Untangled
My mother was the creative one. Her artwork drew crowds – masterpieces that balanced simplicity with complexity. She mothered us in her own way, but her pride and joy was always her non-living creations.
So I was the rogue. Spun out early, hunted chemical creativity and spiraled further out of control.
When she passed, she left only strands of a home and an intricate web of trauma to unpick in therapy.
At rehab, I had to attend Art Class. Silk Weaving, ironically. I was wary, but the motions came more naturally than I expected and with each strand, the healing began.
Extroduction
What an stunning picture from Sandra. I have been thinking a lot about spiders recently, after an interesting conversation with my therapist about my former fear of them and how I overcame it. Their webs really are the most beautiful of traps.
My story stems from that, and not from my own experiences – my mother was neither an artist nor a spider, and I have never been the rogue. So it’s fiction. As usual. Honestly, just assume everything I write is fiction, it’s easier that way!
elmowrites 