The Greatest Show on Earth

My great-aunt Dot, who died before I was born, ran away with the circus in the mid-1930s. She was 15 years old and, orphaned as a very young child, had lived most of her life with my grandmother and great-uncle at Harris and Chilhowee Children’s Home in Tennessee. She would be hunted down and made to return a few months later, having changed her given name from Dorothy Beulah to Dorothy Grey, and bearing a tattoo of a Thunderbird on her left upper arm – very bold for moves for a young woman of that time period.

She resumed her life there at Harris and Chilhowee, finished school, and would later marry and have 4 children. She lived out the remainder of her days in Upstate South Carolina, and what stories of adventure she had during her time with the circus would remain hers and hers alone. What I consider fascinating others considered a rash youthful folly, and she didn’t discuss running away with the circus among anyone in her immediate or extended family.

I wish she had.

The story of Aunt Dot was the basis for the history of the character Nan in my book, The Absence of Anyone Else. I tried to imagine a young teenage girl, relatively happy in her day-to-day life, being swept up by the charisma and charm of a visiting circus, (or, as happens in my story, a handsome blonde boy who travels with a visiting circus), and walking away from her world to be a part of someone else’s. Talk about boldness. This was a time period, remember, where women who cut their hair and wore pants were still considered radicals in the South.

In faded family photos, Dot is dark-eyed and intense, her black hair casually arranged in the style of the day, her tattoo covered by the modest clothing of a rural Southern wife. She could be any typical woman of the era…But she wasn’t. She had a fantastic story, even if she kept it to herself.

I, too, have walked away from my world to be part of someone else’s. I’ve changed my name, then changed it back. I’ve done many things that others might consider to be follies. Some stories I’ve shared. Some I’ve kept sacred to me, as Dot did hers. She is one relative I’ve always felt a kinship to, even though I never knew her. There was something about the story of her ‘youthful folly’ that always spoke to me, that even as a child, I understood. When it became too much to merely wonder about, I bought a book of old circus photos from the early 20th century, and I’d often look at it and wonder about her. Who did she become, at the tender age of 15, when she left Dorothy Beulah behind and became Dorothy Grey? And what part of Dorothy Grey was still present in those blazing dark eyes that stared off somewhere just beyond the photographer’s lens?

And then, this weekend…I actually went to a circus. I took my son to see Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey’s ‘The Greatest Show on Earth’. It was the first circus for both of us, and I was, for all practical purposes, blown away. Of course, a circus of the 1930s would have been an entirely different show than what we saw, but I’m sure it would have been just as amazing for that period of time, for a young girl bored in a group home, wanting something more than just an average, typical life. Even if that something more came with risks. Caught up in the show on Friday, I’d have grabbed up my son and joined them too, in that moment, just to be a part of the magic. Of course it isn’t so easy these days. One cannot simply take the outstretched hand of another, leap up onto the train, and be a part of circus, which explains why I’m still here…that and the fact that, for all my many talents, I’m just not a performer.

However, there is one important thing from Dot’s story that I know to be true, and that is that we can watch the greatest shows on earth from our seats, but we experience nothing if we simply remain spectators, watching trains pass by on their way to somewhere else when the show is over. Without taking risks, without being bold, we’re only spectators, standing on the sidelines, watching others take risks and applauding on cue.

For some people, this is enough, as the proliferation of television watching, cable companies, satellite varieties and reality shows prove.

For Dot, it wasn't. And for me, it will never be.

It’s a sunny day, and I’ll head to the park soon…but expect an artistic interpretation of the circus from Pan Pan Studios. What can I say? It’s in my blood…

Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey’s The Greatest Show on Earth is worth every penny. Follow the link below for show information in your area: http://www.ringling.com/

The Earth is not Round

The Earth is not Round

The earth is not round. It is

all around.

The hawk soars above you.
Try as you might

you can't do what he does. You

will never see as he sees.

You can fly, yes, and you can

look down from on high

but it's different from the window of a plane,

the top of a tower. These are only

attempts to reach

the type of freedom

he was born with.

But don't envy the hawk. Better to

cast your hand

into the soil. This you can do.

