She is truly an inspiration to us all
Lately when I visit my mother, she’s always out. “At rehearsal!” she’ll text. “Come back after 5pm. Or another day.” She’s fallen in with a community choir, and is off the rails. Often they take her to the pub, and she doesn’t know when she’ll be back. Sometimes she leaves out a plate of falafel, in case I drop by to empty the fridge, like a reverse Santa Claus. But it’s unacceptable. And often dry.
At 80, she’s started going to Laban dance classes. She still plays in a drum circle, and now this, singing in an urban opera. For her, art is a reflex. She does things for their own joy, while still holding down a job. I’m the opposite. I made writing and performing my job; yet something in a creative identity can squash itself. Without the stamp of an agent, an audience, a platform or a deal, nothing I make would feel valid. I never wrote a word until I was paid, and I dream of retirement.
