Maria Scott Herndon: Fabric Of Being

In California, where I grew up, we were the generation who watched the phases of life on television. TV gave us a twisted, idealized version of dating from "The Dating Game" and how to treat your siblings or be a parent from "The Brady Bunch". Whether it be Saturday morning cartoons or after-school specials, many parents didn’t feel that they needed to be as involved in their children’s lives as their own parents were in theirs. This freed them up to “find themselves”, leading to the “Me Generation” for the adults of that time. When our parents came of age in the ‘40s and ‘50s, they felt torn between setting limits and setting us free, so we weren’t really sure what the rules were. We were given many opportunities to explore the world on our own. We walked to our friends’ houses or to the store by ourselves, and no one thought much about it. The 1970s were the height of feminism. I remember sitting at countless kitchen tables while my friends’ mothers lectur...

This is “Miss Spirit” She is the first doll I ever made. Occasionally, I get asked about how I got started making dolls.  In 1981, I had made one rag doll for each of my two daughters who were two and three at the time. They were very simple...not much more than pillowed stick figures really. But they loved them because they were from Mom. Life went on, and on, and on until I had almost completely forgotten about it. Then, about eight years ago, I was going through a mild depression due to chronic depression and two things happened; the desire to control my own destiny and remembering “the zone”. I was experiencing a lot of rejection within my journey to employment. I realized that the impact that has would only be equal to my dependency being hired. So, I wanted to carve out my own way of at least creating a stream of revenue until I find something of a “real job”. But could I do? What are my talents? What materials do I have/need? How much would it cost me to...

I was having a discussion with a creative friend yesterday, and she mentioned that she believes her creativity doesn't come from within herself but that she is channeling a higher power. In other words, she is a conduit for creativity — she is only the wire, not the electricity. I thought a lot about that. What do I believe about my creativity and where it comes from? What is the source of human inspiration? The ancient Greeks had their Muses — female spirits that whispered in the ears poets, writers, and artists. What do I have? Like any artist, I have had the experience of going into an almost meditative (or blissful) trance and creating something, a “zone” if you will. I've come out of that mystical place, looked at what I've written, or a doll I've just finished and thought, "Where the hell did that come from?" I didn't know I had it in me. Not a clue. I know I created these works but it seems like the ideas were placed in my head. Creepy?...

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”   Edgar Allan Poe I'd say in about one third of the dreams I remember, I'm somebody else in the dream. Like, I'm in their body, I know who they are and it feels totally normal... and it's not me. For reference, I'm 60 years old. In my dreams, I've been men and women of all different ages, races, etc. This is just a normal thing. I don't generally remember their names, and the dreams are pretty standard dream stuff - sometimes it'll be a fun "wow, I can fly, let's glide over this lake!" dream, sometimes it's an awkward "I really have to pee and the only toilet is in the middle of this crowded cafeteria for some reason" type thing; sometimes it's mundane, sometimes it's wild, sometimes it's scary, sometimes it's funny.The only weird thing about it is that the person I "am" in the dream, is not who I am in my waking life. It...

Mom was is dying. Slowly disintegrating into an unknown existence. First her mind, then also her body. All she remembered was her name. She was elderly and had dementia for at least her final 5 years, probably even longer the doctors said. It got very bad between us once the paranoia of the dementia became very strong. Unfortunately, I was the only one she had to which to focus all of her fear, her anger and understandable confusion. She would've be horrified by the wicked games of the dying brain and the dependency on the others. In the end she was just an old fragile woman who wanted peace. In the whispers of her ultimately foggy mind, her love broke through like a flower breaks through the asphalt; briefly piercing through the dementia and always unexpected. I wish I could've given that to her. I knew Mom too well. At the time I did not even know what narcissism was. I just thought I wasn't good enough to love. If I would have known what narcissism at that ...

Across cultures it is accepted that it is a terrible thing to die alone. During the present Covid-19 epidemic there are visions of refrigerated trucks on TV. It's all so sad and tremendously disturbing to say the least. Of course it is tragic when large numbers of people die. It is also frightening. There is a real human fear of being unknown and alone when you are dying or have died. It feels as if that life is un-celebrated...discarded and unmourned with no funerals. What about their families? Loved ones can't visit those who are sick and dying. I don't know if it's sadder for the dying or the one's left behind. I would imagine that for those who, for whatever reason, have not made it to the death bed in time may be crippling. During this pandemic, the escalating fear of the unknown spreads like the virus itself. Responses to the horror of the hard to predict scope of Covid-19, the uncertainty of who dies next, and visions of people seeming to be abandon...