The earth is cool

rich

deep. It is here

that you can plant

something.

It is here

where you can nurture

the tiny seed into

a vine that runs across

carefully manicured lawns

like a wild woman,

succulent and beautiful,

making you wonder why anyone ever thought

that a patch of earth

would look better tame.

No, don't envy the hawk.

His wings grow tired from soaring

and hunting

...always hunting. Rather

remember that you, too, can fly

but he can only drag

a talon through the dirt. He can't

plant seeds
that bear fruit.

From above

he watches you

cast seeds into the womb of the earth.

Always hunting,

he watches

as your garden grows.

She Walks Two Worlds, painting by Amy L. Alley
The Earth is not Round copyrighted 2012 by Amy L. Alley

Mama Gratitude

There is an art reception that I need to get to, it’s just a few minutes from now and I’m a long way from being ready.


There is, upon arriving home after a long day, the matter that my son wants to check on his guinea pig, Finn, before we head out. Seven-year-olds do not always understand the concept of prior engagements or commitments to be certain places at certain times. They do, however, understand being away from something you love all day and wanting to reconnect with it.

But…my art is on display, so I really need to be there. I also need to do laundry, and so to give my son a few more minutes with Finn, I pull clothes from the dryer (where they have been since last night) and begin folding them. There is also the matter of snacks. My child is hungry and I never know exactly what refreshments will be provided at these artistic functions. I promise to get a snack together as soon as I’m done with the clothes, and he reminds me that Finn also needs a snack.

The reception begins at 6pm and it’s in another town. I did not get home until almost 5, because I stopped off after work for a quick coffee with a friend while my son was taking part in an afterschool program. That brief stop, little more than an hour, is the only ‘grown up’ (as in without child) time I will have for the entire week. I’m used to them being rare, but try to fit them in whenever I can, even if it means putting me behind schedule the rest of the evening. The wonderfully stimulating conversation I had with my friend, which centered primarily on yoga and intentions for the new year, is on my mind as I finish folding clothes, throw a new load in, make the snack for my child, and wash lettuce leaves for Finn. Upstairs, I remind my son to feed his fish and suddenly, randomly remember that, in my haste to get to my coffee date, I forgot to post my lesson plans for next week before leaving work. Dang.

No time to worry about that now. I look down at my clothes. I wore this ensemble to work and have had it on since 6am, but I think it will pass for the reception. It will have to, there simply isn’t time to change. My son’s clothes…eh, no. I take a quick look at my hair and makeup, splash on some patchouli, and grab a new shirt for him. I brush his hair while he’s eating his snack, and change his clothes in the kitchen. We hit the road with perfect timing, and enter the reception fashionably late.

And it’s a wonderful event, full of friends, art, music, good food, better coffee, and laughter. But after an hour, my child is bored, wandering, looking up at me with tired eyes that remind me 7:30 is just a half-hour away from 8pm, his usual bedtime, even on weekends. In addition, he reminds me that it’s Friday, which is our movie night, and we’re supposed to watch Ninja Turtles.

***

In another life, back when I had the time, freedom, and desire to be petit bourgeois, I’d have stayed at events like this all night. And I’d have more lined up for the next night, and maybe a few speckled throughout the week, and spend hours planning outfits and getting ready. Now…not so much. It isn’t because I have a child, no. The idea that children take from our lives, rather than give, is one that devastates relationships and one I don’t subscribe to. But becoming a mother has changed me, completely, and I like to believe for the better. Because the reality is, everything has it’s time, its place, and it’s occasion to be enjoyed. Would I have liked to spend longer at that reception? A decade ago, yes. But last night, despite the amazing art, wonderful people, and good music, I was actually looking forward to movie night with my son, because I, too, understand being away from something you love all day and wanting to reconnect with it.

A few weeks ago I stumbled across yet another ‘frustrated mother’ essay online, posted on a website that is exists for the purpose of encouraging women, but seems to be turning into just a place for the unhappy to vent. Apparently, there are quite a lot of stay-at-home moms out there who are trying to balance being a stay-at-home mom with pursuing some type of freelance career (usually writing, which seems to be the new hot trend). The feminist in me applauds this as I begin to read the essay. But by the end, the mom in me is just appalled by the writer’s lack of gratitude for what appears to be a pretty cushy life.

