My mother was creative…and restless. The lifestyle my father’s job as a commercial contractor could afford her was not enough to make her happy. We lived in a sprawling ranch house built by my father, located in California’s San Benancio Valley. My father’s job kept him away through the week. On weekends there was constant arguing.

I believe my mother was bipolar but she was never diagnosed. She was definitely paranoid. In his absence, she would rant about what a bad person my father was, and claim he was trying to have her put away. My guess is he tried to get her to talk to someone, and her paranoia spun its own version of the story.

Mother would swing without warning from fits of depression to bursts of energy where she would enlist my sisters and me to “help” her with these massive projects around the house and the property. She’d be in bed for a week, and suddenly we’re all waxing the parquet wood floors in our sunken living room. Or pouring cement into frames my father built so we could have stairs down to the creek.

Living with Mother was a wild ride. But in her good moods she taught me to sew. She taught me about crafting. Our family portraits were framed in Plaster of Paris frames Mother made herself and embellished with gold leaf. One year we made Christmas trees out of old Readers Digest magazines, folding the top outside corner of each page to the middle binding. The magazines were then stood on end, pages fanned out, front and back covers glued together. The trees were spray painted and glittered, and displayed proudly around the house for the holiday season.

Mother gardened like a maniac, and made jams and jellies from our many fruit trees and berry vines. She made sauces from our tomatoes. There seemed to always be something in the pressure cooker. Homemade concord grape juice concentrate was stored in our deep freeze in the garage.

Mother was broken but I believe her creativeness kept her going – for a time. She has been gone now more than 30 years. I’ve had my own challenges with emotional well-being, largely from living with Mother’s lack of emotional well-being. But I am so very thankful to have experienced the creative part of her. Because of what I learned from my mother, I am an avid gardener, visual artist, crafter, and kitchen experimenter. And I believe that has saved me.

Is there someone in your life story who is/was broken, but has shared with you their beautiful gifts? What were your challenges in reconciling your feelings for this person?