The winter forest of birch trees on our property in Vanderhoof — bare but entwined, as if to keep each other warm. How many times did I see this silent scene when doing dishes? Did I ever get a picture? The house is gone now — the little kitchen window broken into tiny pieces. An image lost in time.
The small sketch I made of Bella & Sam sleeping beside me on the couch in Vancouver at our 8th Ave. apartment — I wanted to get the exact position of how their legs were on top of the other one’s but my drawing skills were terrible & no camera was available — an image lost in time. Other memories from that apartment — brand new, with a little garden, with a balcony outside with a space at the bottom just big enough for poor, blind Sam to fall through. Usually, I heard him in the garden but one rainy night he went under the fence & got lost — I was so worried until the next day I heard him meowing in the alley. An image lost in time.
Without a camera or the ability to quickly sketch, our mind must recreate our memories for us — so imperfect.
The glorious fun I had when my parents helped [$$$$] decorate my bedroom & I designed all the storage I needed! Designed a whole wall with a closet, drawers for clothes, shelves for shoes & books, a separate desk for my sewing machine, & a desk for schoolwork or the typewriter (remember Mom’s old-style manual [oops, non-electric, for all you youngsters!] — portable, in a case!).
On the side wall Dad put up pegboard & I hung all sorts of stuff — including my bed’s headboard! Each desk had drawers and cubby holes & some pegboard — everything had a place — thread, pins, mega types of fasteners, . . . even a slot the perfect size for my ironing board (folded) & a shelf with an outlet for my iron right above it — pretty exciting for a seamstress! An image lost in time BUT WAIT — my parents still live in that house — my wall is still there (well, most of it anyway). It is now my mom’s sewing, ironing, storage & taping tv soaps, room. An image changed by time.
Something I’ve noticed since starting this blog — all these memories that are pressing to be released — “write me”, “tell about me”, “remember me”. Is that creative writing? To write down memories. An image preserved in time.
I haven’t quite decided yet so I’m not setting anything down as a Creative Act — but I have started on two “pet” projects I’ve played with for years. Hopefully, each will become a book but who knows? What I do know is that I have collected a forest worth of scraps of paper, dozens of assorted sizes of notebooks [some now moldy], and hundreds of computer files in Word, email, & other long- forgotten programs — filled with notes & ideas but never truly organized into any kind of story or order. I think here would be a great place to get this all together finally. I know I haven’t been this enthused about writing for a long, long time.
“Natasha” started in grade 10 English class where I was first introduced to journal entry writing. “Eeek, what am I going to write about? My life is boring.” “Pretend you’re someone else”, the teacher says, “go to places you’ve read about.” Thus Natasha was born — the angst-ridden dreams of an emotional 15-yr-old girl on the edge of womanhood. And she experienced life. It will be nice to have her all in one place. Hee hee
My other project is entitled “Letters To My Sons” & I thought it would be a simple collection of a few letters to my three sons on my feelings of being a mother. Of course, trying to put “simple” & “motherhood” together creates an oxymoron.
As a busy, working, Cub-leader with three busy, athletic boys, I never seemed to find the time to say, or write, all the things a mother wants to say. And children don’t always hear all the things a mother wants to say. BUT if I write it down, will they? As they mature, as they have children, will my words be worthy? We shall see.
I’ve started typing & organizing these projects under their own categories. It’s pretty scary putting your personal thoughts out there for anyone to read. When I’m brave enough, I’ll post a couple for the world to see — but I know “stretching my boundaries” will be worth it for my creative being — and I know my own little world will let me know what it’s worth to them.