It was a time

This is a photograph of my mother and father, taken by my father, who knew his way around tripods and timers, shadows and lighting. The secret to staging a scene.

This couple in the photograph--they’re obviously in love.

But, I never knew them. By the time, I came along their marriage was complicated by too much work and too little money, small children, summer barbecues interrupted by sudden lightening. Fights.

So many fights.

But there she is--my mother on stage, her face luminous in the spotlight, dancing in a PTA show. Afterwards, she is told she’s too provocative. Her costume, the dancing. I am a little girl sitting in the back of the Belltown Elementary School auditorium, thinking simply that my mother is the most beautiful woman in the world.

And my father away, away, away. Don’t ask. He was away.

Then, the swinging sixties. My mother, chastised, standing, stoic at the white elephant sale in the church parking lot, selling unloved knick-knacks, subdued by her doctor’s prescription for Meprobamate.

Dreams deferred. Car accidents, nervous breakdowns. More prescription drugs. Vietnam. The Free Speech Movement. The Feminine Mystique. Kent State, the Manson Murders.

It was a time.

Creative Friends--your story is different from my story. But, you have a story. It’s a new year, and a good time to move around the furniture and look into the dark corners of your story. Shine some light on the floorboards. Peak into the crevices. See what you come up with. Reorganize the narrative.

Perhaps your story is not as scary as you think it is.

In fact, consider the fact that your story—in all its grit and glory—is actually your gift.

Wishing everyone a happy and creative New Year.

Love,

Jamie