I know that I do not need to make the choice between being a mother and being an artist and writer. I know that.
I know that who I am as a writer makes me who I am as a mother, and who I am as a mother has everything to do with how I write. I know that.
But if I could choose to give it all up, never paint, draw, write or muse again, and if that would take away all my son’s pain, I would do it in a second.
I would never write again.
I would never pick up another paintbrush.
I would do it in a heartbeat if it meant taking away his melancholy.
This isn’t the choice life has asked me to make.
This isn’t the sacrifice required of me.
As it is, the writing, the painting, the continuing to seek out and understand and share, is the responsibility, the calling and the cure, for my son and I both.
When I neglect this calling, I am neglecting the answers. I’m hiding from the light.
When I chain myself to safer duties, I am chaining both of us to the same Purgatory.
Instead, I am reminded, Keep the light, keep it bright.
The words, the pages, the ideas, the hope, the pain make up the flame.
We are the light.