In the first weeks, I hope I am not so emptied out that I will be alone and yet tied for the rest of my life. It is the unequivocal experience, the experience I hungered for, knowing it would grow me up. She is so terrifyingly precious. So unknowable. I dare not take my eyes off her. Early on, I spent the day dancing with some people, a dance workshop held in an old house. I moved all day, holding her tiny light body. My arms so heavy with exhaustion. I put her down in a crib at the edge of the room for perhaps ten minutes. As my exhausted body swayed away in the dance, I was unable to tear my eyes away from her. Turning exhaustedly away, but my eyes unable to, I experimented with moving so that others came between me and her and I felt how unsustainable this was.
I dreamed I was pregnant before I knew I was. Finding a bottle of things which needed water to live and realising I had not been looking after them as I should.
Later, we did a drawing thing, drawing around our bodies on large sheets of paper on the floor. She was drawn around, as a part of my body.
She needed to be held, she needed the breast in her mouth for hours.
She was a tiny, beautiful little being.
I cannot stay with these memories for too long. In writing the above, all the strained crowding of needs, painfulness, longing, the love, the adoring of her, the painfulness of my fears around being her mother, keeping her safe knowing how inadequate I felt about keeping myself safe. I look over a lip of some kind of demarcation and I don’t want to look for too long. It was so very hard to get from there to here.
Everything that empties us fills us.
I am going to move on to here: An artist and her work participate in a symbiotic relationship. It feels so good when that happens. I wrote in a notebook, “Have the experience of working long hours this summer. Sit with a piece of work. Sit with Cradle. It is a little sculpture. I have meant to do this for a good many months, to spend some hours simply sitting with this piece of work and perhaps knitting and thinking.
The work comes alive in my hands. The work comes into being. Birthing a work.
I have just been reading a blog where Luis Buñuel’s Viridiana and Tristana are discussed. Both films are about young women. The apparent same shawl is worn in both films, by the actresses… Viridiana, played by Sylvia Pinal, throws her knitting in the fire in despair. http://slipslipknit.com/?p=2037
Knitting interests me at the moment. I love having the live yarn moving through my fingers, becoming something which will be worn. The top picture shows my handspun yarn. It was spun on a Turkish drop spindle, which makes a centre pull cop of yarn which can be taken off the spindle in one, whole satisfyingly complete ball, ready for plying or knitting. The cop has been emptied out to the last, outer layer, which is now poised and delicate, maintaining its form, fibres still connected, even though all the layers inside have been wound out for use. I will make a lot of these in the weeks to come. A piece of work is forming, between me and it.