Another essay details a woman’s distress over trying to continue her writing career in the midst of parenting two toddlers while her husband works long hours. I’m trying to sympathize, remember what a handful one toddler can be, until she mentions her live-in nanny. Live-in nanny? Really? She is complaining about parenting solo, and yet she has a live-in nanny (which hubby’s long hours obviously pay for). And then another young at-home mom’s essay mulls over long, tedious hours and sleepless night of parenting an infant while watching one’s keyboard get dusty because there simply isn’t enough time to parent the infant, grab sleep when possible, and write. I’m not totally unsympathetic; I remember the days of parenting an infant. I have been there, but here’s the thing: I did all that they are doing, all that parenting , but I did it alone…and while working a full-time, very stressful job outside of the home. And here’s what I’d like to say to these moms who complain without seeming to realize how easy they actually have it: Quit whining.

I have raised my son alone for the last seven years. It was not my intention or desire to, it is just the way it has happened. There was never anyone else in the middle of the night to help tend him, no one to help when he was sick and I was scared, no other parent to lend physical, emotional, or financial support, and certainly no spouse to work long hours so that I might stay at home for the sweet, short duration of my child’s infancy. And unlike many single parents I know, I do not share parenting responsibilities of my child with my own parents. Even if I wanted to, it would be impossible; my mother has a myriad of health issues and my father’s time is consumed in tending to the things that my mother can’t. So I’ve done this – and continue to do it – on my own, wondering what it would have been like for my son and I had things been different, but being grateful, so grateful, always, that I am able to do alone a job that even God intended to be shared by two.

So when I read these venting essays, I’m so stunned by the lack of gratitude these moms seem to have that I can’t even wrap my mind around what they are thinking. Did they not realize that parenting was going consume the majority of their lives? Did they go into motherhood totally delusional about what tending an infant or toddler was like? Did they actually believe a person can tend and infant and simultaneously build a career? But most importantly, don’t they realize that childhood is brief, so brief, and that time for themselves will come again, sooner than they might imagine? In the blink of an eye, afternoons will stretch out endlessly before them, hours and hours to write, paint, do whatever they please without the interruption of ‘Mama’, because their child(ren) have grown wings and taken flight? Don’t they realize how precious these days, these moments, actually are?

And are they not in the least bit grateful to have been afforded in life a partner to raise these children with? One who is intelligent, responsible, and caring enough to spend long days working a job they may not even enjoy in order to support a family which, rare these days, has a mom at home at the helm? I hear the whining loud and clear. What I don’t hear, even once, in their writing is the gratitude.

I’d have given a limb to have not had to take my son to daycare at 8 weeks of age. To not have had to go into work – work! – on an hour of sleep on so many occasions when my baby was still learning the difference between days and nights. To not have counted weekend hours slipping by with tears in my eyes because I knew, come 7am Monday, I’d be turning the babe in my arms over to someone else. It was a searing pain in the heart, this parting, and wasn’t because I wanted to pursue a career. It was because I had to work in order that my child and I could live. There was no one else who was going to do it, no one giving to me the luxury of staying at home or, good heavens, staying at home with a full-time nanny. The light at the end of my tunnel, however, was the fact that, as an educator, I knew that I would always have summer break, winter break, and spring break. These times together, and the knowledge they were coming, got me through those long months of being separated from what I loved most all day.

But the most amazing thing of all is that while I parented alone and worked a full-time job, guess what? I still found time to write. And paint. And learn to knit. And play with my son. And organize art exhibits. And potty train my son. And send out query letters that got answers. And take commissions. And teach my child the alphabet. And make altered clothes out of old clothes so I didn’t have to buy new ones all the time. And have articles published. And teach my son to identify birds by their sounds on long afternoon walks. And get my own column in a magazine. And teach my child to ride a bike and bake bread. And work. Work, work, work…and keep up with bills, the laundry, the house, and still make special events (like movie night and a trip abroad) happen for my child. And plant a garden, and take day trips, and set up an Etsy shop for my art, and do yoga every day, and take my son to swim meets, and work out, and write, and attend art receptions (even if just for an hour), and have fleeting coffees with friends and all day play dates with my son’s friends because that’s just life when you’re a parent. And paint, and knit when I couldn’t paint so I’d still feel creative, and watch my child grow and blossom into an amazing human being, and remember enjoy every minute that I have been blessed to BE…A…MOM.

