In “Bird By Bird,” a classic book on the craft of writing, Anne Lamott recalls a childhood memory of watching her brother cry over a difficult school assignment about birds.
Exasperated, her brother asked how in the world he would get it done in time for class the next day. Their father’s response was perfection. He said the only way to work through is “bird by bird.”
That creative detail, also a metaphor for the creative act, helped Lamott make sense of her grief for people and places she missed. Her art practice came to the rescue when she struggled to find the right words, and in that way, art was always on her side like it has been for me and so many others who choose creativity to make sense of loss.
As a child, digging in my mother’s purse for lip balm meant encountering three distinct items: linty sticks of gum torn in half, wads of kleenex, and a fingernail clipping (or two).
I love thinking about her purse, especially now as I process her death from early-onset Alzheimer’s a year ago. While the items seem inconsequential and ordinary, the array of emotions they evoke for me are powerful, treasured, and I wouldn’t have discovered them without the creative practice of writing.
In reading about my memory, you might find yourself responding with your own version of the “purse memory.” Perhaps you return to the image of candy your grandfather kept in the top drawer of his dresser. Or you uncover a stash of cigarettes hidden under oil change receipts in the glove compartment of your uncle’s truck.
Perhaps you haven’t thought of these memories in a long time. Write it down. Sketch it out. Sing it through. Dig in and relish the images for the ways in which they show you a path forward.
It’s not about the gum
My mom hoarded half sticks of gum for sharing because she said a whole piece was “too much mint.”
In reality, my parents struggled with money and splitting sticks of gum in half was mom’s way of providing me with a small luxury without spending too much or being wasteful. In this way, remembering the gum at the bottom of her purse became a way for me to understand what it might have been like for my mom and dad to manage raising a family on a tight budget and too much credit card debt.
Suddenly, in my mind I could envision my mom as an adult struggling to provide for her family, and I began to feel sympathy for what it must have been like desiring to give us kids everything we wanted but on a budget that could only support what we needed.
It’s not about the kleenex
I always hated stumbling upon the tissues because I never knew if they’d been used or not. Mom was a home daycare provider and constantly wiping, swiping, dabbing and dipping at kids’ faces and hands with kleenex, so finding wads of them at the bottom of her purse wasn’t necessarily a treasure.
But the tissues illustrated something important, which was the hard, patient and loving ways she kept the children under her care safe, clean and happy. It was that same patience and love that drove me to keep her safe, clean and happy years later when she got sick. The kleenex made me proud of her ability to care for other people’s children, and also a little proud of my own ability to care for her when she needed it the most.
It’s not about the fingernail clippings
During long car rides, my brother enjoyed covertly clipping his nails into claws sharp as razors so he could poke me in the face and arms as we ambled along the highway with Mom in the driver’s seat, unable to intervene.
To find them in the bottom of her purse later when we arrived at our destination gave me proof of his nefarious “big brother” behavior. There is little meaning to this detail other than it makes me laugh, and laughter is a great anecdote for grief. It’s important to remember those moments, too.
Observe the birds, then set them free
Like Lamott’s birds, I was able to discover important elements of my life with each half-stick of gum, each wad of kleenex, and each fingernail clipping I uncovered from memory. By writing about it, I was able to locate my own birds and observe them.
Whether you choose to sketch or paint or sing or dance, I hope you find a way to use your creativity to uncover the treasures of your own love for someone else. The wonderful thing about this process is it doesn’t have to be good and you only need to share your findings if you choose to.
You have the creative freedom to do whatever you want, because art is freedom to explore. Just explore bird by bird, observe, be kind to yourself, and eventually—someday—you will happily set those birds free.
About the author
Lonna Whiting is a freelance writer and owner of lonna.co, a content marketing and communications agency located in Fargo, North Dakota. She is a frequent contributor to The Arts Partnership’s content library and also provides strategic communications consultation to the organization.
