http://www.sandyewilensky.com/

Should I acknowledge yesterday's skip? No, I think not.

As you may know, I spend a bit of time worrying about how much I am continuing to grow as I age, and I am eternally admiring of those people in my life who remain open to growth and change in spite of all old dog/new trick cliches and stereotypes. Which is why I can't stop thinking about how it felt to see my mother behind the table of her professional tent at last weekend's enormous art show in Mystic Seaport, in which she was selected to participate out of a competitive pool.

When I think of all the times my mother was asked to watch us participate in some kind of artistic or athletic performance, from our Nutcracker stints, to piano and cello and clarinet recitals, to library craft contests, and so much more, not to mention the endless performances we put on at home--I feel as though she should be given back ten years of her life, to sit in a hammock and read, or watch mindless television, or even just sit, peacefully, in a quiet, darkened room. Sometimes I think that, "Hey! Watch this!" could be the mantra of my childhood. But although I have, over the course of my life, seen my mother in her professional comfort zone command many classrooms, and even several times--awe-inspiringly--a school community of six hundred people or so, I have never seen her in quite this position before: vulnerably, by definition, exposing what she herself has created.

Her work, which focuses on her beloved oceans and beaches and seaside vistas, is beautiful: restful, soothing, occasionally moodily complicated, deceptively simple sometimes, and pure. To see it en masse, an oeuvre, if you will, was impressive, indicative of the amount of work and time and care she has invested in this new endeavor. But I was even more struck by my mother herself, answering questions about a painting with a customer, arranging the paintings to reflect her vision, making arrangements with a decorator who was shopping for a client, sitting, alone, behind the table at the back of the tent, watching the thousands of people walk by surrounded by what she had made.

In some ways my mother remains an enigma to me. Like her father, and her brother, too, she keeps her cards close to her vest; it is often hard to know just what she is thinking. But always, in so many ways, she knocks me to my knees. There is no complacency, no slow slide into acceptance, still, when I am least expecting it, a surprise. And this: this inspires me. To create, to be unafraid, to slow down when I need to, to push myself when I need to, and no matter what, to keep my eyes on the horizon, taking in both the long, smooth stretches of cool sand and the tumult of the waves at the line of the shore.