While I am intensely passionate about my art and very committed to my writing, I know there are at least million artists out there, and a shockingly increasing number of writers popping up every day. But there is only one child that is mine, and he has only one mother. Me. There is, and will never be, a greater calling for me than this. And maybe my experiences in mothering solo have made me, after 7 years, just more unsympathetic to ‘mom whining’ than I’d like to admit. I try not to judge, and to practice love and compassion, but truth is, ingratitude is an attribute I find intolerable. However, a few days ago, I stumbled across a blog by a wonderful young artist-writer-mom, a happy stay-at-homer (they exist! Yaay!) that freelanced in her spare time, not worrying if she wrote every day or even every week, because she knew her husband’s job would pay the bills, and she knew she was blessed to be present for every minute of her young child’s life. WOW. This wise woman, a decade younger than me, basically stated that she “knew her time to pursue her own passions 100% would come back, so she didn’t mind giving her time now to her son because she was so utterly grateful to have the opportunity to be with him full-time in his early life.” I was elevated, thrilled, over-the-moon with her essay. There was a tribe of Mamas like me out there. Kindred Mamas. Grateful Mamas. Happy, creative, child-centered Mamas, who, whether parenting with partners or parenting solo, embraced their blessings, were grateful for every minute with their child(ren), and knew that if you quit whining and practiced gratitude, happiness opened up, even on the difficult days, and you found you simply had more of it than you ever imagined you might.

***

No one is superwoman, least of all me. I have a high energy level and having practiced martial arts rather intensely in my younger years, I’ve learned a thing or two about discipline that help me accomplish what I have in the midst of what seems like chaos to others. But I also make choices that serve me and my child in the now. And, as the young mother I admire so much wrote in her essay, the thing about the activities I step out of, the events I don’t attend in order to parent, is that they will still be there, still happening, when my son no longer wants to spend his Friday nights with me. It’s like a dance that never ends. I’ll step right back into it when the time comes, like I never left, like the whirlwind days of mothering a young child had never even happened.

Something tells me, however, that I’ll miss those whirlwind days of young childhood much more than I’ve ever missed standing around with groups of fashionably dressed people, sipping wine and making intelligent conversation. I’ll miss movie night, hurried snacks, and quality time with guinea pigs more than I’ve ever missed elegant petit fours with people I only know socially. And so I linger in this time now, stealing creative moments and grown-up coffees with dear friends when I can, but cherishing, always cherishing, the now that I have, this fleeting now I’ve been blessed with. There will not likely be, for me, another time that I will ever be the parent of a young child, but there will be infinite chances to write and make art when he is no longer a young child. This present, this now, is once in a lifetime. I don’t wish it away, heavens no…I snag it, grab, and try to hold on.

It hasn’t been easy every step, and I’ve not always been as grateful as I am now. I’d also not recommend solo parenting as an ideal, no matter how fabulously feministic it might seem. It’s hard, damn hard, but so are diamonds, which society treasure and hold in highest esteem as a token of love. I’ve personally no use for diamonds, but I do hold in highest esteem the role I have as a mother, whether society values it or not. Perhaps there are those who would look at my art or my writing and actually consider it a more worthwhile contribution to the world than my child, and for them, I feel compassion… but for myself, I feel only joy.

Mama-whining? No thank you. I have Mama-gratitude. I’m blessed beyond measure…and lucky me, I’m wise enough to know it.

Letter To My Son In Honor Of His 7th Birthday

Here is what I know: At the beginning, I knew nothing. Only love.

I did not know how I was going to do this…alone. I only knew, instantly upon seeing you, that nothing I’d done with my life up to that point even mattered. It fell away. Who I was before that moment fell away. Nothing mattered, nothing at all, but you.
When you have your own children you will know what I mean. The feeling is that strong. But to love someone, anyone, takes courage. You’ll learn that, too.

