Thanksgiving and November in general has to be my most difficult time of year. The idea of family gatherings bring me nothing but a burning through my chest: a mix of hope and loss.
How green I was five years ago, my last name recently changed through marriage and struggling though my second semester of student teaching as an art teacher in a Pittsburgh inner city high school. Still fresh with the ideals that had been presented to me through my life- some sort of fantasy intertwined with hope and crushing disappointment.
I wish I could even remember what I was trying to teach the students that day in their art classes, or what topic my after school course was when I got the email, (yes… email) that my house had been lit on fire and was currently being extinguished. I think the landlords even said ‘It’s all been taken care of.’ like it was a broken hinge on the door or someone mistakenly put my mail in the wrong slot.
Lights from fire trucks were blazing as I pulled up. The company who had been hired to fix the roof had lit it on fire by mistake when using a blowtorch. I entered looking for Whittaker, ignoring all the men who tried to talk to me about logistics and insurance.
He had been home alone, just a kitten at the time, and after searching and calling for him he finally appeared, shaking and scared. I pulled him to me and breathed him in, soothing his fears. I had just turned my attention to the hundreds of my portfolio artworks covered in soot-water from hoses that had poured through the ceiling when the phone rang:
“Your mom is dead.”
A high-pitched ringing in the ear and breath stopped in my lungs as I stared at the ruined artwork, my kitten clinging to mu chest; At least the voice was familiar on the other end of the phone, gentle cool, begrudgingly giving me this tidbit of information, my grandmother.
Firefighters boots heavy on the floor behind me tracing patterns on the old wooden floorboards now covered in soot in water. The only words I could utter from my lips were “ okay” before ending the phone call and standing in the war zone in my own home, so different from how I had left it that morning.
Hands shaking, I dialed my then husband, I tell him that my mother has died, over 1000 miles away from my now charcoal soaked life.
The cleanup crew sent in women, with mops and buckets, brooms, and towels. One of them stoped, noticing my tears. She ran to me giving her condolences on the fire, the loss of my possessions, the inconvenience of my displacement.
current work in progress- Acrylic on paper 12”x18” 2020
I allowed myself to confide in this woman, a stranger, that my mother has just died. Instinctively she reached out, pulling me to her chest, as I began to sob, my inhales catching her gentle perfume. She smoothed my hair and tells me she is sorry, as if to comfort a little child in her arms.
Women do this, we sooth, comfort, give of ourselves to complete strangers, to loved ones, to the little children whose tears are hot and sticky on their cheeks. It is race-less, creed-less, genderless, to whom we give this love.
As women we feel such deep emotions, beautiful things like love and hope, and we can feel pain in others as if it was our own. It is such a powerful thing to be able to comfort, to lean into a woman and ask for help, to be given that help so freely. How powerful, how absolutely gorgeous in our divine nature, our truth.
From the literal ashes of my worst day on this earth I have rebuild myself, piece by piece; I do this through art, wellness, yoga, and my connections with others.
I had to start over in my studio after that day. I lost countless works of art but by the grace given, and resilience, my spirt healed. I continue to work I focus my attention on connecting to the past, present as I grow as a person an artist.
I hope that your Thanksgiving is light, soft, and full of love. Enjoy it deeply, breathe new life into each day.