One who hoarded furnishings, and house wares then let them rot in her barn under the pretense of “antique shop”. Mattie was an endless stream of, “Oh, look – at – that” and “My mother had one just like that” and “You know what they used to use these for”. It was very comforting to have our own on-site treasure expert along. It leant an air of professionalism to the whole operation. Let’s face it all of us want to be an Antiques Road Show expert but Mattie had the gumption to live out that dream!

Well all good romps into the past must end, and we have to embrace the present. I had forgotten that it was my dad’s birthday. He turned 68 as we unearthed our family place ware legacy. After dinner we had cake. The marshmallows were hand inscribed with chocolate penned in toothpick. Apparently, at one point in the afternoon the inscription process had to be hurriedly covered by a New York Times across the lap, as my sweet father blundered by in the innocent search for tea, or some other old guy meandering. Fortunately Cary reads body language, and like any good managing principal adeptly returned the client’s focus to the work at hand, and the attic stairs. Upon cake candles and reflection, there is not that much of the china that I really want. Did it lay there swaddled in anticipation all those years, only to wake up and be set free?

Seth often picks up the phone, and upon hearing a female voice asks, “Grandma Belle”? Grandma Belle has been dead for 10 years. However, this does not seem to be a problem for him. Seth includes her in lists, builds Lego houses for her and never ceases to ask questions about her. In order to field the questions, and perhaps recall some recipes along the way I have decided to make a book about Grandma Belle. I thought for starters I would make a paper version for bedtime perusal. However, right now all I have is a keyboard and a funny memory.

In August of 1993 we drove across the country from California to Rhode Island. One of our intended stops was Montebello the hill top home of the Jefferson Clan (all shades of them). We were neigh on the first people to pull into the Montebello parking lot that morning. Mom really liked to experience a place with out the crowds. We took the tour, and yes even I admit it was a lovely house with interesting proportions. However, I was relieved when the tour let out in the garden and we were free to meander. The garden did not look exactly as Thomas had envisioned it. It was a drought year, the grass was dry and the perennials were a bit spindly. Our attention was caught by the the broad leaves of an ancient fig tree growing up from one of the kitchen garden terraces. We went down to investigate, but found a sign and a chain forbidding entrance to visitors. Well that was not going to stop Belle. She hopped one leg then the other over the chain, walked up to the fig tree and started eating. This act of defiance from my own mother was down right inspiring. Needless to say, I hopped the chain and started munching too. When we heard voices we slipped into the shade of the tree. Sure enough other visitors were drawn to the tree and started sampling figs. We all laughed when they spotted us skulking those historical leaves and secretly savoring those 18th century figs.

Addendum – May 13, 2008

ZZ from work pointed out that the name of the Jefferson ranch is actually Monticello not Montebello. ZZ remembered this from his junior high social studies class. I wrote him the following email to congratulate him on his historical prowess, “Ya a la the bumper sticker ~ your junior high social studies beat up my ivy league art history”