Before your birth, when your feet pressed so hard against the inside of my tummy that I could see the shape of it on the outside, I knew you had spirit. I liked that, because I, too, have spirit. I wanted your spirit to be as indomitable as mine, even though I knew it would mean tough discipline challenges down the road.

And I was right. You have not always been easy. But I did not ask for easy. I wanted spirited…and they are not the same thing. Not at all.

You have grown to look like me, with your big brown eyes and unruly mane of curls, but your personality mirrors mine very little. I’m amazed by this. You’re so outgoing! You seek the company of others, where I always preferred to play alone. I used to find a quiet spot and read during recess, but this is not your way, not at all. I liked solitude, but you prefer companionship.

And what companions you and I have been! How I cherished our time together, just the two of us, when you were younger. Then one day, when you were about five, you said to me, “Mama, we need more people,” and I knew you were right. I’d kept our little world almost exclusive because of my own preferences. But you were ready to broaden your horizons, and I loved you too much to hold you back. So I opened up the world for you. I broke our constant routines that you were growing so tired of and I let you lead me into developing new friendships, new connections, and a whole new lifestyle. I watched the ease with which you connected to new people, and I quit bringing books or knitting to the park or to birthday parties you were invited to. I spoke to other parents instead. Acquaintances slowly become friends, good friends. Our world got a little bit bigger each day. And I saw how happy it made you. Now you hit the door immediately asking for someone to come over. I don’t take it personally. I love that you brought more people into both our lives. I’ve spent enough time in my own head. Our world is so full of people now, sometimes I wonder how to fit them all in. And it’s fabulous. Wonderful. So much better than it was before.

Your mind fascinates me, because it’s so unlike my own. You love concrete, logical things. You get upset with me if you know I’m bending the rules, or not following the Lego instructions exactly. You notice things like this, and you’re bothered by them. I see the seeds there for a future preference for organization. It lets me know I better make more of an effort to be organized in my own life, so I can set a good example.

And that, my child, has been your greatest influence on my life, knowing that I serve as an example to you. Every action I take, I know you are there, watching. Every chance I take, and every chance I pass up, I know you are learning from my example. The moments when I want to turn away from someone in anger, but choose to act with love instead, because I want to make sure that you are taught by my example it is never a mistake to care; The moments when I want to give up, but know that I can’t, because I want to make sure you are never taught by my example that giving up is okay; The moments when I feel overwhelmed, but I want you to remember me as strong, and so I find a way to demonstrate strength, so that you might know, from my example, nothing is impossible; The moments I find delight in a sunrise, or the shape of a plant’s leaf, a cup of coffee or the particular rhythm of a cat’s purring…I want you to learn from my example that the simple joys of life are always with us.

Your days as a young child have passed, you are entering your middle childhood years, developing a clear idea of who you are and what you like. These years will take you away from me little by little, bit by bit, moment by moment…but I’m okay with that. You are my child, not my life companion, and I know full well there will come a day that you leave me completely. I want you to do it with courage and confidence. You are so fearless now, I can’t imagine what adventures you will take yourself on in years to come. I’ve already taken you on so many, and I know we have many left to take together. But you have taken me on an adventure of finding myself through parenting you. My love for you made me determined to give you the best and fullest life possible…which meant I had to grab life by the horns in a way I never quite had before. But I could not show you how to really live were I not doing it myself.

And so, my spirited, son, as your 7th year begins, here is my wish for your life, spoken to you in a way I know you will understand: Live it. Fully and completely. Don’t stand on the sidelines playing it safe. Get out there in the game. You might get hurt, but you will heal. You might get knocked down, but you’ll stand back up. What matters in the end is that you played. What you would regret, in the end, is standing back, holding back, wishing you had the nerve to play. I will always lead you by this one example: Play. Play well, and play as often as you can.

Thank you for teaching me how to do just that.

The Wind

It is a thought, it is a feeling, it is the wind, carried to me and through me by a voice on the other end of the line.

