Gifts of Time

The phone rang and there was a knock on the door, but before I had a chance to answer either, she was gone in a flash. Although I lost the opportunity to see my Mom through the glass, a package lay on my front steps. The paper bag, drooped and soggy from the rain, was a treasure of books and knick-knacks dug up from her wandering through the nooks and crannies of her garage.

With spare time that she hasn't had in years, she's fixing up a studio space. I can picture her in action, maybe with a paintbrush and an easel, maybe a loom. She labeled me an artist years ago, but she's the one honing her craft. Cups of colored pencils still decorate her home and the lines of her homemade cards have grown evermore steady and sure. For the last few years, she has filled a wooden cigar box with paper mandalas illustrated with a different image each day, reflections of her evolving thoughts and skills.

Growing up with my mother, I explored the number of junk drawers she fostered. In moments of boredom, I'd open squeaky cabinets to sort through ribbon clippings and broken crayons, textured paper, stamp pads, and jars full of buttons. I loved and feared the eaves of the garage attic, cavernous spaces that held boxes of records and a barrel of collectible beer cans she retrieved from the final moments of a yard sale. It's where I also found the sewing box of a tangled thread and plastic bobbins and a basket of yarn stabbed at all angles by knitting needles. There were reeds, some of which she gathered on her walks, such as the bittersweet branches that shed golden seedpods off red fruit, that she would weave into baskets flowing with knotted tendrils.

I haven't been bored yet this week. In fact, teaching plus homeschooling plus parenting all in one space remind me of the twisted thread of long ago. But as weeks and months lay unscheduled hours on my doorstep, I will try to find the art in my closets instead of just clutter.