Each May family members gather here at the farm to plant a zinnia garden in memory of my mom Irene Stewart Whisenant. Mom loved zinnias and nurtured a few plants in the small patch of yard between the neighbor's fence and her driveway. While my sister, daughter and grandgirls aim to plant on Mother's Day, experience has taught us that Mother Nature has her own calendar. Now we align with nature's calendar, taking into consideration weather conditions and soil temperature, and follow her lead, planting rows of tiny seeds. 

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My mother was a colorful character. A woman I couldn't fully appreciate growing up or growing older until my Qigong teacher Grand Master Nan Lu helped me connect to the wisdom of my lineage. 

Coming Full Circle: For the past many months at Tao of Morning Qigong class, Master Lu has been teaching us the power of the circle. Under his guidance and during my personal daily practice, I've made thousands. Right arm. Left arm. Clockwise. Counterclockwise.  As I've circled back to my childhood memories of Mom, and memories of growing up with Irene ~ "don't ever call me Mommy" ~ I began see past her quirks, sarcasm and addictions.  She was a strong, independent woman.  As a single mother she raised us three kids, instilled a work ethic and nurtured my creativity with gifts of a camera, paint by number canvases, a dairy, potholder looms and loops.  For sure she was strict about table manners ~ "You never know when you'll be invited to the White House" (LOL) ~ keep those elbows off the table. For sure I couldn't wait to get out of the house. Off to college and I didn't look back. Until I started making circles in my Qigong practice. 

Each vibrant zinnia bloom inspires me to connect to Mom's colorful personality. I wish she hadn't died so young, and that I could tell her to her face that I love her and honor all she did for us kids. Plus I want to thank her for having a boyfriend who loved to garden. Hear that, Waltie? I know your energy is reflected in this flower garden, too. And as Master Lu has suggested, it's not too late to let them know. 

Despite a piercing pain at my right temple, I decide to go to class. My friend Judie picks me up. It’s Sunday afternoon and traffic on Lake Shore Drive is light. Downtown we easily find a parking place near the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.  It's my very first art class. I find myself in a large room filled with leisure artists standing at tall easels, holding skinny sticks of vine charcoal.

Assignment #1: Our instructor tells us to draw a circle.
I touch the tip of the charcoal to a sheet of 18 x 24 newsprint.  Moving in a loose clockwise direction, I quickly make a circle. Zip. A big bold circle. I step back and wipe my dusty fingers on my blue jeans just as the instructor stops at my easel. 

“Ah, very primitive,” she declares.
Too stunned (and fearful) to ask her what she means, I just blink. 
Primitive? Raw? Unskilled? Bad? 

Fast Forward: I'm in Qigong class with my teacher Grand Master Nan Lu, meeting by Zoom twice weekly since the Pandemic. Master Lu is teaching us to move our bodies in circular motions and to connect our rotating ankles, knees, hips, wrists, elbows and shoulders to the consciousness of the circle. I connect to the memory of the primitive circle comment. 

Even without asking him directly, I know what Master Lu would say about the art teacher's critique. Of every life event he says,  “It depends on how you want to see it.” OK. So how do I want to see it? 

Primitive? Like unskilled? Like why don't you forget learning to draw? 
Or
Primitive like the cave painters? Primitive? Like bold and curious? 

​Circling back to revisit that memory, that primitive circle, I'm seeing now with new eyes. That hastily formed circle, that connection between eager heart and hand and paper, was just perfect ~ my perfect first step on my path of making art. 



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