How foolish we are! How vain to think ourselves so strong. How vain to think that I could not be toppled. I have never seen the wind, but I have seen what it can do…mighty oaks scattered like toothpicks.


Wind can glide through the tree tops, calming our minds with faerie sounds. It can dance with stars at night. It can gently warm our faces as we stand on shores of foreign seas.


Or it can blow cold. Bite. Bring tears to our eyes.

I’ve tried to paint the wind. But like love, it can’t be expressed in form. Like love, it cannot be seen. Like love, it can only be felt. Like love, we have no control over its intensity or the direction it may choose to take. We can only experience it.



I hang up the phone and immediately hear sirens wailing. Outside, I see signs of the wind. Leaves are scurrying by, enjoying the ride. Without the wind to scuttle them, they lie in piles and decompose. The wind is their adventure, the only force that can save them from simply rotting where they fell. They have no power to lift themselves up. They can only lie in stasis, hoping for a gust to carry them somewhere new before it is too late.


I watch one large golden oak leaf pass by the window. The wind picks it up, dances with it, then lets it be. Still for a moment, it is lifted up again. Carried. Dropped. Up. Down. I watch until it disappears from sight, a particularly strong gust carrying it around the corner.


Sirens wail. I’m in the car. I want home. I want safety. I want to drink coffee and watch the storm through my patio door. And this is the plan.

But it is not what I do.

 I’m home. I’m safe. But I’m not behind the door. I’m on the patio, wind whipping past my face, drops of rain dancing on my skin. The storm is abating, as they always do.


I cannot see the wind, but I believe in it all the same. I have never doubted it is there. I have never doubted, in its absence, that it would one day return.


So long as I can feel, I know. I do not have to see.
For example, I do not need to be near the Arctic Circle to know that it is winter there. The wind blows cold, carrying with it tiny shards of ice that bite the skin, bring tears to the eyes. Wind from the top of the world can freeze a person in place, which is quite dangerous. It can take a long time to thaw a thing that’s frozen solid. And other times, it can thaw in an instant.

It all depends.

The phone rings. I am still for a moment, then lifted up again.

Carried. Dropped. Up. Down.
We can only experience it.

Art: The Other Side of the Sea, by Amy L. Alley, 2011

Mylar Balloon Reflections (or Playing with Creativity)

From the window of my classroom, I can usually see kids outside playing. However, when there is no recess going on, I can see what lies beyond the school gates....a small church cemetery. (I can see the church too, of course....)

One day I noticed balloons and flowers on one of the graves. I could see them from the window, briliant colors blowing in the wind. Those balloons  got me thinking about life, and about how I am spending mine. Mainly in terms of what legacy I leave behind.

All I can do with Eric is hope I leave a lasting, valued impression on his life. Although I love my own parents, I am so different from them...I don't embody any of thier beliefs and/or values...other than my life, I'm not sure what thier legacy to me has been. My family life has not always been easy. There's a reason I sometimes need a little distance, whether it is 15 miles, 1,000 miles, or an ocean between us.  Which makes me wonder about Eric, about what life he'll embrace, and which of the values I've taught him - if any - he'll hold on to. And suddenly I'm aware that he is getting older, and that his childhood is passing faster than I can keep up.

There is still so many things I wish to make happen for him... I wish he had a sibling. I wish he had a father figure, or at least another person in his life who'd love him as I do. I wish he had a backyard.  And a pony.  And a pool... I wish so much...but I am only one person. What takes the primary bulk of my attention right now is simply living. The chores, the homework, the necessary family time and play, the woods romping, the laundry....what time I find to really focus and concentrate on dreams and ideas is usually the late evening hours, when the house is quiet. I unclutter my mind from the drama of the day and play with creating.

Play with creating, you say…isn’t it a serious, deep venture? Aren’t artists supposed to be on some different level than everyone else? Aren’t writers supposed to be ornery loners that possess more intelligence than everyone else? Aren’t poets and musicians supposed to be dreamy romantics who hop and skip through clover waving colorful ribbons? Okay, maybe I went too far on that one but I think you get the point. Play at creating makes it sound like I don’t take myself – or what I create – very seriously.

And you know what? I don’t. 

