Miracle In Motion
Reinfected With The Art Bug
by
Mary -BrytEyz- Ball
(Age: 38)
copyright 10-17-2006
Age Rating: 10 to 127
I stared out at the cold damp October morning with mixed emotions. I was happy to heading out knowing I would get to spend some very cherished time with my mother, but the moment was bittersweet because I would soon begin my new job and although family comes first in my heart, I am completely aware of the fact that in order to survive in this world, we must devote much of our precious time chasing that ever elusive dollar.
I have been unemployed now for three months and although the unemployment checks have helped me to keep my home, there isn’t much left at the end of the day. My initial shock and dismay at being laid off were very soon replaced with the realization that a tremendous gift had just been placed in my lap. There were so many things in my life that were passing me by, so many treasures being buried beneath the sands of time, that I would finally be able to hold in my grubby little hands and for once, appreciate at my leisure.
As those golden nuggets of time spent in the ministry and with my loving family piled up one after the other, I realized that funds in the bank account did not make one rich. I rolled each nugget carefully in my appreciative hands, scrutinized each moment under a magnifying glass, and held my breath for the beauty. They glittered a warm glow in my heart and I knew as the memories were being made that the treasures would be kept safe and sound within my chest for the rest of my life.
Though my bag of holding was hardly full, I found it necessary to accept a job offer that will start at the end of this week. With the grains of sand nearly depleted in the hourglass of my unemployment tenure, I briefly looked back at the hoard of smiles and echoes of laughter that filled the canyons of my mind. Yes, the time spent with family and in teaching others about God was time well spent indeed.
Thus, with a sigh of contentment I ventured forth into the chilly mist filled air. There was that familiar smell of “clean” that always accompanied the rain and I couldn’t help but smile as the occasional drops tapped an autumn symphony for any caring to listen. The wiper blades dancing back and forth across my windshield added a subtle beat to the music and I found my fingers tapping to the beautiful sound so many others seemed not to notice or chose to ignore.
I arrived at my mother’s apartment complex to find her waiting in the entry way for my arrival. I quickly checked the clock and sighed in relief as I realized that for once I was not late. I guess we all make time for what matters most, and to me, my mother matters immensely!
She opened the door wearing her usual beaming smile and purple wind jacket her sister had given to her. With her purple purse clutched tight in her left hand, she held firmly to the “chicken handle” in my van and carefully eased herself into the front passenger seat. Once settled, she looked my way with her beautiful brown eyes and I couldn’t tell if she was just happy to be spending time with me, or if she was really looking forward to the workshop I’d signed us up for.
She’d been so adamant about “losing it” (her ability to draw) and so very depressed that her talent had been claimed by her “sickness”. So many things were ripped away from her world the moment she had the aneurysm, but so many of them she’s stubbornly stolen back refusing to let time, old age, or sickness claim anything she wasn’t ready to give up. She had a lot of fight left in her and I for one was glad to be on her side of the battle!
Though I had tried to reassure her that much like her other muscles that required hours and hours of strenuous exercise (sometimes painful exercise, sometimes frightening, but always tiring), her fine motor skills would require a great deal of practice before anything near “perfect” (in her eyes anyway) was ever to be produced by them again. It had taken so much effort just to learn to sit up straight. She became angry with the nurse for pushing her to learn to sit up on her own from a lying position. She often cried, afraid of falling, while learning to walk again. I so wanted to jump to her rescue and help her, but knew that wasn’t helping at all. So, helplessly and frustrated, I sat by the sidelines and smiled and pleaded and encouraged her the best I could. With each step, her muscles shaking from the strain of being used once more, she’d look at me in search for some sort of response. Whether I was afraid she’d fall, or pissed at the nurse for pushing her so hard, or simply amazed that she was walking when the specialists (and the whole world really) told us she’d never walk again… I’d smile and nod approvingly and encourage her with “Come on! You can do it!”
Well, as a stubborn person often does, they refuse to listen to what should or should not happen or what she could or could not do. She decided for herself just what she was capable of and the world be damned if they thought they were going to stop her! She learned to eat again, she learned talk, and she learned to walk. Although her eyes misted up the first time she tried to read, unable to make sense of the black marks on the white paper that she knew had a message for her, she refused to be beaten and within a month she could recognize what those black symbols were and she was off and reading.
I prayed that today her pride and persistence would join forces with my ulterior motives. Yes, I wanted to spend time with her and my available “free time” was quickly shriveling up with the start of my new job fast approaching, but more than time with my mother… I wanted my mother to unearth the talent in drawing she’d buried with her past. I could spend more “time” with my mother as time allowed, but if I could only get her to start drawing again, she could draw to her heart’s content whether or not I was around.
I smiled to myself at the possibilities that lay before us and drove the short distance to a nearby Gilda’s Club where a free “Open Art Instruction” class was about to begin. I joked lightly about the day-to-day activities we discussed on the brief trip and she checked to make sure she’d remembered her handicap parking tag to hang on the rearview mirror. The familiar ear-to-ear grin graced her face the moment she found it and pulled it out of her purse like a rabbit out of a hat. I chuckled at her enthusiasm and pulled into the closest parking spot to the front door.
I walked close in case my assistance was required, but far enough away so that she could manage on her own if she wanted… and she wanted. We signed in and made our way down to the art room where the instructor explained that it was an “open” art class and she would not be assigning any form of art for us to attempt, nor would she be requiring us to explore any certain method of expressing our visions onto paper or canvas. There were paints (water and acrylic), pencils (drawing and #2), chalk and charcoal, blending sticks and kneadable erasers at our disposal and if we thought of something else she’d do her best to obtain it for us.
