Monday June 5

8:30am

“I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL!!!!!!! I WANT TO STAY WITH YOU!!!"

My middle son, Benny, is really losing it at school drop off this morning.

“Please mommy! Can I stay with you today?”

To be fair, he is only 4 years old and going to our local Montessori school for 9 hours a day, 5 days a week (without a break during the summer). I remember needing breaks too when I was little. Heck, the whole reason my kids are here at all is because I require breaks!

“Ok, buddy. I understand. But mommy still needs to get some work done today. Can you come to mommy's studio to work?"

He lights up. He's heard of “mommy's studio” before, but he's never gone to mommy's work, just the two of us.

I scribble his name off the sign-in sheet and make some muted hand gesture to his teacher on the other side of the room, something that communicates that this sudden departure is intentional, that I am choosing to completely pivot my day on a dime. This is a skill I have gained as a mother, a theoretical patch on my vest that reads “flexible”.

As I pull out of the parking lot, I play a kind of mental Jenga game in my head. I scan for priorities, I pull out the block that contains what I was going to get done today. I carefully place that block on the stack that reads “tomorrow” and decide that the gaping hole that reads “today” can now go in a direction that feels best for Benny and I.

I still drive to Phoenixville, where my studio is located, but instead of turning onto Bridge Street I keep going straight.

We end up at Morris Cemetery.

For those of you who have been following my work since last year, you will remember that I did something similar with my oldest son, Johnny, last summer. (Read that newsletter story HERE)

I have a habit of taking my children to cemeteries the same way other mothers take their children to parks.

But, really, what is a cemetery but a park to a child?

There's open space to run, flowers to cut, and rocks to climb. This space- like all spaces- has no inherent meaning to a child. It is in how I view the space that matters.

Why?

Because how I view this space will be how my children view it one day, too. The language that I use in this place, in this opportunity, will shape the way my children think of it for the simple fact that I'll be the first to tell them so. That is how children become like their parents. They copy. And paste.

So- why am I taking my child to a cemetery on this beautiful late Spring morning?

Because I am a Stoic and because I am an Artist.

And because- in true Juliana Laury fashion- I make the two become one.

“We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.”

— -Anais Nin

Let me explain:

One of the main pillars of Stoicism is to remember that you will die.

→I have done several newsletters in the past on this topic, and plan to continue talking about death because I am deeply passionate about holding this mirror of truth up for my audience.

As an artist, I see all things as beautiful. Therefore, I see death as beautiful. Therefore I see cemeteries as beautiful.

As a mother of small children, I do not want them to be surprised when someone dies. Because death is a part of life, there is absolutely no way I can prevent them from experiencing the death of a loved one (and of themselves, one day) and so I want that conversation to start as early as possible.

Questions Johnny has already asked me:

Will all humans die (like the dinosaurs did)?
Will you die, Mommy?
Will grammy die?
Can I hear your heartbeat to make sure you're still alive, Mommy?

I want my children to understand death because I do not want them to fear it, as most of the world does. Humans have made horrible and rash decisions in their constant desire to escape the inevitable.

Keeping death close keeps gratitude close.

Here is a tombstone that I saw that day:

Benny, who cannot read, runs around me, dropping flowers in my lap for me to make art with later. I take a moment to read this one twice. I take another moment to follow my son with my eyesight. I let it sink in. I let myself feel all the things. 100 years ago a woman buried her 6 year old son here. If I had that same time left with my Benny, how would I spend it?
***How would I spend today, together?***

You better believe answering emails wasn't my answer.

We did what I always want to do with my time and my children- we made art.

I got a chance to take Benny to my studio for the first time- it was a gift to show him this piece of who I am outside of being his Mother.

And then, while we worked side by side (he, cutting flowers, me arranging them in a framed encaustic artwork), he absolutely blew me away when he said this:

“Are you a different person here?”

“What do you mean ”Am I a different person?""

“Yeah, you're not a mommy anymore.”

“When I'm working?”

“Yeah.”

That's the toddler version of a mic drop, right?

This little person who I created is watching me, digesting me, trying to make sense of the world around him and his place in it. It's amazing. Astounding. I have nothing else to say but, “What do YOU think?”