2002-08-20 - 9:57 p.m.
"Spring is past, summer is gone, and winter is here. And the song that I was meant to sing is still unsung. I have spent my days stringing and restringing my instrument."
(author unknown)
My mother met me for lunch today and we had quiche and ice tea at a little French sort of Cafe near the university. She comes in to town for a dental appointment once in a while and we reprise our old tradition. For years, before she retired, we used to go out for lunch every Wednesday. It was a tradition we both loved. We saved things for "show and tell" and shared our various projects and problems. Sometimes we had the most inspiring conversations, and sometimes we just bitched about our jobs and relationships. But it was our constant connection in otherwise hectic lives, and I think we both miss it.
She's seventy now, but still seems young in many ways. She has white hair, but avoids the old lady pastel pouf thing. Mostly, she still has this amazing spirit, this stubborn insistence that nothing or nobody will back her into a corner. Certainly no man ever has. She is the person who said to me, at a critical juncture in my philosophical development: "There is always a way out." She believes that and so do I.
Today she brought her paintings to show me. She is taking a painting class and is both excited and frustrated about what she is trying to do. She had a good amount of artistic promise in her youth, but gave it up to concentrate on writing. For many years she never picked up a brush, and now she finds that she is having to relearn some of those basic skills. But she is doing it, and I am so proud of her, and I think she is proud of herself. She is painting things that make her smile: a purple cow, her childrens' old well-loved toys.
We are comparing notes on our progress in learning new skills; she the painting and me the guitar. When you take up a new craft of any kind you don't know how to cope with your failures. I am a painter, so I can easily cope with a mistake in paint. I can fix it or turn it into something else or live with it. But when I can't quite get through a song after practicing it several times, I have to fight off the feeling that maybe I don't have any business doing this at all.
Mother reminded me of the quotation about stringing and restringing your instrument. I think it has had a certain resonance for both of us. We both have the strong creative drive, and yet have been vulnerable to the forces that tell us other things are more important. And it is amazing how you can fool yourself with all the stringing.... planning and getting ready and cleaning and sorting and waiting for the right moment. I had my first opportunity to restring for real this weekend when Skootie showed me how to put new strings on my guitar. It is a time-consuming ritual involving tools and special knots and mystique. Just the kind of thing I love. I spent a lot of energy on getting those strings just right, and had a definite sense of accomplishment when I did.... but the will to make music must still come from somewhere inside. I think it's the same place you get the will to paint a purple cow.
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