Last year the Bohemian and I were gifted a mystery plumeria tree. Meaning that the farmer offering it to us didn’t know what kind of plumeria it was.
These signature Hawaiian trees offer up traditional lei flowers that can run a spectrum of colors, from white, to pink, to a dark maroon.
We were fine with the unknown. The Bohemian and I dug a huge hole, adding rich compost and Spirulina powder. We pulled some wedding remnants out of the closet, too. The dried remains of the ti leaf lei the Bohemian wore, and the circle of chocolate orchid blooms that was my bridal crown. We put these mementos just below the roots of the plumeria, filled in the hole, and watered.
We’ve been watching its steady progress over the last year, and it’s doing well. This week, the Bohemian spotted signs of its first flower buds.
The mystery is about to be revealed.
If all unfolds as it naturally should, we’ll know soon the color of its blooms.
“Maybe you can write a post about how it’s your last post.”
That’s eleven-year old Jeb about six months ago, talking to me from the passenger seat of our car on a morning drive to the bus stop.
When he says “last post,” he means my last post about him.
Alas, it has become apparent that my prose from a mother’s perspective has now become age-inappropriate. Simply put, he wants his privacy. What was sweet at seven, is too much exposure at eleven.
And I can respect that.
So instead of discontinuing posts about Jeb, I simply stopped the words altogether.
For those following the Archives, you may have noticed a progression towards pause, as sentences morphed to simple snapshots. And then for a good long while there, the posts just stopped coming.
There are volumes written about the ‘artist’s process’ and some days I’m uncertain if I’m an artist at all, let alone in any kind of process. But I do know that after nearly five years of solid dedication to the Archives, I just needed to be still. No words, no images.
In the depths of motherhood, I am finding myself constantly in new territory, trying to adapt with the flux and find my bearings. Jeb grows four inches in a year. He evolves into new stages, rapidly outgrowing his blue jeans, and making obsolescence out of my tried and true.
How do I write accounts of my days, while omitting one of the main characters cast in the script?
More importantly, how do I write at 4:30am without coffee?
After ten years as a coffee drinker, I’ve given up the Joe.
And after years of chronicling moments of life as a mother, I’ve been asked to refrain from sharing.
So, I sit here typing at 5:30am with a cup of tea, writing about wrestling with words.
Is this a piece about the artist’s process? Or just an explanation of practicalities?
The premise of the Archives was to find art in the ordinary. It began with me following a thread and revealing what I found along the way.
The journey continues. Whether I’m officially an “artist,” or whether this is, technically, a “process” is up to interpretation.
And though I may not be divulging intimate moments with Jeb, I doubt this is my last post.
For the Archives 