Eggs were images I used to uncover my hidden inner self. Egg holders were what my mother collected.
An egg holder holding an egg — it’s a poignant image. It makes me feel like my mother, in her own way, deeply loved and supported me in spite of the fact that she didn’t “get me.” And just as an egg in its holder are two separate objects functioning as one, my mother was my mother and I am her daughter and in that fact we are united.
Love can feel wonderful but it can also feel oppressive. I never “cracked” under my mother’s loving care, though I did gestate for too long. I became content, for better or for worse, in the familiarity of my family life. I trusted that its dynamic mimicked how the world, at large, worked — you sacrifice your emotional needs for the sake of your physical well being. I had no idea I could have both. I was completely unaware there was a different world outside my shell — a world where being good and lovely didn’t reign supreme; where “simple folk” took care of themselves, didn’t suppress their feelings to keep relationships in tact, had fun without feeling they betrayed a loved one, and still were safe in the physical world.
If I had a second wish, it would be this: I wish I had the courage to break free from my shell: to be a rebellious teen and leave the safety of my mother’s nest as a young adult. I wish I had explored life spontaneously and audaciously throughout my whole life. I wonder what I would have painted. But then again, I wouldn't have been me.
