Ever since my mother’s death I’ve been blank. That’s OK, it’s like being on vacation, vacating the normal track of ambition. It’s not like nothing’s happening, it’s just all quiet and deep. Realizations arise at odd moments, sometimes propelling an action like processing of tomatoes, send an email invitation, consider what is left and what I want to leave behind, or cry at a memory or a missing.
It’s blank because there’s nothing really to fill the gap between mother daughter, lost in the leaving.
Curious thing is, I accept this blankness, as a sign I’m being initiated into true elder hood. It’s scary but exciting also. Because in that state the most pleasant thing is to bring out a blank sheet of white paper and pool some color into it, not knowing why or what for. It’s all new territory, secret realms from within, around and through emerge into ART.