'Fractured Beauty'
I created this work using mixed media and Platte knives, (no brushes) featuring Sunflowers layered under and over a lattice pattern cut with Cricut's Explore® Air
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Friday, April 22, 2016
Dear Moms....
Dear Moms,
You have a gig that would make any non-Mom human falter. I had no clue until I recently began to try on the idea. Now that I am getting an inkling, I am floored.
Hi Mom, the one who breast pumps milk at work while hiding in the unlocked server room which contains four air conditioning units on full blast to keep said servers cool under a blanket woofing down your lunch - You are a super hero.
Hi Mom of two, you breast pump in an un-lockable office supply closet. Due to work demands and time off constraints, you went back at three and half weeks... after you tore to a three in delivery. You can't sit down still so you have propped up your monitors with boxes and you stand all day. Co-workers ask how your month off went. Some how you have not clocked anyone in the mouth. I don't know how. If you cave and do, I promise to vouch for you and say it was self defense.
Hello Mom who isn't breast feeding, the office wanted to go out for lunch. To welcome you back. To get there we drove over a long and bumpy road. You sat in the back, polite grin frozen on your teeth as your tightly bound breasts shot unthinkable amounts of pain through your body over every jolt. I furtively watched your face turn whiter by the moment... I am really sorry...
This other Mom happens to be one of my most admired people. She's a widow with three girls and has since all that upheaval, has re-married and had a little boy (now almost two) with the new hubby. She got in thirty minutes late the other day. Someone said something catty about it. Since I know her, I reached under the conference table and squeezed her hand. She hung on back. She was at hospital with little dude all night, and came home in the morning to find her younger daughter in a pickle I won't elaborate on here. Point is that lady some how already turned in all of things needed for this morning by 8am.
Seriously society?
You grow a human for nine months in your body, have it extracted from your vagina or your stomach and society doesn't say, hey, since you just train wrecked your life and body, you should take the fourth trimester to heal and recover, to attempt to get onto a normal sleeping schedule, to adjust to having a tiny human in your world.
This culture says, 'Hey, get back to work! You're lucky we gave you any time off!"
I believe having a kid is a personal choice so I don't mean paid time off should be expected. It's awesome when companies choose to but what I mean is, how can a society expects these Mom's to hurry the hell up and get back on the clock? Or else they will consider you just a lazy entitled step-ford wife hanging out getting her nails done. If a Mom wants to, has to, chooses to go back asap, totally cool... but at least give her a little slack!
I see you, all of you, finally, and I am a little intimidated by all of you because you are the ultimate bad-ass.
You have a gig that would make any non-Mom human falter. I had no clue until I recently began to try on the idea. Now that I am getting an inkling, I am floored.
Hi Mom, the one who breast pumps milk at work while hiding in the unlocked server room which contains four air conditioning units on full blast to keep said servers cool under a blanket woofing down your lunch - You are a super hero.
Hi Mom of two, you breast pump in an un-lockable office supply closet. Due to work demands and time off constraints, you went back at three and half weeks... after you tore to a three in delivery. You can't sit down still so you have propped up your monitors with boxes and you stand all day. Co-workers ask how your month off went. Some how you have not clocked anyone in the mouth. I don't know how. If you cave and do, I promise to vouch for you and say it was self defense.
Hello Mom who isn't breast feeding, the office wanted to go out for lunch. To welcome you back. To get there we drove over a long and bumpy road. You sat in the back, polite grin frozen on your teeth as your tightly bound breasts shot unthinkable amounts of pain through your body over every jolt. I furtively watched your face turn whiter by the moment... I am really sorry...
This other Mom happens to be one of my most admired people. She's a widow with three girls and has since all that upheaval, has re-married and had a little boy (now almost two) with the new hubby. She got in thirty minutes late the other day. Someone said something catty about it. Since I know her, I reached under the conference table and squeezed her hand. She hung on back. She was at hospital with little dude all night, and came home in the morning to find her younger daughter in a pickle I won't elaborate on here. Point is that lady some how already turned in all of things needed for this morning by 8am.
