When Women Were Birds
and what Terry Tempest Williams' mother has to teach us all about center.
Books are treasure troves. They’ve come in and out of my life in varying stacks, always at the right time. Mary Oliver’s book of poetry, Devotions, is one that tucks me in each night and has for the last seven years. Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek found me coming of age when I was 22, thank goodness. Right now, Terry Tempest Williams’ When Women Were Birds is hitting me at the ripening age of 38, bringing me to my knees.
In the book, the author shares her meandering thoughts on her relationship with her mother, herself, her spirituality, and the nature of art. Her own life compels her; I can relate to that—each time I read an author who admits this, I feel a great sense of relief. Throughout the book, Terry Tempest Williams shares letters that her mother wrote to her. Each one takes my breath away because I have a mother who writes honest letters to me and celebrates who I am too. And now, the privilege I have to be that guiding presence to three children is one that feels both massive and possible. A favorite below:
Dearest Terry,
When I walked into the stationery shop today, you seemed to be in everything I saw and touched.
When I saw this paperweight, I knew there was a connection to you. I had to buy it because of what it represented but I didn’t know what it was.
And then as we were sitting at the Museum this afternoon watching Monet’s mural Water Lilies, I knew the secret of the gift I was giving you.
In the center of the ball is the red lily pad, which is you and all around you beautiful billows of space—Never let anyone invade that part of you, Terry. It is your creativity.
If you keep yourself centered, everything will be balanced in your life.
When I read this, my eyes welled up with tears because the message is the greatest and most empowering gift you can offer another human being, especially from the role of parent. It is what I hope to encourage in everyone I love in this world—the understanding that each of us has our own center and it is our most sacred task to find it, learn about it, and protect it. At 38, I know my center better than ever simply because I’ve had plenty of time to try out how it feels to dismiss it. Hint hint: it never feels quite right. The act of finding center is spiritual. I used to pretend like it wasn’t. It is.
I built an art studio at my house this year, and my mother visited it for the first time when I was not home. She sent me a picture of what she saw along with the sentence “this is a really special place.” Maybe she used the words sacred or thin. Perhaps, sanctuary. Regardless of the words used, I understood the message. What she felt was massive. Clear. Me, blossomed and brave. As a mother, I can imagine myself at 60, standing inside of the visual center of my eldest daughter’s being and feeling the weight, intention, and wonder of its presence.
In the center of the ball is the red lily pad, which is you and all around you beautiful billows of space—Never let anyone invade that part of you, Terry. It is your creativity.
All my life, I’ve felt that I was bigger than my body. Something burns in me whether I want it to or not. I believe it draws people in. It “attracts goodness” as my mother would say. I feel tethered to deep time and I always have. So do my daughters.
It is a certain and mysterious thing to feel like you’re living in alignment with yourself, especially in a society when most people don’t seem to be. I heard this phrase on a podcast recently and gasped because it so aptly describes this alignment: “My soul is in the driver’s seat.”
It doesn’t bother me to say it anymore: the act of finding center is spiritual. First, you must acknowledge your soul. Then it can drive you where you need to go.
Earlier this summer, I travelled to Cape Cod to install some of my artwork in a home there. This is something I often do, and this particular project came at a time I had started saying no to most commission opportunities. As soon as I spoke with the woman who owned the house and was interested in a piece, I felt a feeling in my body—a guiding light I’ve always had that says, yes. Do that thing. Follow THAT. I heard it loud and clear and confessed to her “I am saying no to most things right now, but something is telling me that this will be a special one.” She admitted to feeling the same thing, so I whipped up a sketch and the relationship began.
Cut to a warm August afternoon, when I arrived to her beautiful home near the ocean and met the warmth of this home. I walked in and instantly felt like my work would live alongside of the most generous company; this doesn’t always happen. N, a soulful landscape architect with an enthusiasm for native plants, was so happy to see me, and her teenage daughter L was also present. Their honest love for one another was palpable, tender. The longer I talked to them, the more I recognized my past and future selves in them. Fitting for the summer of awakening I have had.
I installed the artwork as promised, but paused throughout the day to enjoy time with them. We ate a long lunch together on their new porch and spoke about life’s biggest questions. It felt familial and kind. We climbed the stairs to the top of the house to see the ocean and note the tide. We shared a glass of champagne to celebrate their new home and my participation in making it special. We watched the light move across the walls. We sang along to Joni Mitchell, listened to the clicking together of my porcelain pieces, and remarked how they sounded a bit like shells on the shore. At the end of the day, we changed into bathing suits and walked down a pine-needled path to the beach as the sun set. We drank wine, swam, and talked about what made us come alive. When I told N that Mary Oliver gave me words to the things I already knew in myself, she told me that Terry Tempest Williams was that person for her.
A month later, I got a package in the mail. “I found this vintage TT Williams at a used bookstore in Provincetown and had to send it to you. We love knowing you. - N + L”
I smiled, stowed Finding Beauty in a Broken World on my bookshelf, and opened it about a month later. It found me where I was. In the first two pages, Terry Tempest Williams describes feeling lost in a fragmented, post-9//11 world, walking along the rugged coastline of Maine, asking the sea to give her “one wild word.” She listens and waits. A seagull picks up a white clam and smashes it on the rocks, shards of shell everywhere. She hears the answer. Mosaic.
I have never felt more compelled (or understood) by the first pages of a book. This is the kind of spirituality I feel while making, of asking the question, waiting as long as it takes, and receiving the answer. It is a sincere feeling of receiving: receiving one’s own life, receiving an illuminated path forward. Being an artist or creative feels like a way into that deep vein of self, of making the thing that wants to be made simply because you are called to do it. It doesn’t seem to matter who does the calling, but I am learning that in order to hear the answer, one must have an open mind, a clear heart, a willingness to leap, and TRUST. Elizabeth Gilbert describes an unreasonable but lifelong fascination with the Italian language. Though it made no sense, she followed her inner voice to Italy and ended up writing Eat, Pray, Love.
This year, shortly after answering the brave ($$) and frightening call to build a studio at home, something in me called again and asked me to carve more space out in my life for slow time, for myself, and for the ability to explore without expectation. It seemed terrible timing since I had just taken out a large loan to build the studio, but the voice I heard was clear. A knowing. It came from the depths of me and made me feel equally excited and terrified. I thought, why not? What do I have to lose? Everything, I guess. I listened anyway.
In the center of the ball is the red lily pad, which is you and all around you beautiful billows of space—Never let anyone invade that part of you, Terry. It is your creativity.
If you keep yourself centered, everything will be balanced in your life.
Balance is the word I am learning all about right now.
Flow too.
And being contentedly slow.