What do you write about when you are living life? Is writing for the people who are yearning in one direction or another, backwards or straight ahead, but never right where they are sitting?
Nonsense. Writing is a way that we capture a moment and share it with the world. And I have not written of my moments for over two weeks now, though there have been many.
Like the moment I took down the painting above my computer screen, hung there 2+ years ago during the painstaking path of divorce. It’s a thin canvas with texture in the form of paint atop paint, and words – I am, after all, a master of words – evoking the passion and fear and confidence and quiet I felt at the time.
It’s no longer necessary and the colors are too igniting for me now.
I signed the painting like all artists do in case someone wonders who screamed that color onto canvas. And I vacillate between wanting to store it in the basement with my aunt’s wedding present, her painting of Moses with the tablets, his hair tufted so full and curly he looks as if he has horns. Or maybe it’s time to throw it out, say goodbye to moments long past.
And there was the moment when, late into the night, Asher wept on my shoulder about how I never recount stories of him before his siblings entered the mix. And so I told him, quietly, in the dark of his room and enveloped in his superhero sheets and blankets, that all I ever wanted in life was to become a mother and he gave me that. He gave me all I ever wanted. And the tears gushed anew, only then they were tears of joy.
And then there was the moment early this morning, when all three of my lovely dear children were cuddled up in my bed and I decided to start a new tradition, on Mother’s Day, of telling them stories of moments in their lives. We laughed, we snuggled, we hugged and rolled, and a new day with bright sunshine was well under way.
And so I leave you this morning with one last captured moment, a moment still in progress: window cracked, cool air promising to warm in the afternoon sun, not a single cloud above, and birds ever chirping their innocent songs. Cars pass. Tree branches wave and woosh in the wind. Warm air of indoor heat blazes over my toes. Onward and upward, outward and ahead. Every day a gift, every moment to be cherished.