And God saw all that He had made, and found it very good (Genesis 1; 2 Line 31).
I wonder.
My artistic career began when I was two and a half years old. I loved to play in the mud and was so engrossed in my "work" that I wouldn't come in to go the the bathroom. I became a muddy, poopy, smelly mess. I can imagine how natural the experiience felt. But to my mother, her experience of me was only about the mess. My need to be totally immersed in my work eluded her. Years later when she would retell the messy Wendy mud story, her martyred tone made it clear that she had not been happy about cleaning me up and deemed me an impossible child pretty much from the start.
Mom was right. I was muddy, poopy, smelly. I looked disgusting and I reeked; her frustration was understandable. She was overwhelmed. If I wasn't engrossed in my creative work, I was off exploring. One time my adventous spirit lead me tumbling head first down the basement steps. Another time I wandered into the street. Mom answered the doorbell to find a truck driver pointing to me under his arm asking, "lady, does she belong to you?'
In February 1952, at age thirty-six, Mom was living away from her parents for the first time in her life. She married an emotionally wounded World War II veteran who traveled Monday morning to Friday evening on business. She was a first time homeowner, and practically a single mother to two babies. My brother, who was a year and six days younger than I woke her up every night. He would call for her; she would go to his bedside and ask what was the matter. He'd answer "nothing" or "I don't know." After a year of this behavior, she woke him up first and asked him "how do you like it?" We never heard stories of him waking her up after that. It's no wonder Mom would reminisce that she "had twins the hard way." In her declining years, she would say her hardest years were when "the children" were young and she was glad when "the children" started school. An understandable sentiment.
When we were young, my brother and I got the brunt of Mom's frustration. Our self images were being molded by a loving yet overextended, angry mother. To me, her frustration and anger was palpable. I learned to believe that I was disgusting — my absorption in a messy creative process and my adventurous, bold approach to life made me bad.
My personal creation myth was taking shape. It read like this: In the beginning God created earthly pleasures, total enjoyments, and personal instincts. When he saw all he had made he declared it disgusting. Indulging in these things makes you bad. You will be expelled.