I did, once. When my life consisted of evenings spent in pretentious mod circles, sipping wine from plastic cups and eating Brie at art receptions and listening to other artists – or worse, myself – talk cryptically about their work and their reasons for creating it. The big favorites were always political or social justice issues. Rarely did anyone, even me, ever say ‘I created this because I just love painting!’ (you can change the setting here to literary reading or concert and insert poetry or music or writing in place of painting, the effect will be the same.) And my own work took on darker overtones, not because I had complex, deep issues, but because my seeming to have complex, deep issues made both me and my work more interesting somehow.

Then, I had a child. Wow. 

Deep, complex issues? Thanks, but no thanks. Political and social issues, yeah, I care about you, but I’m not inspired by you to create something just to prove to the world I care about you. And as to being on a different level than everyone else, well, I’ve come to the realization that Picasso was right when he said we spend our entire adult lives trying to create again with the freedom we created with as children. I’ve done the loner thing, it isn’t as fun or fulfilling as Hemingway made it seem. And I have skipped through clover waving colorful ribbons, I’ll admit that…but it was with my son, and we were playing with nature. 

And last night, I sat in front of my easel and had fun with dots and swirls. Perhaps my new work won’t be taken as seriously as some of my older pieces, but I don’t take myself as seriously as I did ten years ago, and I’m kind of okay with people not staring into my art and looking for pain and angst beneath the layers of paint, or reading my poetry and dissecting it, and so on. Life is short. I’ve no time for pain and angst, nor do I want to create any lasting thing that reflects it. I want to play. Not just with my child, but with art. And poetry. And the things that I write. If you've seen my yard, then you know I even play with my landscaping. And definitely my clothing. And if there is a message that my work, or my life, conveys, I want it to be this:

CREATING…IS…FUN!!!!! 

And so I look out the window at the balloons, so out of place on cemetery grounds, blowing in the wind, and I think about the legacy I will leave behind. I want it to be greater than paintings adorning the walls of strangers, a mention in an art book somewhere, an inclusion in an anthology on painters. While all of those things are nice, they’re not my sole (or my soul) ambition anymore.

Creating, like life, should be fun. When we take ourselves too seriously, we lose that element, not only from our work but from our lives, from our beings. I recently passed up a glitzy Friday night art reception to paint pottery with two 6 year olds, something the 25 year old me could not even have conceived of doing. And the most amazing thing of all is it was exactly what my heart desired to do.

As my 38th birthday approached and passed last week, I realized that having a child and working with children has spared me from the road of pretentious mod-ness that I was careening down at breakneck speed. Becoming a parent opened me up to a magic and a wonder I had forgotten in my quest for fame and fortune. It opened me up to skipping in meadows waving ribbons, getting my hands dirty, catching butterflies with nets, making flop cakes and ‘anything’ cookies. It opened me up to love something, finally, more than I loved myself. It opened me up to fun.

I still want my work, and my life, to have an impact. I’m passionate about environmental and social issues. But I’m more passionate about joy, and helping others find it. If there is a legacy left behind in my art or poetry or writing, I want it to be one of beauty.

And the legacy I want to leave behind for my child? Be joyous. Life is short. Create always, but create beauty. Help others to create beauty and find joy as well. There is no nobler pursuit in life than bringing joy to another, whether it is through art, writing, poetry, music, or by simply loving them and showing that love by sharing your most precious gift: your time and attention.

I may never be able to give my child a house with a yard, a pony, a pool, a sibling or a father figure for his life. But I can give him the gift of how to find beauty and joy through the act of creating, not for recognition or fortune, but merely for fun. I can make sure that whether or not he agrees with my political, spiritual, or even nutritional beliefs, he will at least know, for certain, that it life it meant to be lived. And it’s meant to be fun.

And when we take ourselves too seriously, well, it becomes our great misfortune.

The Photographer

The Photographer

"You're alluring,"
says the man
photographing my art.

"Would you consider
letting me
shoot you
sometime?"

Standing behind my painting
I consider
his offer
for a moment.

Standing behind my painting
I consider
(for a moment)
how nice it is
to be seen.

- Amy L. Alley, 2011