Inside the Spin-Mosaic Studio

Our house sits back far enough from the road, yet near enough to the shadowed tree line, that in the high summer months when foliage is lush, anyone driving down our county road would have to know exactly which split-second to shift their eyes from steering, which angle to turn the neck, which branches to look between and how many feet and inches above the swaying field grass to cast a telescopic view. 

Otherwise, our house is hidden completely. I like it that way. I like to be hidden behind the wild field. 

Shrouded beneath a full arch of leafy low-hanging branches, the walk to emergence up or down our driveway is beautiful, contemplative and meandering...especially when holding hands with someone I love. 

My son and I walk to the road to catch the bumblebee-yellow school bus in the early morning hours. My feet must be mindful to tiptoe around clumps of fallen sumac berries that drop overnight...and evidence of deer taking midnight strolls. Like a camera lens in zoom-mode, my eyes focus back and forth, near and far to catch all the beauties...and avoid all the...things I don't want to step on.

Great care is also taken to protect my last sip of coffee.

As I walk; I weave. My steps follow close behind my little son's heavy backpack. Every morning I offer to carry it for him. But, he likes the weight of his own burdens.

The lumbering bulk of books, lunch box, water bottles and notebooks stretch his shoulders broad like his dad and older brother's. The pack is so big. As I follow, I see only a spiked tuft of hair propped up by the wind above the backpack handle loop while rhythmically-bending young rubberband legs sprout from beneath.

I remember the days when my legs felt like rubber bands beneath my carried burdens. My legs do not feel bouyant anymore. Most days, my legs feel more like the squeak of my chicken-frying tongs that have a dusting of rust in the metal figure-eight elbow. 

My husband turns a half-century next week. I am close behind. I have 3 older children and a 9-year old. He is our "last sip of coffee".

He has more energy than the other 3 put together. I have far less. Still, I offer to carry his back pack every day. I will always offer to carry his burdens. That's what mamas do, through every season of life. At least, we offer.

Nine is a year of harsh realities for a mama. He will still gladly hold my hand when we are not in public.

Little hands in mine have always been such a soft comfort to me. It's a mama-thing. He is 9. Every time he reaches for my hand or accepts mine, I wonder if it's the last time he will be unselfconscious about it; an unthinking instinct to wordlessly connect. I have already witnessed his arm twitchingly jutt in my direction in a parking lot. I watch with a wince as he retracts it quickly like the head of a turtle who didn't realize the sun was so bright.

I wish he would hold my hand forever, when the sun is bright or when seasons have dark clouds. But, it's okay. Seasons change. As they say, there are always silver linings on every dark cloud.

We sit on a rock in the field together by the road waiting for his bus. He holds my hand. That's enough for me. My coffee cup is half-full; my heart is fully-full. The rumble of the bus rises from behind the hill. Before a flash of yellow can be seen, he lets go.

My fingers wrap a little tighter around the handle of my coffee cup. It is always willing to hold my hand...down to the last sip.

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In order to accurately visualize what comes next, you need to know that my coffee doesn't leave the kitchen in the morning until its a certain color: frothy latte-brown with almond milk. 

As I follow my son out the garage door, one hand hovers over the lip of my mug while steam sneaks out in tufts between my fingers in rhythm with the slight bounce of my rusty chicken-tongs legs. The other hand holds the mug. 

If I forget to bend my fingers into a fleshy umbrella, by time I get to the rock where we wait, there will be one or more floating nemesis: small curly worms that drop from their silver lifelines hanging from trees overhead, small spiders that float on wispy web strings...houseflies, horseflies or fireflies.

Common flies circle the steam similar to how my dog turns circles before she plops down on her cushion. The steam must feel cozy...for just a second, it's last second...before rising coffee dew collects on tiny vellum wings and then they...drop.

Within an instant, eyelash-like legs are dog-paddling in a fast scamper to climb the shiny glazed glass edge. 5 fast laps and the wings go still.

This is the part where I toss my coffee into the field. I just witnessed this again yesterday so it's fresh on my mind.

Once in a great while, there is a firefly that didn't get the memo that they are only supposed to light the sky in the evenings. In the dusky sunrise hours, this can get confusing for such a tiny brain. I understand. 

