Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Upstairs, Downstairs
Back to the Suburban Grind: Upstairs, Downstairs: I love watching Downton Abbey. The relationships and politics of the upper class and their servants are not only intriguing but offer a pee...
Upstairs, Downstairs
I love watching Downton Abbey. The relationships and politics of the upper class and their servants are not only intriguing but offer a peek into the world of folks who depend on others for things that I consider basic adult responsibilities and those that serve their needs upstairs but are dependent on these people for their livelihood. I love seeing how "the other half," as they were once affectionately called, lives though now they are clearly the 1 %, no halfsies about it. This interests me more than most because my husband works as a private chef with many prominent New York families. He is discreet, private, and unassuming so this is no exposé on how the other half lives. No stories about spoiled kids, eccentric parties, or secret societies where some kind of sacrifice is made to the gods that got them all this loot, power, and privilege. He would never divulge information, secrets, tales. That is not his style. This is a confession really, of how it feels to miss him when he is gone, knowing that we depend on the whims of his clients, by choice mind you, and that in between those spaces, we have carved out a lovely existence, a life I love and treasure, but that sometimes leaves me alone for longer than I'd like, exhausted, scared, silent.
My husband took on this gig for our family. Restaurant offers began to come in when we returned from our two year stint in Barbados and for a time we considered them as well as other opportunities in the hotel industry. Our stint in Barbados, that job, that company he worked for nearly did us in and we thought long and hard about returning to a lifestyle like that. We are older parents with small children and neither of us wants to recreate the experiences we had as children with hard-working but distant fathers who missed out on our childhoods and couldn't find a way back to us. So we decided on freelance work at least until the youngest is in kindergarten when we can both get back to work and pursue passions. It's a choice, a privilege, I know, to be able to do this when so many others work and are willing to any way they can or must, but we made it together. His reputation, his skill, his talent helped him find employment quickly both as a full time private chef and as a chef for hire for private parties and events.
When he's working full-time, he gets up like everyone else, has a cup of coffee, packs his things and is off on the morning train. I am home with the girls, getting them ready for school and then getting them to school before I have a few hours to steal for myself before I have to pick up the littlest. It's enough time to do some errands, exercise, and/or write but not enough to put in a real day's work outside the home. My hubby, on the other hand, will not be home any time before 10:30 pm. Once he's out on a full time gig, there is no coming home early for a game, dance recital, dinner date, anything (except for the one time I was taken by ambulance to the hospital convinced I was having a heart attack, which was actually a panic attack. OK, so it was an attack, but it was really my nerves and psyche, not my ticker.) I have gone to conferences, had the stomach flu, severe fever and flu, neighborhood parties on my own with kiddles in tow, missing him, but knowing that this is best for us. I have had the car jumped when the battery died in frigid weather, shoveled the driveway while the kids played inside, and had less than one hour to myself in weeks (due to the winter break when he was out of town for eighteen days), but still slog on. Because his current job is freelance, meaning he is not a full-time staff member, there are days that he can and does choose not to go in.
The private parties are more fun because he often works with another talented chef, a good friend, and they can speak French, talk politics and tell jokes while they work. If he works alone, he is able to design the menu with the client and generally has more freedom to create and express startlingly good dishes. These jobs bring in more money because they are one-offs and special so there is a flat fee and the coverage of food and other expenses. Sometimes he is able to prep at our house, then drive into the city with the goods. It makes the house smell amazing and I get to be with him though he is quite focused and doesn't say much. I love watching him even if he is so lost in his own world that he doesn't see my admiring eyes. His attention to detail, his professionalism, his truly unique talent are such wonderful assets to have, and he has never let himself down nor his clients nor us.
When Didier ran his own restaurants, he answered to his team, worked in tandem with them, but ultimately was the head of the kitchen. Sure, there were customers,some of whom he knew quite well and welcomed a conversation, after shift drink, but nothing as intimate as being in someone's home, their kitchen, standing very near to them while you work and they discuss the day's business with each other in front of you. In a household, no matter how good you are, you are beholden to the whims and fancies of the head of that household. There are many families with whom he has fit in comfortably, seamlessly, able to prepare meals that are creative, delicious, and in their taste and preference. With others, their confusion or lack of preference made it difficult to prepare and though he offered complete, thoughtful, well-considered menus he never felt certain that he'd give them what they wanted. There is little more stressful for a chef than wondering if people like his food!