My mother and I both preferred to start with pencils and charcoal, and I couldn’t help but smile at how similar we were at times. You’d think I was her daughter or something! LOL. After briefly scanning some books for ideas, Mom quickly settled into her drawing of a horse. I, on the other hand was quite intimidated by the obvious talent surrounding me. Everyone else had been to the class before and had already started on an array of projects from an acrylic depiction of a gorgeous autumn scene, to a crayon coloring of an attacking tiger, to a watercolor painting of an agitated ocean by the rocky seashore. Again, I looked at my paper and the pencil refused to budge, frozen on its perch just inches from the paper. The paper was clean, and I looked at the beautiful sketches of trees in the book I’d left open on the table beside me. I could see what I wanted to draw, the same picture I had wanted to draw since I was ten… but was never able to get it out of my mind and onto paper in any acceptable finished work of “art”.
I sighed heavily and started to lay a few feathered trails of where a tree might grow, if I were God and planted it. I tried to include a fan of branches reaching East and West and North as I imagined they’d grow, reaching for the sun as it traveled its trek through the sky each day. I nearly felt the breeze blow my hair as I thought up a windstorm, and let the few fluttering leaves reflect that movement of the wind. Gnarled and tangled, I tried to draw the twisted and interlocking bark covered branches in a way that revealed its age, the stress it has obviously seen throughout its many years, and sturdy stubbornness to not give up in the face of difficulty. Though some branches broke, though some bark rotted away in the knot of the tree, it clung tenaciously to the few leaves it had left and laughed in the face of the oncoming storm. I was in awe at the tree, proud to be there, to be… her daughter.
I looked at Mom and she smiled as she peered up from her drawing. Somehow, her pencil always and effortlessly produced an immediate breathtaking work of art. I watched as the horse she was drawing came to life, as the muscles she shaded seemed to tremble from sheer strength, and as the mane gently tipped over the top of the horses head and tickled the sturdy brow in its playful existence. Mom shook her head and said, “It’s not good!” She insisted it was out of proportion and I couldn’t find the words to object, sitting there baffled by her obvious inability to appreciate the talent God had so graciously given her. “It’s FINE, Mom!” I said for the umpteenth time, “It looks great!” She sighed and set the drawing aside, convinced she’d never make it look as good as she once was able to. I didn’t want to scold her, or say anything to ruin our time together, so I went back to my own attempt at duplicating Jehovah’s beauty in a tree. Whatever I did do, I just did not want to embarrass Mom who could have created my simple sketch in minutes and with the time I’d devoted to it, brought it to life!
One of the ladies in the class brought down some coffee from the kitchen and passed it around to those who wanted it. Though not a traditional coffee drinker, I had some so that Mom and I could have coffee “together”. The butterscotch and chocolate chip cookies made the bitterly strong coffee more palatable and I smiled at Mom as we both let the warmth of the coffee melt our muscles and create a calming sensation. I hadn’t realized how tight I’d been holding the pencil until the heat from the coffee cup relaxed my fingers and forced me to shake out the kinks.
After a moment of watching me, Mom returned to her drawing and the shading here and the wisps of hair there transformed the sketch of a beautiful horse into a life like drawing that could almost be mistaken for a black and white photo. She had that uncanny ability to draw that way and would often “doodle” little black and white depictions of the items on her grocery lists when I was younger. If only I’d saved those silly little scraps of paper. Well, it wasn’t like I’d never be able to obtain a sample of her drawings again, for here she was, letting it all pour out again. I was happy, so proud, so completely satisfied that the morning turned out the way it did.
You should have seen Mom’s face when the instructor held it up for everyone to see. You should have seen her beam when the class erupted in an instant wave upon wave of “OOH’s” and “AAH’s”. Her smile lengthened with each compliment, and reinforced what I’d been trying to tell her for a year now! Yes, she’d picked up a pencil, the bug bit her, and as Forrest Gump would say, she was “running”!
The instructor brought the drawing upstairs to apply some chemical to keep it from smudging and then brought it back to Mom who carefully rolled it up for the trip home where she intended to add some finishing touches. Her smile permeated throughout her entire being and I don’t think any other human body could have contained so much happiness as she did that morning.
As we signed out and left the building, she was stopped by the receptionist who asked if we’d just been to the art class. We said we had been and she inquired if we knew who had drawn that beautiful and breathtaking horse. I stood tall and proud and pointed to Mom and she humbly muttered, “I did.” Well, the overflowing stream of compliments had just been un-damned and Mom was once again doused with a good deal of praise. I guess my assurances weren’t enough, or maybe they were. Either way, this only added fuel to the fire and she was now once again… an artist! No, she had not “lost” anything… nothing had been “taken” from her as regards her talent and ability to draw. It was simply sleeping and now the sleeping giant had awoke!
Although my “free” time of period of unemployment was coming to a close, I greedily hoarded yet another jewel inside my bag of holding and knew I would treasure it for the rest of my life.
Today her diary entry read as follows:
Today, I sketched a picture of a horse. Not only was the teacher impressed, the WHOLE class ooh’ed and aah’ed! When Mary and I went upstairs to sign out and leave, the woman at the front desk asked us WHO had drawn "The Horse". She also thought that it was quite impressive. :))
It felt so good to draw again. I plan on returning again next week. Mary had been working on a tree. It also was very good. She left hers there so that she could continue to work on it next week.
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