Jesse Cohen of artdc.org put out the call for Red Art—works that are 80% red for an upcoming show.  Not having anything nearly that red, it sparked my creative juices.  Off I went.

Following me into the studio were lots of stirrings about mothering dancing in my head.  So when I sketched for this red piece, a pensive motherly figure appeared for me.  I liked her soft feel and decided that was my direction.  When I finished the sketch, the words, “let it be,” popped into my head...interesting.  Of course, I grabbed my computer and decided to search Paul McCartney’s lyrics to see whether they spoke to me.  Reading them on paper, I felt a new appreciation for their simplicity.  And more curiosity—what did they mean?

“Mother Mary came to me…Speaking words of wisdom. “   And then the deeper meanings came through an interview. 

Paul’s mother, Mary, died when he was 14.  He felt her loss in a huge way  and yet, he found it hard to remember her face and only knew her through photos.   As he and the Beatles established themselves in their 20s, Paul found himself struggling even more.  He was the only band member not in a relationship—he masked his loneliness with bouts of heavy drinking and drugging.  After one such night, Paul says somewhere “between sleep and insomnia,” the image of his mother vividly appeared to him.  And in this image, she spoke to him and said, “Let it Be.”

Those three famous words.  He took that as her guidance to just let his life unfold and all would be okay.  It was only shortly after that that he met and fell for Linda.  Of course the song unfolded in between and listening to it with this new understanding feels rich and wonderful.

Relationships with mothers are rich—and complicated. I’ve been on both sides and the push and pull of nurturing and letting go/trusting are sometimes tough roads to navigate both as mother and child.  Both in their presence and their absence, mother’s stir emotion.

So I created “Let it Be,” a simple, pensive piece of that motherly energy.  A quiet lady perhaps muffling her wisdom or perhaps sharing it.   In mostly red…the Hindu color for simplicity, protection and purity.

I often bristle at rules and direction when it’s thrown into my creative process—ok really in my entire life—so I wasn’t so sure how creating this piece  would unfold, but really I found the challenge of using mostly tones of red (which are fairly limited in acid-free handmade papers)  exhilarating.  Fun actually. 

And somewhere in there I felt a kinship with Sir Paul.  I love that he was open to his mother’s presence.  And his expression of how our mothers are with us in many ways for our whole journey.  Sometimes the company is comforting and sometimes we brace ourselves for the ride.  Either way, I love the thought to Let it Be.

May you allow your journey to unfold knowing you are just where you should be.  Namaste’

The last few years have been bittersweet.   As an artist, I have truly discovered my voice—a richness that brings me bliss.  At the same time, I have watched my mother lose hers.

For seven years, my father faded into the darkness of dementia.  And while he struggled with the unreliability of his mind, his personality sweetened and his sense of humor grew.  Despite many moments of misery, he was verbal until his final week.  For someone who always had something to say, this was a gift.

After my dad passed away, my mom had three very good years.  She surprised me with her easy going attitude: She was passionate for Hilary Clinton’s 2008 presidential campaign.   She strongly supported gay marriage. She gave my daughters good relationship advice.  And then dementia took center stage in her 90th year.  It was cruel.

At first the dementia robbed her of her mobility—a woman who exercised daily and ate all the right foods, couldn’t coordinate her footing to support her body.  Her world shrunk.   But it wasn’t until these last months, when she truly lost her voice, that dementia did it’s greatest damage.

This week, her silence was deafening.  And painful.  Thoughts entered her awareness and yet the words came out garbled or forgotten.  .  Her eyes were pained.  Her suffering was palpable.

My daughter watched in earnest as my mom sat with her lunch.  She dipped her finger into her soup bowl and attempted to spread the soup onto a sheet of paper.   “She wants to paint, mom…” but the motor skills and strength were gone.  Even as my daughter tried to guide her hand across the paper, my mother gave up. 

For the last 18 years I have worked with people who have dementia—I am not out of my element in being with someone in her predicament, but I have never seen someone’s face so full of sadness and betrayal.  My mother--artist and political junkie--could say no more. 

I share this sad scene not to depress, but to call to action anyone who can read these words.    To shake you out of complacency-- if you find yourself there.  To honor those with dementia. 

I know I can’t reverse the ravages of what dementia has brought to my mother.  So I take from this an awareness to be sure in my daily presence I use my voice—often and with gusto.

Because what would life be without expression—without a voice: without art, music, writing, story, movement, dance, sport…

So in honor of those who have lost their voices—far too many of our parents and grandparents:  Find the loudest, boldest you.   

Make your music.  Create an echo…speak your truth.    Dance.  Kick it up.  Let it flow.  Relish in the fact that you can—because if you can, you must.

May you have lots to say and savor each moment that you do.  Namaste’