To many, the travel, the access seems intoxicating. But though he does not live in the residence or take his meals down below, he is by no means a member of the family. And while it seems that traveling via private jet to warm locales and living in the Hamptons for the summer (this time family in tow) are incredible perks, he often does not get to enjoy them fully because he is working. I absolutely loved staying in the Hamptons this summer and was incredibly grateful for the provision made by his employer, even sent a hand sewn thank you card with a picture of the girls wading in the water at the edge of the bay. The house was just lovely and peaceful and offered respite from our suburban lives but we saw Didier so little. We might have run into him at the market after a visit to the playground or the beach, and were happy to be able to park at his employers' in order to swim at one glorious beach with a hefty parking price tag in order to see him on the drive in and out, but it could not be said that he was vacationing there with us. His joyful moments were stolen in between shifts.
He has cooked for many well-known folks, but often does not see them unless they deign to come in to the kitchen. Which some do, he has told me. Often to offer thanks or delight in a particular dish, sometimes just to be a part of it, to have their coffee and talk to a new ear. Some are gracious and remember his name and treat him and others with respect, and some less so. This past weekend, he went away with a family to Florida for an extended weekend which then turned into an additional week. He was asked if this was alright which prompted a call to me straight away. I appreciated both but felt there was no way on earth that I would summon that man home even if I were desperate for him. I never considered saying anything but yes.So there he is, still away and I am home for another week nursing this severe cold I've had since the flu and bronchitis left me.
I love him for the sacrifice, for the humility, for the commitment to us and our dream. I also accept the role that's been made for me as keeper of everything, the guiding star of all that we are and all that we do. For now. We are two artists and have chosen a life a little different than expected and with that comes, quite obviously, the unexpected. This man can cook his ass off and it has given us this place away from the restaurant scene, corporate hotel life, the politics, the game, and brought us to another level of the onion. We've been allowed a stolen pleasure now and again. But as "we" work in service, we are rooted firmly downstairs, able to see the 1% up close and personal, undoubtedly sure that we are not even close. The commitment to our family, the emotional time, energy, and grace we are able to put in is worth more than ever languishing at the window dreaming of nothing because we seemingly have it all. Because we are getting close to having it. All.
(c) Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
My husband took on this gig for our family. Restaurant offers began to come in when we returned from our two year stint in Barbados and for a time we considered them as well as other opportunities in the hotel industry. Our stint in Barbados, that job, that company he worked for nearly did us in and we thought long and hard about returning to a lifestyle like that. We are older parents with small children and neither of us wants to recreate the experiences we had as children with hard-working but distant fathers who missed out on our childhoods and couldn't find a way back to us. So we decided on freelance work at least until the youngest is in kindergarten when we can both get back to work and pursue passions. It's a choice, a privilege, I know, to be able to do this when so many others work and are willing to any way they can or must, but we made it together. His reputation, his skill, his talent helped him find employment quickly both as a full time private chef and as a chef for hire for private parties and events.
When he's working full-time, he gets up like everyone else, has a cup of coffee, packs his things and is off on the morning train. I am home with the girls, getting them ready for school and then getting them to school before I have a few hours to steal for myself before I have to pick up the littlest. It's enough time to do some errands, exercise, and/or write but not enough to put in a real day's work outside the home. My hubby, on the other hand, will not be home any time before 10:30 pm. Once he's out on a full time gig, there is no coming home early for a game, dance recital, dinner date, anything (except for the one time I was taken by ambulance to the hospital convinced I was having a heart attack, which was actually a panic attack. OK, so it was an attack, but it was really my nerves and psyche, not my ticker.) I have gone to conferences, had the stomach flu, severe fever and flu, neighborhood parties on my own with kiddles in tow, missing him, but knowing that this is best for us. I have had the car jumped when the battery died in frigid weather, shoveled the driveway while the kids played inside, and had less than one hour to myself in weeks (due to the winter break when he was out of town for eighteen days), but still slog on. Because his current job is freelance, meaning he is not a full-time staff member, there are days that he can and does choose not to go in.
