Going home

The scissors are easy between my fingers, familiar. They carve a serpentine path along swaths of blue tissue paper, one row after the next, undulating gracefully between corners, paper waves slipping into a waiting tray with a whisper. I get lost in the rhythm of these waves effortlessly. Hours pass like moments while trays of blue, aqua and teal fill beneath my fingertips. Leaves, too, with their slow and steady rhythm transform seconds into hours. Snip, snip. One. Snip, snip. Two. Flower petals, one arched snip after another. Each taking its own unique shape, to be assembled at some point into something greater than itself. Though these - the leaves and petals - can be more challenging here, so small and impish, they easily slip beneath a fingernail or blow askance in the current from the air conditioner, lost forever. Cutting water is easier.

The light plays tricks on me, flickering through this tree and that. By now my husband could drive these roads blindfolded. At times, it feels like he is. He takes a corner too fast and I brace myself between the car door and the console, my foot on my invisible brake, scissors resting away from my body; my breath an audible gasp.

“Relax,” he says. “I know what I’m doing.” And on he drives. “Get back to your papers.”

“How long is the drive to your mom’s?” My friends ask. “I don’t know, about two trays of water, or one-and-a-half ornaments.”

Time doesn’t translate the same in these days of sitting vigil. Monday through Friday, I work, I cook dinner, I see of what service I can be to the teenagers, I do art. Friday evenings or Saturday mornings, we drive. It’s been this way for weeks now. I don’t remember what day I had the inkling to grab the strawberry box and pack my art supplies, creating what has since been known as “the passenger seat art studio,” but I do feel it was one of my better inspirations.

The bright green and red box with “Colleen’s” emblazoned on the side sits perfectly on my lap, it’s edges well balanced between the center console and the arm rest on the door. You’d be amazed what you can fit in a strawberry box: two trays for paper sorting, a small fabric covered chest of drawers for leaves and petals, 6 glass ornaments, half a dozen pendants, a votive or two, paper punches, wet scissors, dry scissors, back-up scissors, mod podge and paint brushes. It goes from the house to the car to the hospital to my parents’ house to the hotel and back again. It keeps my supplies in one place and provides a working studio. It is the handiest and most versatile “reduce, re-use, recycle” of my life—and the happiest.

My mom looks forward to these weekends. We arrive with the passenger seat art studio in tow and she cannot wait to see the evolution from the previous week. Both she and my dad are so enthusiastic and supportive. They commission one piece, then another and another. I think these art commissions—all gifts—keep my mom going against impossible odds. As for me, I’ve never worked faster. I can see the battle she’s waging. She is her bright, vibrant self from the heart up…below that, her body is in a constant state of betrayal. She’s relegated to a hospital bed, only its location changes depending on the whims of her body. Some weeks we are in a bright airy room with huge windows looking out to tree-tops, some weeks we are in tiny, sparely decorated room overlooking a barren courtyard, most weeks we are in my parents’ huge living room made small by medical equipment.

I sit bedside with my mom while my husband takes my dad out for some diversion. She chatters away happily while HGTV plays in the background and watches as I work my magic with paper and glass.

Her joy at watching the art unfold is invigorating. The work I do is slow, meticulous. It takes hours for it to take any pleasing recognizable form to the outside viewer. Normally, there is some point around hour 7-10 where I doubt myself and suspect it won’t turn out. And, then, inevitably, a moment comes in which I fall absolutely in love. Every piece spends its moment as my favorite piece ever, eventually...my favorite sunset, my favorite water scape, my favorite architectural element, my favorite, tree, flower, dancer…my favorite overall. My mom has no time for favorites. She loves every piece. She finds virtue in every stage, even the underlayment.

Since discovering this art, there have been times I’ve spent upwards of 25 hours cutting and assembling paper for a single ornament. For me, the work is meditative, almost transcendent. Once, when my husband was away for a sporting event and the kids were off to their own Saturday pursuits, I sat for seventeen hours pensively, joyfully cutting and gluing. I was making amazing progress on a commission. It was coming together more perfectly than I could have imagined. I forgot to eat. I forgot to drink…I became aware at some point it was dark and my legs had fallen asleep from sitting too long. It's that easy for me to lose myself in the art.

