Inspiration

I lost my Inspiration in the cold heart of January. Not ‘the’ inspiration to get up in the morning, go to exercise class, or cook a nice dinner. But ‘my’ inspiration. Exactly one week before my birthday, my Mom grew wings and flew away. My guiding light diminished into the distance. She was both the one person who I most wanted to be like and the one person I was most afraid to be like. It’s an interesting mother daughter phenomenon but one that some daughters may understand.

She never fully understood my photographic passion, my travel for photography, or the occasional abstract images that I presented to her. She was grounded in practicality, a woman who had seen far too much harsh reality in her nearly 100 years. But that was her. She would raise an eyebrow and stare at me quizzically when I showed her my work. I would wait for it and it always came. It would only take mere seconds for me to hear, “I really don’t know where you come from”, or “you must be some throw-back from the family gene pool”, and “you must have inherited this artsy stuff from your father’s side of the family”. She called it as she saw it and often with a haughty twinkle in her eye. And I always went back for more. It was like reading a book for the umpteenth time and for which you had already memorized the ending. No matter what, you must go back and read it again, and again.

You see…I think knew better. I was more like her than she realized. Or maybe she knew that, too, and was far too stubborn to admit it. She is the one who taught me to note the direction in which the clouds were blowing and tell me, just by a sniff, when a storm was brewing. She would point out when the river was running high by how particular rocks were submerged along a far shore. She would predict, uncannily, what shops would go out of business and point out who was new in town. She knew by a single glance when I had not slept, was telling a fib, or was holding back something she thought she should know.  She could read me like a book. And I let her. It was her talent. Her art. She was a master.

She also characterized the word curious. It was her fundamental principle to be curious about everything. More times than I can count, she and a friend would go out driving for hours in order to get lost only to see if they could find their way home again. No GPS. It was internal. And no challenge too great for someone who set such playful goals.

She taught me the most important lesson of my life by example. Observation and curiosity.  Many go through this life with their eyes on the ground or looking too far ahead, taking the safe path, and not wondering what adventure would be waiting off the beaten path. She taught me to dance in the moment and open my eyes to my surroundings, to look around, to be curious. I have been accused of not being grounded, a “floating head”, in fact (I kid you not). I earned it. So, I will accept that indictment and wear that badge proudly. It would take nothing for me to stumble over a rock when looking at a rainbow.

To me, what makes the good photographic images special is not only the details or an exotic location. It is not just capturing what is blatantly obvious. Rather, portraying and relaying the essence of the moment is what really counts. Noticing the shades of moody light, smelling the brewing storm, sensing the rising tide, and feeling the direction of the wind on your face are what really matters. If one can portray that in a photograph, it is successful. Those are my goals and that is the inspiration I have inherited. Successful or not, it is always fundamental to my work and a gift from my mom that will be eternal.

I can’t call her to tell her about this new business I have or show her the products of my labour and love. I can no longer tell her that I might finally turn my art into a real ‘job’. That would have rocked her world. All I can do now is carry on, observing with curiosity. These are the simple things she taught me without even knowing it.

So how does this story end?  Well it doesn’t. Because I found my inspiration again. I found her on an escape trip to New Mexico where I was destined to ask the desert for help with healing. Turns out, she was everywhere. In the trees, the rocks, the rivers, and in the eagle that always seemed to be soaring above. I saw and marveled at everything through her curious eyes and wondered with her inquisitive mind. It was cathartic and comforting.  I realized that her winged spirit sits silently on my shoulder and is not lost after all.

I will be dedicating some of my new work and some new textiles to the memory of my mother.  I am not yet sure how it will evolve but I think I will just let inspiration be my guide.