The private parties are more fun because he often works with another talented chef, a good friend, and they can speak French, talk politics and tell jokes while they work. If he works alone, he is able to design the menu with the client and generally has more freedom to create and express startlingly good dishes. These jobs bring in more money because they are one-offs and special so there is a flat fee and the coverage of food and other expenses. Sometimes he is able to prep at our house, then drive into the city with the goods. It makes the house smell amazing and I get to be with him though he is quite focused and doesn't say much. I love watching him even if he is so lost in his own world that he doesn't see my admiring eyes. His attention to detail, his professionalism, his truly unique talent are such wonderful assets to have, and he has never let himself down nor his clients nor us.
When Didier ran his own restaurants, he answered to his team, worked in tandem with them, but ultimately was the head of the kitchen. Sure, there were customers,some of whom he knew quite well and welcomed a conversation, after shift drink, but nothing as intimate as being in someone's home, their kitchen, standing very near to them while you work and they discuss the day's business with each other in front of you. In a household, no matter how good you are, you are beholden to the whims and fancies of the head of that household. There are many families with whom he has fit in comfortably, seamlessly, able to prepare meals that are creative, delicious, and in their taste and preference. With others, their confusion or lack of preference made it difficult to prepare and though he offered complete, thoughtful, well-considered menus he never felt certain that he'd give them what they wanted. There is little more stressful for a chef than wondering if people like his food!
To many, the travel, the access seems intoxicating. But though he does not live in the residence or take his meals down below, he is by no means a member of the family. And while it seems that traveling via private jet to warm locales and living in the Hamptons for the summer (this time family in tow) are incredible perks, he often does not get to enjoy them fully because he is working. I absolutely loved staying in the Hamptons this summer and was incredibly grateful for the provision made by his employer, even sent a hand sewn thank you card with a picture of the girls wading in the water at the edge of the bay. The house was just lovely and peaceful and offered respite from our suburban lives but we saw Didier so little. We might have run into him at the market after a visit to the playground or the beach, and were happy to be able to park at his employers' in order to swim at one glorious beach with a hefty parking price tag in order to see him on the drive in and out, but it could not be said that he was vacationing there with us. His joyful moments were stolen in between shifts.
He has cooked for many well-known folks, but often does not see them unless they deign to come in to the kitchen. Which some do, he has told me. Often to offer thanks or delight in a particular dish, sometimes just to be a part of it, to have their coffee and talk to a new ear. Some are gracious and remember his name and treat him and others with respect, and some less so. This past weekend, he went away with a family to Florida for an extended weekend which then turned into an additional week. He was asked if this was alright which prompted a call to me straight away. I appreciated both but felt there was no way on earth that I would summon that man home even if I were desperate for him. I never considered saying anything but yes.So there he is, still away and I am home for another week nursing this severe cold I've had since the flu and bronchitis left me.
I love him for the sacrifice, for the humility, for the commitment to us and our dream. I also accept the role that's been made for me as keeper of everything, the guiding star of all that we are and all that we do. For now. We are two artists and have chosen a life a little different than expected and with that comes, quite obviously, the unexpected. This man can cook his ass off and it has given us this place away from the restaurant scene, corporate hotel life, the politics, the game, and brought us to another level of the onion. We've been allowed a stolen pleasure now and again. But as "we" work in service, we are rooted firmly downstairs, able to see the 1% up close and personal, undoubtedly sure that we are not even close. The commitment to our family, the emotional time, energy, and grace we are able to put in is worth more than ever languishing at the window dreaming of nothing because we seemingly have it all. Because we are getting close to having it. All.
(c) Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Artist Mamas
Back to the Suburban Grind: Artist Mamas: "The planet does not need more successful people. The planet desperately needs more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and love...
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Artist Mamas
"The planet does not need more successful people. The planet desperately needs more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of all kinds." -- The Dalai Lama
After dinner last night, I sat in the kitchen, twinkling with sparkly lights, reflecting and refracting off the wine glasses, water goblets, and other shiny surfaces, talking to two friends, women, glorious women, intelligent women, creative, artistic, witchy women about being artists and mothers and how to juggle the two. All three of us are completely committed to our children, not just raising them and providing them with their basic needs, but instilling values, a strong sense of self-worth, strength, showing them art and culture, and opening their little minds to everything we're able. It is hard for us, we agreed, to commit entirely to art-making and creating, when the job of raising children, our children, requires such a deep commitment of time, energy, and attention. Our husbands, all artists, were free to attend to, develop, hone their talents, explore and create, and frankly, for two out of three, make a living. It's a pretty exciting endeavor, actually. Two artists trying to make art and raise a family with all its joys, trials, love, and crazy-making tedium.