Seriously society?
You grow a human for nine months in your body, have it extracted from your vagina or your stomach and society doesn't say, hey, since you just train wrecked your life and body, you should take the fourth trimester to heal and recover, to attempt to get onto a normal sleeping schedule, to adjust to having a tiny human in your world.
This culture says, 'Hey, get back to work! You're lucky we gave you any time off!"
I believe having a kid is a personal choice so I don't mean paid time off should be expected. It's awesome when companies choose to but what I mean is, how can a society expects these Mom's to hurry the hell up and get back on the clock? Or else they will consider you just a lazy entitled step-ford wife hanging out getting her nails done. If a Mom wants to, has to, chooses to go back asap, totally cool... but at least give her a little slack!
I see you, all of you, finally, and I am a little intimidated by all of you because you are the ultimate bad-ass.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Saturday, April 2, 2016
Hands
It's 3am and I am listening to you.
I am a curvy kind of female. Flat tummy, strong legs for skiing down mountains, a bit short on height and regular features. Will you love snow? Will you be little like I was, when you are little? Will you have his dark hair and grey blue eyes or my green ones?
In the beginning weeks, I reached for you and found nothing there. Then around ten weeks I felt something, awakening maybe? I am not sure of the word. It was a feeling like watching a seed first crack open. At twelve I felt colors... I dreamed colors. Reds, yellow, blues and lavender.
When I sit up, stand up, there isn't anything to show. There is nothing that yet gives away your hiding place. It's only here, now, when it is dark and quiet, when I can feel my tummy's slightly rounded firmness, where I cloak your world. It is only in this quiet hour when sometimes, deep inside, I wake up because you fluttered.
My fingers flutter back to you and I think about your hands. How they are developing, your nerves connecting, sensitivity building, the essence of you, which will choose who you become, solidifying.
I confess I am vain about my own hands. I like watching them. They are loveliest when I am holding a bit of chalk and my nail polish is coated in a dusting of purples and greens and a bit of fire red. They are the anchor of my essence, the extension and sum of all I am.
I have a thing for hands in general, so many people do extraordinary things with their's. I watch my best friend working on a broken sprinkler head, kiting up his wing or fixing my computer.... his fingers dancing across the key board to repair whatever I broke, again, with the elegance of a concert pianist. I think about his hands holding your hands.
What will you do with your hands?
I am a curvy kind of female. Flat tummy, strong legs for skiing down mountains, a bit short on height and regular features. Will you love snow? Will you be little like I was, when you are little? Will you have his dark hair and grey blue eyes or my green ones?
In the beginning weeks, I reached for you and found nothing there. Then around ten weeks I felt something, awakening maybe? I am not sure of the word. It was a feeling like watching a seed first crack open. At twelve I felt colors... I dreamed colors. Reds, yellow, blues and lavender.
When I sit up, stand up, there isn't anything to show. There is nothing that yet gives away your hiding place. It's only here, now, when it is dark and quiet, when I can feel my tummy's slightly rounded firmness, where I cloak your world. It is only in this quiet hour when sometimes, deep inside, I wake up because you fluttered.
My fingers flutter back to you and I think about your hands. How they are developing, your nerves connecting, sensitivity building, the essence of you, which will choose who you become, solidifying.
I confess I am vain about my own hands. I like watching them. They are loveliest when I am holding a bit of chalk and my nail polish is coated in a dusting of purples and greens and a bit of fire red. They are the anchor of my essence, the extension and sum of all I am.
I have a thing for hands in general, so many people do extraordinary things with their's. I watch my best friend working on a broken sprinkler head, kiting up his wing or fixing my computer.... his fingers dancing across the key board to repair whatever I broke, again, with the elegance of a concert pianist. I think about his hands holding your hands.
What will you do with your hands?
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