Inside the Spin-Mosaic Studio

From the 1st clink to the last clunk, I knew something was very wrong. Moms know.

I also knew that I was the only one who sensed it. Others were in the room, too. But, they do not know what the familiar clinking and clunking of silverware drawer fishing-for-a-spoon and clapping bowls together in the cupboard ought to sound like when a 9-year-old boy is making his own bowl of morning cereal.

Just the presence of a new clink and the absence of the normal clunk told me that something was off...with him...with my youngest.

He is in that twilight-zone age where independence is so close on the horizon, yet, my voice is needed to help prompt and prioritize. I set out a box of cereal on the counter for him he gets up in the morning to remind him to actually EAT breakfast, not just think about eating breakfast. I have rehearsed with him the spoon, bowl and milk-pouring part.

He can do it himself. But, sometimes there are troubles. I heard troubles this morning. 

This is not a story I have dredged from the past, this is from real-time this morning. 

There I sat at sunrise swaying back and forth in the same rocking recliner where I lulled all 4 of my babies to sleep over the trailblazing turbulence/serenity of 22 years worth of wearing a mom-hat. With a blanket on my lap, hot coffee in one hand and the smaller of our 2 dogs nestled under my chin, I froze in the way the moms do to listen more carefully.

Sometimes the absence of familiar noises is as telling as the presence of new ones. This I learned from the toddler years. Not much has changed since: just new noises, new levels and new reasons for silence and the growth...of the trusting...of my own instincts.

Chills shot up my spine. I didn't move a muscle and didn't say a peep. Still, the dog on my lap sensed my sudden chill. Her head shot out from under my chin. Her ears laid back. She looked straight into my eyes. Her unblinking furry empathy spoke a loyal love, "I hear it, too. Whatever it is, Mama, I'm on your side."

My eyes shifted from the window where my beloved backwoods were becoming silhouetted by the incoming sunrise. There is a 10-minute window of sacred time where the first rays of sun scrape across the distant fields. All the vertical trunks and horizontally splayed limbs become a dark curtained backdrop on the theater stage of the morning.

I don't like to miss it. Ever.

But, this morning, the sounds in the kitchen caused me to turn my eyes.

From my rocking chair, I could barely see his head bobbing along between the sink and the refrigerator. His steps were a glide, not a rhythm of comfortable strides like usual. His tennis shoes shuffled. He wasn't lifting his knees.

"Brandon, come talk to me please." I spoke. Gently. He was clearly already alarmed, but quietly trying to "handle" something in his own strength without letting on to others older and taller in the room.

He paused in mid-shuffling stride. I could hear the sound of an over-wet dishrag flop into the sink. He had been found out and he knew it.

This boy of mine has the longest eyelashes I have ever seen on a child (and in my art teaching days, I saw 100's of kids weekly!). My daughters would love to have his eyelashes. But no, he was born with the gift. A gift he inherited from his father, no doubt. So, when his chin rises and his blue eyes upturn, it's a heart-stopper.

His head hung low, but he came. He came, but he cowered behind my chair, not in front of it--in front of me. I asked him to step around where I could see his eyes (and be melted by his long lashes).

He said nothing, but methodically shifted first his legs, then his shoulders. His head cocked to the side until finally his neck swiveled like the best of a goose spying a fisherman whose boat was bobbing too close to the nest. He inched close enough for me to let the dog balance her own fuzzy self on my lap and slip my arm around his waist for a love-squeeze.

"What's wrong?" I whispered, knowing how he does not like to draw attention to himself in front of his older siblings and kingly father munching their own cereal in the background.

His left arm swooped around from behind his back. Without a word, my little 6" x 8" watercolor art board with my mid-process pencil sketch for an already-written Illustrated Blog story was dropped into my lap beside my dog. This same dog who moments before alerted instantly to my mom-instinct chills seemed to not even notice the art board that slightly bounced off her back.

The night before, my son and I had side by side drawing together before bed. We do this sometimes. He, with his original comic strip drawings, and me with my new blog story illustration. It's magical.

At first glance, I could see that my sketch was not what it had been when set it on the counter last night and asked him to brush his teeth for bed. The left side of Superman's face was smudged off. The left side of his cape was....invisible (I'm not an expert on superheroes, but I don't think an invisible cape was one of Superman's special powers).

The man who sat next to young Superman was missing the hand that connected to the arm that provided the muscle that propelled his motion---while half of his shirt had...fallen away somewhere. A massive smudging of gray lead peppered most of the rest.

I looked up at my son's lash-clouded face. A small waterfall was about to erupt from beneath those lashes...those lashes. My heart was melting, because his heart was. He, too, has the heart of an Artist. I have known this for a long time.

I could feel his back tense up from beneath my hug-squeeze that still firmly but lovingly around his waist. I could feel him begin to resist and wriggle from my embrace and back away in shame. Not this time. I held my hug. He relaxed, knowing he would not win this one. I would keep on loving.

He had spilled his cereal milk while (bravely and independently) pouring a heavy, new, fresh gallon by himself. Yes, there is something scientific about milk that nearly dissolves lead on contact. The more he tried to clean it up, the worse it got---such as any of our best efforts often become.

After that, he didn't know what to do. So, he carried on with his breakfast while his creative mind considered his options. "How do I tell my artist-mom what just happened?"

So, his usual fumbling around in the drawer for his favorite long-handled silver spoon, and his usual rearranging of stacked bowls to select his favorite extra-concave heavy gray one from between the plastic terra cotta set and the brown thrift store set...well, he just didn't care any more. He took the first spoon on top of the pile. He lifted the top bowl from the stack. Within the bubble of his dilemma, the fun of preferences had gone stale.

"Listen carefully." I said. "Who is the artist of this drawing?"

"You." A slow quiet voice emerged. Eyes were still cast down.

"If I drew it once, can I draw it again?" (My teacher-line-of-questioning emerges by default sometimes in teachable moments).

"You can draw anything." He says. I smile--- (wow...his eyes always light up at my art. How he tries to be like me...I must be careful how I respond...).

"I'm glad this happened." My grip tightened around his waist. My words paused until his lashes were no longer pointing down.

"I wasn't quite satisfied with my drawing, anyhow, ya know? I thought the little boy's face needed to look more brave. His cape needed to flow in the wind a little more. And, the man...well, his hand is gone now, isn't it?! (laughing) I was thinking his grip should be more relaxed on the wheel. When I redraw it, this whole...Art...will be better than ever..."

I held my grip and looked into his eyes until his smile morphed big enough to reveal my favorite dimple on his left-side-cheek.

This reminded me of one more thing I forgot: superman has dimples. 

He skipped back to the kitchen. The dog had just nestled back under my chin when I heard another thud-clink. It was a happy thud-clink this time.

Without looking up, I knew. The wet spoon from his cereal bowl had been dropped into the sink. Rattle-klink. He was fumbling in the silverware drawer hunting for his favorite long-handled ice-cream-sundae spoon that he uses for everything but ice-cream sundaes.

Yes, the new drawing will be better than ever. Superman will have dimples AND he will hold an ice cream spoon. Because, don't we know, happiness is a superpower that can only be realized through the conduit of grace and the choice to re-imagine.

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