Creative people are pretty darned sensitive. And when I say sensitive, I don't mean touchy or particular. I mean able to use all their senses to observe, experience, and participate in the world. Maybe I cannot speak for all creative types, but I can speak for myself. I feel it like tingling or sizzling nerve endings. The slightest gesture or note or word can leave me turning it in my mind for days, making connections to thoughts and memories past, wanting, needing to make it into something. I find it hard to reconcile this urge as immediately as I once could now that I have children, and the desire to care for them, tend to them, nurture them, and raise them seriously cramps my time, concentration, and ability to hold a thought for more than thirty seconds. I keep voice memos for myself full of ideas, carry a composition notebook, and squeeze in moments of the day and night to write, draw, and think, but it's just not the same as getting into the mucky muck and creating at will.
The energy used in creating and art-making and in having children emanates from the same chakra. Being a mother, making a home, a family, a unit, taking care of us feels like creative, spiritual work. I find absolute joy in some of those moments. The same as being in a studio or in front of the computer or wrestling with my thoughts though, I often struggle as well. There is a drive, a need to do things a particular way, with particular energy, concentration and connection that frustrates me when I am unable to do so. All that said, I still want to make art.
There is an image of the artist as selfish and preoccupied, often ridiculous and caricatured. Focused, yes. Burdened, sometimes. But I think the artists, the intellectuals, and the thinkers are going to change the world. We lead a spiritual charge, want to effect change, see the world that exists between the tangible. We are the whistle blowers on the status quo, the makers and doers at a much deeper level than our current culture suspects (or expects or accepts). An artist suffers as a child, at least I did, which is probably why my commitment to my children is so strong. I remember the loneliness, the drive, the feeling different and alien and I want to guide them should they find themselves with this gift (as I already suspect). It doesn't much improve as he or she enters adulthood. The best he can hope for is to find a group of supportive individuals, perhaps artists themselves, alongside which to write, paint, dance, sing, compose, cook, play, sew, design, think, and see. Allowing the girls to see creative mothers and fathers, working in whatever milieu, professionally or as a side gig or passion, gives them proof that they are able, should they choose, to follow this path and meet some incredible people, do incredible things, change the world.
Trying to describe the creative spirit, the drive to someone who does not feel its pull is like trying to explain the change of pressure in the atmosphere. It is like attempting to reveal magic, not the trick but the real thing. It is like hearing a ghost in the attic, running upstairs to see it, and then being the only one who did. It can be isolating and lonely and frustrating and lovely and wondrous. It is all those things. I cannot say what drives me to write other than a desire as strong as my life force that begs me to sit at the desk, table, bed, floor and get something down, to share, to connect, to define for myself what I have observed, experienced, seen, felt, breathed. I can only hope that I am connecting, that I touch a chord in the hearts, the minds, the souls of whomever stumbles upon it. It was the same call that I heeded to dance, to act, to paint. I had to. I needed to. I wanted to. I still do.
While visiting with my family over Thanksgiving, I was toying with ideas about longing and need, feeling that longing and wanting to explore it, when someone entered the room to ask what I was doing. When I said, "Writing. Like I try to do every night," I was met with, "telling everyone about your life on Facebook?" To which I replied, "No. WRITING." The slight so quick, so easy that it gave a chuckle to the offender. The tears, the emotions only sometimes show on the outside (and they didn't that night), though I put it in the work. I take comfort in my community, my tribe of artists, creators, healers, and others who value my role as storyteller, as connector to the ether, to the soul and find no need to belittle it.
Sitting at the table with these women last night, being considered, taken seriously, asked about art and mothering and living and loving, I was left speechless by how difficult it can be sometimes. I really didn't know what to say. I wish there was something that I could finish, that I could offer, that I could fully commit to. The days when I try to write or draw and am constantly interrupted by the girls because they want to chat or read or tell me something incredible or eat or use the bathroom or go on a playdate, whatever, I am seriously beside myself. Then I berate myself for being upset when their demands are not exceptional, their needs, even wants, not unreasonable, just bothersome and disruptive when I am searching for just the right phrase or just the right line. They are just being children and I, their mother. To whom should they direct their questions, desires, thoughts?