I love this time with my mom. This time to sit and be. We talk about everything as my scissors and mod podge-laden paint brush work steadily. When we are at home, she asks often for me to hold up the art so she can see it better. She comments and questions, expresses her awe that “it’s just paper," at how small some of the pieces are, at the fact I don't have to wear glasses or use a magnifying glass or tweezers to work with the smallest pieces. When we are at the hospital, she gushes to everyone who enters and invites them over to see the pieces evolving. When hospice comes, she shares with them too. If I ever doubted my mother was proud of me (both my parents, actually, my dad is no less enthusiastic) this year erased that.

At one point, late in our year of sitting art vigil, my mom says seriously, “Sheri, I have something to say to you.”

She wants me to stop working and make eye contact.

“I was wrong to tell you art was a waste. You clearly have something special here.”

She tears up. I do too. It’s a transformative moment for us both. I have spent my whole adult life doing “other” because my parents said art was a waste. Even now, as I spend these evenings and weekends, art is something I fit in the fringes of my life, after the work I do to make money, after I mother my teens, after I fulfill obligations to family, friends and organizations I volunteer with. This is the thing that makes me the happiest and, like dessert, I have been saving it for last. This time with my mom—sitting , making art and connecting—is a gift in so many subtle and beautiful ways.

The year passes so fast. We miss only one weekend with my mom. And, that, because I have the thought to call her when I get a bit of a cold. She can’t risk the visit; she’s too vulnerable. I still do art. I have more to show her the next time we come. The year is marked by my three biggest pieces to date: The Coquille lighthouse for her best friend, her doctor’s farm, and Sunset Beach for the woman in HR who helped my mom transition from work to disability and ensured my dad would have insurance in the aftermath. They were heartfelt, deeply thought-out pieces, their inspiration taken from what my parents had been able to learn about these people who’d become so important in their lives and what I’d been able to learn from talking to my parents about them.

“Tell me about Nancy and Rick, Mom. How do they dress? What do they like to do? What is their stature compared to me and Ronnie?”

“Tell me about Dr. Crane. What does he like? Do you notice anything personal in his offices?”

“Tell me about about the lady in HR, Dad. What do you notice in her office?”

This way of feeling out the piece isn’t new. I always take a deep dive when I am making something for someone else. But, now, the stakes are higher. This whole year, I feel I am racing against an invisible clock. I must finish these pieces while my mom is still present to see them. And, they must be my BEST pieces. These will become a lasting reminder of my mom in these people’s minds and hearts. They have to be every bit as amazing as she is.

Her joy at seeing the pieces complete is so beautiful. She cries, she gushes in amazement. As happy as I have been in the making, what makes me happiest is seeing the reaction to the completed work. I get the blessing of seeing my mom and dad’s reactions and then, I am doubly-blessed by being present for the bestowing. It is humbling to see the joy something so simple as paper on glass can bring to others.

This.

This is my favorite part.

My mom slipped silently out of her body approximately a year to the day from my first trip with the passenger seat art studio. We’d put upwards of 20,000 miles on the car – a good three-quarters of those with me creating in the passenger seat. A year with an inevitable conclusion that could have been marked with dread, fear, anger and sorrow was instead marked with joy, laughter, conversation and the swoosh, snip of scissor blades. By the time my mom made her exit, there was nothing left unsaid between us.

The gift she gave me with those moments of sitting vigil and her enthusiastic support are buoying me through the ups and downs of this crazy life 7 years later. My art has been elevated to a level I would never have thought possible. We’ve put many thousands more miles on the passenger seat art studio, which has become a staple of our road trips. I’ve lost count of the number of pieces my trusty scissors have left in their wake. I could never possibly remember each and every pendant, ornament, votive or wine stopper, but I do remember the joy of sitting next to my husband on a sunny day singing and creating in the passenger seat, the quiet, meditative moments at my art table, the beautiful connection my art has facilitated with people from all over the country and the indescribable elation at seeing my art bring joy to others.

The fingers of my right hand slip into the scissor handles like a well-worn glove, an array of blue paper in my left. Late afternoon light drifts through the window, spilling over the pieces of glass I have staged for my next series.

Swoosh, snip. Swoosh, snip. The familiar cadence begins again as water slips softly into colorful trays beneath. I think of all that has transpired since this art first found its way to me and take a deep breath.

I am home.