Yesterday, at the doctor's office, I stared blankly at the form in front of me.
My pen poised over the page, wondering what to write. Technically, I am still employed, but it really is on a technicality. I am a stay at home mother, a title I am slowly settling into, enjoying even.
But for a moment, I thought about writing "artist". My heart caught a bit in my throat. I didn't because I'm not. Well, I mean, I make (a lot of) things. I have sold some. I have been asked to do more, but I'm not...
Yes, I take pretty pictures. And I lug my camera arond everywhere. And people like the photos I take of them, but I'm not a photographer. Photographers have big cameras and have portfolios and have some sort of qualification.
Yes, I write, its just some words read by some people I know and some people I don't on the internet. Its all free. Heck, I don't even do reviews or advertising to earn any money from it. Its about small, small things, insignificant really, like playing in the snow, or changing my sheets or entertaining little people.
Artists are people who went to Art School and have had exhibitions and wear trendy clothes. Funky glasses aside, I'm pretty average. Artists work for art companies, using their skills to help othes see the world differently. I just capture little snippets of life through a lens or through words. I just rub two sticks together and pull yarn through loop after loop to keep people warm.
But, I thought begrudgingly, artist and mother are more me than the countless other words I have used in the past. More me than "Civil Servant" "Public Health Manager" "Drug and Alcohol Co-ordinator" "Researcher" or anything else I have been.
In the end, I left the form blank, thinking as I handed it in, "What does it matter? I could write anything. Its just a form. What does it matter what I do or what others think of it? I am what I am, whatever that may be."
Blank isn't bad. Its open and waiting for the right time and the right word. Maybe its artist, or mother, or something else...time will tell.