Recently I began a series of drawings (well, so far one) that relates to some imagery I have used in the past. Sometimes I need to see work I've done in the past to continue the dialogue or theme, to remind me while looking at the strokes or colors or techniques used just what I was getting at. I have been so excited by this piece, at what it has me thinking about, considering, that I want to work in this visual medium again after years away. I am excited and nervous and thrilled and scared. Having my ladies, my wise women close, because they understand my drive and my passion for creating and parenting, is a true blessing. A tribe I have longed for since my years in Boston and during my tenure on staff at AIX Restaurant on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, where nearly everyone's day job was creative and we all got together at night to "serve." Finding the balance between the two, depriving no one, denying nothing is the exercise. Being a good mother and making art is the goal.
I have so many friends who have found the way for themselves to do it both, to do it all really. They have hands that reach out and help them, make sacrifices that I have not yet allowed myself to make. They may miss being the Mystery Reader, be unable to attend the class party, but are doing insanely exciting work in visual arts, acting, music, voiceover. Perhaps, in me, there is fear, distrust that I am truly capable, talented, good enough, whatever the scary message may be. Perhaps I really do just need the little one to get to kindergarten where I will feel better about leaving her. Those abandonment issues creeping up pretty much anywhere, anytime. They inspire me, these mamas.
Whatever the medium, I am trying to tell stories using myself, my individual experience, my life, to connect us, to allow us to commiserate, consider, discover, wonder. After all the years I have lived, I have finally decided to accept this as a gift and have begun the process of letting go energy that does not support this and reaching out for guidance, community, healing, and love. Ultimately, I hope to be a mother that Lily and Virginie can trust, believe in, and love because I have offered them safe ground to experiment and grow physically, emotionally, spiritually, psychically, and openly. I believe the only way for me to do this, for ME to do this, is to make art, create, express every day that I am able.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
After dinner last night, I sat in the kitchen, twinkling with sparkly lights, reflecting and refracting off the wine glasses, water goblets, and other shiny surfaces, talking to two friends, women, glorious women, intelligent women, creative, artistic, witchy women about being artists and mothers and how to juggle the two. All three of us are completely committed to our children, not just raising them and providing them with their basic needs, but instilling values, a strong sense of self-worth, strength, showing them art and culture, and opening their little minds to everything we're able. It is hard for us, we agreed, to commit entirely to art-making and creating, when the job of raising children, our children, requires such a deep commitment of time, energy, and attention. Our husbands, all artists, were free to attend to, develop, hone their talents, explore and create, and frankly, for two out of three, make a living. It's a pretty exciting endeavor, actually. Two artists trying to make art and raise a family with all its joys, trials, love, and crazy-making tedium.
Creative people are pretty darned sensitive. And when I say sensitive, I don't mean touchy or particular. I mean able to use all their senses to observe, experience, and participate in the world. Maybe I cannot speak for all creative types, but I can speak for myself. I feel it like tingling or sizzling nerve endings. The slightest gesture or note or word can leave me turning it in my mind for days, making connections to thoughts and memories past, wanting, needing to make it into something. I find it hard to reconcile this urge as immediately as I once could now that I have children, and the desire to care for them, tend to them, nurture them, and raise them seriously cramps my time, concentration, and ability to hold a thought for more than thirty seconds. I keep voice memos for myself full of ideas, carry a composition notebook, and squeeze in moments of the day and night to write, draw, and think, but it's just not the same as getting into the mucky muck and creating at will.
The energy used in creating and art-making and in having children emanates from the same chakra. Being a mother, making a home, a family, a unit, taking care of us feels like creative, spiritual work. I find absolute joy in some of those moments. The same as being in a studio or in front of the computer or wrestling with my thoughts though, I often struggle as well. There is a drive, a need to do things a particular way, with particular energy, concentration and connection that frustrates me when I am unable to do so. All that said, I still want to make art.
