I have been noticing details lately--specifically light. I don't know if it's my artsy eye or if it’s something deeper in my soul, whispering for me to notice--maybe a little bit of both? Suddenly I am aware the way light pours into my home highlighting the supporting details of my life: leftover toys from yesterday’s adventures, bottles and utensils dotting my countertops, and the endless baskets of unfolded laundry. This is my season, my truth, my journey, my motherhood.
I rouse to the stillness of my home. My first few steps out of bed are typically the most painful, figuratively and literally. Sharp pricks of pain shooting through my heels and up my toes, a direct result from continually and tirelessly making my rounds on the hard surfaces of my house barefoot, consoling a child here, putting out a fire there--the revolving door of troubleshooting between siblings, breakfast, lunch, dinner, laundry. These things continually keep me on my feet. This is my season.
As my first cup of coffee starts to brew, I begin opening all of the windows in our home. So inspired by the light’s ability to drive out darkness, I begin to write light on my heart ... patience, patience, wisdom, understanding, patience, calm... I pray. As the shades are drawn, the sun's rose and copper tones illuminate each room’s imperfect spaces, bringing warmth and joy to my achy bones. The light highlights the beauty of the unfolded towels in the corner. “We’re still here ... waiting,” they seem to say. Or the lone cheerio that greets me in the hallway along with a stray sock that didn’t quite make it to the laundry room, a stark reminder that there will be a day my laundry room won't overflow and the floors will be a little tidier. This is my truth.
In my bathroom, I find light dancing on my vanity and walls, pointing out the tiny handprint pattern that dots my mirror. I can easily let the handprint taunt me into immediately wiping it off. But instead, I choose to admire the masterpiece, thinking of the artist who left their sweet work. I choose to not stress over the mess but embrace the moment; this is a true reflection of my journey.
Typically, every morning starts the same. I follow the path the light lays before me and reflect on what it illuminates: the dishes that pile up in and around my sink, the toys left unattended, the handprints, spills, and dribbles that pattern smooth surfaces, and the trail of cheerios. It is not easy, but I am consciously choosing to find gratitude in these moments, rather than letting them irritate me. I know deep down I won't always wake up to these details. One day these spaces will be organized and clean because there won't be tiny hands and feet to come in behind me. After all, this is motherhood, this is my story, and these are the supporting details.
Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come. Up next is the amazingly talented Diana Hagues click here to follow the link.