Fireflies seem to be drawn to the scent of coffee with the same magnetism that the belly of a bee buries itself in the center of a flower.

Fireflies do not delicately splash like a child dipping their toes in a shallow tide pool. Lightning bugs commit, dive, plunge, and sink with a fraction-of-a-second high-head-beams flash-of-the tail---like how a lightbulb will sneeze a final sharp puff of voltage just as a fuse is blown. That's how a firefly takes a "last sip" of coffee. 

Undetectable thin sticky silver lines criss-cross my path while more gently swaying long silver hairs from (shedding old ladies in the clouds?) float by. You would think a walk out to the road would be a straight line. No. If I don't look out for floating silver threads, I am often surprised when I take my last sip. 

The owners of the silver lifelines...only drop. If you do not see them in their actual momentary free-fall into the coffee cup, there is no surface entertainment or floatation to let the drinker know of their presence. Beware of the last sip.

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Such attentiveness; such forethought and strategy is involved in every meandering and watchful jaunt to the road...to protect and prolong that last sip. But, once I get to the roadside, it is so nice to sit on the cold rock holding a cozy cup of hot coffee while we wait.

The only thing I enjoy more than holding a hot cup of coffee on a cold rock (with two hands) is holding my son's one hand for as long and as often as he will still let me.

This morning, I got as wise as the old ladies in the clouds who shed thier silver. I left my mug in the kitchen altogether.

My hand was full of soft pink fingers as we walked out to the bus together.

Without a cup of coffee to strategize over and a last sip to protect, I had two free hands and two extra minutes to hold his on the walk out--such a simple sacrifice to forego.  I can brew another cup when I get inside. But, I cannot turn time backwards.

Ah, the things that we carry that we think bring us comfort. Sometimes, the greatest comforts come when we set our perceived comforts down--whatever we carry-- so that our hands are free to grasp what is greater. Holding a small hand is better than a cup of coffee any day.

Seasons of life will change; just like the colors and scarcity of the leaves that shroud our driveway. We all must recognize just the right angles and moments to turn and look, so we can fill our hands and hearts with the best that the season, the day, and the moment has to offer.

Because, every season, like the passing clouds, has a silver lining. When the sun catches the silver at just the right angle, it is beautiful...like the wispy silver life-lines from which creepy-crawlies hang and drop.

On days when the the silver is brightest, the last sip is not the last cup, but only a sign that it's time to brew another.

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the God of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God...and our hope is firm." 2 Corinthians 1:3-7 (NIV)

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About the Artwork: 

This is a mini watercolor Pet Personality Portrait on a 3" x 4" canvas board. Trinity is not my dog, but looks very similar in color and size to mine. Like how theatre companies put out an All-Call for actors and actresses, I asked for photo resources on the Artistic Affinity & Rural Simplicity Fb Group where I share creative process photos and 1st-release Article notices.

Before I knew much about Trinity, I could see a calm strength in her eyes. I love to draw animals, while motivation sky-rockets when I know their personality and the significance they have played in the lives of their forever family. The artistic challenge then becomes less about capturing a physical likeness, and more about capturing the essence of spirit. This draws my heart as I draw them! Trinity's story is below. *Contact me for a custom pet portrait!

Trinity's Story:

Trinity was a rescue. Her owner, Andrea, worked for a police department. An officer was on her way to an assigned position when she saw a puppy run into the road. The puppy ran under a garbage truck. The officer turned on her overhead lights to keep the truck from moving and crushing the pup. The petite little officer got out of her lighted car, ran under the truck and scooped up Trinity.

Andrea answered the call when the officer asked dispatchers if anyone at the precinct was interested in giving the puppy a new home. Andrea was the 1st-responder to "drive into the hood" to get her. "It was the scariest trip I have taken. My car was surrounded by drug dealers." 

She called the pup by the name she had decided on. Trinity came running. It was "meant to be."

Since her 'gotchya' date in 2009, Trinity has been Andrea's "everything". Through medical crisis, family crisis and the joys of a new marriage, this pup has gotten her through..."everything." Many of us can relate!

As I read stories like these, some connections, like Trinity, seem to be heaven-sent. Andrea believes she was "meant to be." So do I. You can see it in her eyes, can't you! Thanks, Andrea, for your willingness to share Trinity's photo and story. She is an inspiration!