Christmas and Easter, but especially Christmas looms as a threat to me each year. The faithful are sincerely pious over these two high holy days, but in the United States, they are most significant to kids. Like anybody, I work hard to keep my family safe, fed, clothed, sheltered and educated. Of course. Don’t all sane people do this? Yet, on a single day, occurring like clockwork every year, I fear everything I’ve accomplished could be wiped out if I can not manage the prerequisite show of excess on December 25th. I know for a fact, my mom had trouble with this show. Yet, she made it happen in some fashion—every time. Even now, Mom is consistent. Long retired, she sends all of us, and our children—her grandchildren—something. Every year. Now, it’s my turn. I will admit now that I have failed.

I have had trouble with this season for many years. My mom raised my sisters and I to believe that if we are good and righteous, everything would work out. We went to church. We read and memorized bible verses. We sang in the choir. For one while, we WERE the choir. We prayed without ceasing. Still, as the oldest, I would watch my mom struggle, year after year to keep us safe, fed, clothed, sheltered and educated. Somehow she got through this. While we have never been homeless, we are not without scars from this struggle. My mom managed—alone in a world more hostile to her than I can imagine today—by dedicating herself to a faith that would consume her completely. My life, through her love, despite the improbability of her dreams, is the result of a miraculous test of will. She will probably never understand this about me; I understand. I understand because I have listened and watched and followed her—without becoming her—all of my life. I have immortalized this struggle in ChimeraBlues.

Between 1969 and 1972, the three of us were separated from our mom. Not unlike the children of many black families back then, we went south, without mom, to live with our grandmother and attend school. Day care, still a huge problem for many families today, was non existent back then. My mother could find no one to look after the three of us while she worked. As I mentioned, I was the oldest. I was eight. “Hide No Seek”, one of the paintings of ChimeraBlues, combines a couple of the games my sisters and I played during that time. Today’s electronic diversions were not available then. We had library books and our imaginations to distract us from boredom, or loneliness, or grief. Of course, Mom would visit us. She’d send clothing. She’d call us occasionally on the phone, which happened to be a party-line. She’d even transport Christmas, the entire colorful shiny sweet show to the three of us in rural Mississippi in the late 1960’s — early 70’s.

Forty years later, my oldest son is twenty-four years old, my oldest daughter is twenty-two. I was married to their father for just over ten years. There were difficult times, as with many families—especially the ones that break. Yet neither of my oldest children have ever been through a Christmas season without receiving something. Not before, nor since the divorce. I still have one of my son’s first Christmas presents. It’s a silly looking purple brontosaurus. When you push the yellow bird sitting on his back, the brontosaurus skitters across the floor. After the divorce, I remember taking bags of gifts to their father’s house to make sure the Christmas morning magic in his house would be as special as it was in mine. It didn’t matter where they were—his house or mine. Like all decent parents, we needed to make sure they knew they were loved. And we did.

My youngest daughter, my third child, is now fourteen. She’s old enough to know that I haven’t found a job yet. Her father sent money for her Christmas present but I used it to cover part of the rent. She knows. She’s smart. So, we have talked about this. Still, while I know there are thousands of us without work this holiday season, I had hoped against hope that something would happen to change this situation. Didn’t happen. I have nothing to give her. Or so I thought.

Yesterday, I walked out into the snow. “Safe bet, I thought,” no one else is out so no one can see my face, my eyes, my frustration.” Unfortunately, even though I know better, being out of work, no matter the season, makes me feel worthless. I am literally talking to myself saying things like, “You will not cry. Crying will not help.” One minute I am going over every stupid or otherwise decision that led to this, wondering why I am once again, talented, hard-working and literally out in the cold. The next minute I am doing what I have always done with the big three: fear, anger and—the most dangerous—despair. I made something of it.

