A Mother: A Curator
It’s my hardest job, to be a curator for these boys, to look around and call ART to the tape and glue, the stick-figures drawn on our bills and the mysterious videos on my phone. My sons reflect God in how they create, the constant drive to make something and call it good.
In personalities it’s easier for me – to curate love for the strange. To see the straggly beard and the tattoo, to know how one can’t stand to wear socks and another taps the foot 3 times before entering a door. How is it that some don’t like sweet potatoes and how some can’t get enough of the white insides of an orange peel? One smells thick pink Kool-Aid every time she hears a church bell. Another collects oatmeal glasses and fills them with granny buttons. God Art is in the person and the stories lived there. Some people end each day like a line-break, a poem.
The wind blew my hair straight up at the gas pump today. Back in the van my 7 year old said that it’s hard to not think God’s talking when the wind blows. I agreed. It’s still winter, but up the hill the dogwoods confetti the gray. Forsythia splatter paints florescent yellow in the backdrop. I take it in, the art.
I’m a curator, and I’ve decided to gather for you here in this coming season the intricacies of a Mother’s Life. I’m calling us ART – and our children and our stories, the way we word them. The rests we take, the line-breaks. The images we snap with our phones and the ones we hold as the centerpieces for our minds. The scenes that reel. The way food lands on the plate.
I make what my heart desires. Take the turquoise and the gold, the yarn, the word “ravel” – I twist them until I can stand back and see more than I had before. Isn’t that what art is? Making more of things?
What art do you make? Mother, what art do you curate?