Love Letter to My Dead Mom
May 6 - June 7, 2021
Planet Connector, North Adams, MA
Mother’s Day 2021
Dear Mom,
I stopped creating after you died. For someone who used to write and photograph and document daily, it all dried up.
Grief is exhausting, and whatever energy I had once poured into creativity, got consumed with learning this new language of loss. Much like creating has nurtured understanding of myself, navigating grief has been a similarly educational experience. I much prefer the former, but I hold the world a little more gently now. I give people the benefit of the doubt. I’m even more free with “I love yous.” I’m better able to hold space for the present moment.
I feel a closeness to others grieving. An unspoken connection and understanding. “We’ve been through some shit. We are surviving anyway.”
In 2020, the world went through a collective grief. The global pandemic forced us all to confront the tenuous, uncertain world of loss. Honestly, I felt prepared. Like I understood the ways that this moment would fundamentally shake up our cores and hold the mirror up to each of us. How we’d all respond would vary, but it would ask hard questions of us.
What do you value?
What is important?
What do you need?
For those brave enough to face those questions head on, so much growth and awakening was possible.
I picked up the camera again. I started documenting. Writing. Processing. This grief opened up the possibility of creation. As we retreated into our homes and our worlds shrank, I found expanse and possibility in the universe of my nuclear family. Sure, I’d been taking photos at holidays, snapping images with my phone, or getting hired to document other families, but this was a return to creating for creation’s sake. For emotional survival.
It was healing. It encouraged me to revisit the world before you were gone. To see the possibility and love and joy that was captured in those years, and be reminded that all of that is still possible, even in the face of grief. All the more importantly because of it.
These images of your grandchildren, living embodiments of your legacy, are my love letter to you this Mother’s Day. In the before, in the after, the love remains. Toujours.
143 Ash