Made entirely of images I took with my one shot camera—a newfangled digital distraction—I gave my daughter an animated card at midnight. It contains, among other things, the best Christmas tree I could afford. After lots of tears and hugs I sent copies to everybody I love who happens to have an email address. Then I tried to get some sleep. Today, I made two pies: one savory, one sweet. Zoe—her name means life—ate desert first. She hung out with her older brother. She had two helpings of homemade chicken pot pie. This year’s gift-card from Mom came in very handy. Zoe will probably not forget this year. It sucks. I think she is still happy though. I KNOW she knows I love her. I really have given her my best. Pretty much the way my mom did. I just hope she doesn’t internalize my struggle. That could wipe out everything I’ve accomplished.

This is Zoe’s Snow Card

“Tis the season to be thoughtful…
I’m thinking I spend a lot of time missing you.
I’m not always where I want to be at all.
Thankfully I’m an artist. Which means…
I spend a lot of time looking at boring stuff.
Doesn’t matter. Even when I can’t see you.
When I see something cool…
Or pretty…
I can’t wait to show you.
And that’s how I know…
I love you.
Every day.
Happy Season of Love
oooxxxoo
Always thinking about you,

tjay

Frozen. Majestic. It’s not really still. Its continuous movement creates new forms and patterns from everything around it. Including me. Now it’s all serious and serene. Not at all like it was several weeks ago. Few traces of the frolicking, splashing, aqua cerulean beach personality are left. The beach is frozen. Thicker, slower, freezing waves have made what appears to be a tribunal of the pillars that mark the swimmers territory. Today, my approach was also slow and careful—respectful. Gazing at this I don’t want to swim anyway. I want to work. I want to gather the strength and purpose to create like this. This lake is never tired. It never stops.

Everything is frozen. Cold. Waiting. Maybe on the other side of the holiday(s), things will begin to thaw. For those of us in limbo, it can be hard to find things to be cheerful about despite the season. Here—while walking around in the cold, I found some holiday colors that didn’t seem to mind my mood. My life goes on in spite of what I’ve made of it, or what it’s made of me. Life. I’ve still got it. So, I’ll treat it warmly, with respect, especially now when I don’t have anything else to give. Just me. That’s the point anyway, right? Cheers and love.

A couple months ago, I sold this to pay the rent. Ironic. Friends wrote a check directly to the landlord. This is the painting they chose. Ironic because, years ago, painting this was a turning point for me. A wagon full of old things cannot hold much else. This wagon is empty. Emptied in preparation to be filled with new life, new experiences, new relationships—a future. It’s a painting of independence and responsibility, of taking control. It is optimistic and triumphant. The past is put in its place.

Turns out the future’s pretty bumpy too. I took a chance and missed. A new job didn’t happen and the old job didn’t fit. I’ve been unemployed since August. That’s when I painted three new canvases and started this blog. In the long-run, this bump could turn out to be a good thing. I’m painting again. That’s good, right? In the meantime—the short-run, I hope—it feels like I got the short end of the stick.

It hurt to sell this painting. It hurt to be in the situation that made this necessary. My paintings are like family to me. This is the first to leave home. This is great, except…it did not leave me in a triumphant-new-life-without-old-pain sort of way. I was not triumphant. Maybe I shouldn’t have been, but I was ashamed. Yet, I was grateful also. Grateful because when I allowed my friends to see that I needed help—they did. Sure, I’d have done the same for them. Friends support each other all the time, right? It’s just hard to allow others to support me. Silly.

Here’s what’s special about the way in which I was supported. This is important. There was no shame in it really. My friends covered for me when my faith in myself had worn dangerously thin. Their love and support—a vote of confidence actually—made me stronger. I want them to be proud of me, to have their faith in me rewarded, over and over again. To let this mistake change me, frighten me into giving up on myself would be an insult to them. This is huge. So, this girl in the yellow dress with the empty red wagon now lives proudly in the home of my friends. Their faith in me, and in my work, now lives strongly in me. I’m using it to beat down the fear. Amazing.