[Pictures were taken by Jan Harris on her recent visit to Apifera. She has graciously allowed me to post some of the many photos she took that day. Thank you, Jan.]
I put my mother on the plane today. We left about 10 hours before the plane was scheduled to depart, even though it only took us 1.5 hours to get to the airport. I didn't bother suggesting we leave, say, 4 hours before the flight left, because at some point a daughter just understands her mother will always leave 10 hours before the flight takes off.
The plane was delayed 3 hours. So I guess she had lots of extra time to contemplate if the pilots might fly past Minneapolis.
Anyway, I think these pictures capture how I feel. Going in two directions. Rushing. Fussing. I've decided artists should hire hostess companies to come into their homes when their mothers are here. It would really be better for everybody, especially the mother. I rarely cook anymore since Martyn is the resident chef, and likes to cook. Actually, he also likes to feel full after a meal, and I'm pretty happy with a bowl of pickled beets sprinkled with feta and a drizzle of sesame oil. But I went into this attempt to cook. I burned a lot of things. Made some really tough bread. Made a bad crust that tainted my apple pie with Apifera's first good apple crop - although my kind in-laws ate it with abandon and praised it.
"You need to focus when you cook," my mother kept reminding me.
"I am focusing...on Stella and Iris, who just jumped the fence and are eating the plum tree again."
I drank extra wine after everyone was in bed. My head was thinking about projects. I missed my projects. I talked a lot in whispers to my puppets, and Huck. The One Eyed Pug can't hear whispers.
I just like to work. I like to use my head, mixed with my heart, for at least 8-12 hours a day. Talking about dead relatives, or dying relatives, or relatives I don't know - and their children- just gets me anxious.
My mother graciously treated us to a dinner out at a local French restaurant. I wore a dress. My legs felt funny out of my dirt farmer attire. It seemed nice being waited on and not having to get up from the couch for a second glass of wine. But it really dawned on me I was really, truly eating out when I realized there was no gas emanating from my feet- that is there was no gas coming out of the 90 pound lab at my feet. Sigh, it made me think of him, how much he'd enjoy this little bistro.
As lovely as it was to visit with my mother, I think I failed horribly as a daughter these past two weeks. I kept slipping out to the studio, where I was once again "me-artist-farmer-wife-goat rescuer-horse rider-do-er-dog lover-mediocre cook-pie baker- self enterter- half loner-writer - rogue daughter- person who paints the name 'Neil' on her jeans."
Keep on rockin' in your own world.