There is an image of the artist as selfish and preoccupied, often ridiculous and caricatured. Focused, yes. Burdened, sometimes. But I think the artists, the intellectuals, and the thinkers are going to change the world. We lead a spiritual charge, want to effect change, see the world that exists between the tangible. We are the whistle blowers on the status quo, the makers and doers at a much deeper level than our current culture suspects (or expects or accepts). An artist suffers as a child, at least I did, which is probably why my commitment to my children is so strong. I remember the loneliness, the drive, the feeling different and alien and I want to guide them should they find themselves with this gift (as I already suspect). It doesn't much improve as he or she enters adulthood. The best he can hope for is to find a group of supportive individuals, perhaps artists themselves, alongside which to write, paint, dance, sing, compose, cook, play, sew, design, think, and see. Allowing the girls to see creative mothers and fathers, working in whatever milieu, professionally or as a side gig or passion, gives them proof that they are able, should they choose, to follow this path and meet some incredible people, do incredible things, change the world.
Trying to describe the creative spirit, the drive to someone who does not feel its pull is like trying to explain the change of pressure in the atmosphere. It is like attempting to reveal magic, not the trick but the real thing. It is like hearing a ghost in the attic, running upstairs to see it, and then being the only one who did. It can be isolating and lonely and frustrating and lovely and wondrous. It is all those things. I cannot say what drives me to write other than a desire as strong as my life force that begs me to sit at the desk, table, bed, floor and get something down, to share, to connect, to define for myself what I have observed, experienced, seen, felt, breathed. I can only hope that I am connecting, that I touch a chord in the hearts, the minds, the souls of whomever stumbles upon it. It was the same call that I heeded to dance, to act, to paint. I had to. I needed to. I wanted to. I still do.
While visiting with my family over Thanksgiving, I was toying with ideas about longing and need, feeling that longing and wanting to explore it, when someone entered the room to ask what I was doing. When I said, "Writing. Like I try to do every night," I was met with, "telling everyone about your life on Facebook?" To which I replied, "No. WRITING." The slight so quick, so easy that it gave a chuckle to the offender. The tears, the emotions only sometimes show on the outside (and they didn't that night), though I put it in the work. I take comfort in my community, my tribe of artists, creators, healers, and others who value my role as storyteller, as connector to the ether, to the soul and find no need to belittle it.
Sitting at the table with these women last night, being considered, taken seriously, asked about art and mothering and living and loving, I was left speechless by how difficult it can be sometimes. I really didn't know what to say. I wish there was something that I could finish, that I could offer, that I could fully commit to. The days when I try to write or draw and am constantly interrupted by the girls because they want to chat or read or tell me something incredible or eat or use the bathroom or go on a playdate, whatever, I am seriously beside myself. Then I berate myself for being upset when their demands are not exceptional, their needs, even wants, not unreasonable, just bothersome and disruptive when I am searching for just the right phrase or just the right line. They are just being children and I, their mother. To whom should they direct their questions, desires, thoughts?
Recently I began a series of drawings (well, so far one) that relates to some imagery I have used in the past. Sometimes I need to see work I've done in the past to continue the dialogue or theme, to remind me while looking at the strokes or colors or techniques used just what I was getting at. I have been so excited by this piece, at what it has me thinking about, considering, that I want to work in this visual medium again after years away. I am excited and nervous and thrilled and scared. Having my ladies, my wise women close, because they understand my drive and my passion for creating and parenting, is a true blessing. A tribe I have longed for since my years in Boston and during my tenure on staff at AIX Restaurant on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, where nearly everyone's day job was creative and we all got together at night to "serve." Finding the balance between the two, depriving no one, denying nothing is the exercise. Being a good mother and making art is the goal.
I have so many friends who have found the way for themselves to do it both, to do it all really. They have hands that reach out and help them, make sacrifices that I have not yet allowed myself to make. They may miss being the Mystery Reader, be unable to attend the class party, but are doing insanely exciting work in visual arts, acting, music, voiceover. Perhaps, in me, there is fear, distrust that I am truly capable, talented, good enough, whatever the scary message may be. Perhaps I really do just need the little one to get to kindergarten where I will feel better about leaving her. Those abandonment issues creeping up pretty much anywhere, anytime. They inspire me, these mamas.
Whatever the medium, I am trying to tell stories using myself, my individual experience, my life, to connect us, to allow us to commiserate, consider, discover, wonder. After all the years I have lived, I have finally decided to accept this as a gift and have begun the process of letting go energy that does not support this and reaching out for guidance, community, healing, and love. Ultimately, I hope to be a mother that Lily and Virginie can trust, believe in, and love because I have offered them safe ground to experiment and grow physically, emotionally, spiritually, psychically, and openly. I believe the only way for me to do this, for ME to do this, is to make art, create, express every day that I am able.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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