" A great artist is never poor"-Isak Dinesen

Confession

I have a confession to make: my parents were hoarders. What began as a simple collection evolved into hoarding over time. I feel ashamed to admit this; it feels like a betrayal of my parents, whom I love with all my heart. The truth is that the transition from collecting to hoarding happens gradually.

It occurs when purchases begin to take over, when a path has to be cleared from one room to another, and when the things you own can't be found when needed. I was upset while my parents were alive because I felt they were not safe. My mom fell and broke her hip, which made me worry even more. I saw their quality of life diminish as their possessions accumulated.

Now that they have passed away, I feel the weight of the burden they left behind. As I confront the mess, my emotional wounds do not heal; they remain open. Every time a scab starts to form over the wound, something triggers it again. It’s a deep wound that keeps reopening without any chance to heal truly.

Simple and perfect

A sign of the times

When Daniel comes home from school I always ask him about his day. The first response is "fine". Minutes later he will share a tidbit about his day. In the evening when we read we converse about the book we are reading and thoughts spill over. A topic we read about evokes a memory and then Daniel tells me his stories about his day. Daniel was sharing with me the news about his teachers. The specials teachers had to resort to teaching regular classes because of budget cuts and school running out of funds. He witnessed  his art teacher dropping off her regular class at her old art class. His voice trailed sadly " I bet she misses it" I could hear the empathy in his voice." She loved teaching art and she loved her class." I looked at my son and I felt the way he did. We felt sadness. I realized how children observe everything. Children know by watching. Children know by feeling. The pain that they see all around them teaches them the hard reality life can be. It teaches them compassion . It teaches them lessons learned too soon.

Joshie Otter

" I miss you today" I told you.
" When do you not miss me mom"
you questioned.
I laughed , how true!
As an infant I cradled you
in your sleep
watching the wonder that you are.
I listened to your breathing
watching the lines of your face.
My heart was full with love,
my soul was soaring.
You are a man ,
you listen to me
you lift me
you humble me.
You make me want to be
the best .
You make me want to soar.
My precious son,
my love,

my life.

Collecting

I am a collector. You could say that it's in my DNA. Both my parents were collectors. I think my first collection started when I was six. It consisted of pretty paper napkins. The napkins had various flowers and various designs. When I was a teenager I began collecting thimbles. When I was in my twenties I collected tea sets and miniatures. Some of the things that I collected remind me of special places that I found them. A part of the joy was in the hunt for them. I would find a special piece and I would decide that it had to be mine. Collecting is magical . Collecting can become an obsession. Collecting can turn into hoarding.  Now that I am in my forties I collect experiences.  Experiences  such as a wonderful vacation, a wonderful meal, a wonderful concert. Life comes and life ends.  The  only things that are  left are the memories that we share with our loved ones.

A Year

At a difficult time in my life my mom said to me that she thinks that she made me out of steel. she thought that
I had inner strength. What my mom didn't know was that the strength she believed I possessed  would
dissipate  when I had to watch her die. How the pain of losing her would leave a scar in my soul. I have gone through feelings of anger,guilt, sadness, and acceptance. Last year at this time I was desperate for her pain to end. The pain of losing her brought me to my knees. The strength the she believed that flows through my veins
carries me through this journey.