On Love

As I transition over to this new (york) city, I’m filled with memories from all the places I’ve lived and loved - all of things which bring me a sense of peace from within, especially when I lose my grounding at times.  And when I am able to reflect on these moments, I am brought back to my roots, my childhood, and some of my innermost feelings (...I've got lots of these).   

As time moves forward, we fall into variations of cycles in life.  Once upon a childhood, my grandpa would scrunch my tights upon his hands, and create an opening for me to easily slip my feet into.  Then upon some time later, I grew old enough to do it myself.  I remember the day I slipped my socks on myself, with mixed feelings, knowing this signified a change of things, where I would slowly depend less on them, and more of myself.  This summer, I find myself scrunching his socks around my hands as we sit quietly at the edge of the bed while I help him slide his feet into the openings.  I guess I would never have gotten here if I had skipped step 2 in learning how to put my own socks on.  

I want to dedicate this post to my grandparents, who have been my support since I popped out of my mama and right into their arms.  My grandparents (and parents of course) have been more than great support, but also some of my truest friends in life.  I am so lucky to have had them as such a constant in this life.  Who knows what I'd be like if I hadn't... Maybe I'd like small children more than I do seniors... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

Here are some shots of life back home in Seattle from this summer, after his socks went on.  

“I did know once, only now I’ve forgotten.”

— ― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Love,
Daze

My Favorite Artist of All Time

We had an art studio built off the side of our house shortly after I was born. I remember peering through the windows of the french doors and watching my mom paint until the wee hours of the night.  The evenings were her time to paint, to completely immerse herself in her art, and time for me to bond with my dad whether it be over books, or building flash lights from household items. During the day, my mom and I would play in her studio, sketching (attempting for me) self-portraits, and building bank teller stands out of cardboard. My mother was not only a mother, but my full-time best friend. I didn't realize it then, and I have time to thank for showing me this. 

As we all became preoccupied with other things in life, the art room became more of a storage room than a creative space.  As we grew up, we went into the art room less and less.  We excused ourselves with reasons being that the room was "too cold," and only went in there when we needed to get something such a ruler for less than creative projects.  Eventually, we stopped going in there altogether.  When places that once fostered such fond memories slowly turns into a cold place, it often seems easier to just avoid the memories altogether. We fall into routines, and say we're too busy, but how can we be too busy for the things we love most?  As my mother says, "What's the point of life if we don't spend it doing what we love?" 

One of the greatest surprises upon my trip home was finding that my mom and Pete had revived the beloved art room :) with an added "gallery" effect.  Seeing her immersed in her art again makes my heart so happy, not to mention serving as her faithful apprentice in helping to gesso her canvases ˜_˜

Going through the motions of life, it's easy to lose touch with what you really love and want. It takes courage to do what makes you happy, and my mother's paintings serve as a daily reminder for me to embrace and fight for that joy. Here are some shots from the beloved art room. Hope this serves as that bit of inspiration to you as it has for me :) Stay true.

“It’s never too late to be what you might have been.”

— George Eliot

Love,
Daze