When I Worried For Nothing

Sometimes we worry for nothing. The bad thing never pans out. The sky never falls. Then there are those times when we worry the sky will fall but instead the sky opens to a benevolence that reaches down and lifts your life up forever. This is what happened in Ireland long ago. The sky opened and handed me something so helpful that I still carry it around in my bag of lessons.

Many years ago, I took a chance and threw my name in the hat for acceptance to a fiber art symposium in Ireland. It was a resident program for artists who worked in fiber, and it was composed of a selection of artists, one per country. I never anticipated getting accepted, as it seemed the opportunity was above my station, but I applied anyway. I had nothing to lose. I thought I might have an outside chance based on a recent show I’d been in, but mostly I was flinging my name into the bucket for the purpose of practicing this common activity for artists: applying for residencies.

Well, I got accepted. It didn’t make any sense, but you weren’t going to hear any complaints out of me. I ran around like an excited puppy for the half year leading up to my flight there. That is, until the day came to fly overseas and for me to finally face the music: I might very well be the most junior member of the artists who were coming in from all over the world. I’d recently finished graduate school and had a tiny resume under my name, and that’s being generous. What if I was about to walk into a situation where I was way out of my league? The worry was mounting and nerves starting to rattle.

And then there was this tiny, miscellaneous detail of being six months pregnant.

I considered dropping out of the program once I found out my husband and I were going to have a baby. My obstetrician said I would just squeak by the travel restriction deadline for pregnancy, so after figuring I’d not get a chance like this again for a while, I decided to go for it. I could always come home early. I threw my maternity clothes into a bag, hauled myself over to JFK airport, and flew over the ocean.

I planted my face in front of the plane window on the way there and stared at the nothingness past the wing. I wasn’t worried about being pregnant. I was worried about being the least experienced person in the group. I imagined the worst happening, that I’d stand there a very pregnant newly minted artist mixed in with the elites with little to offer on the state of fiber art in the contemporary art conversation. I could see myself rubbing my constantly ravenous sprouting belly and saying something like, “I do really love art, folks, but anyone know what’s for lunch?”

The whole business got riskier and riskier the closer I got to Ireland.

But life is that funny thing we all know it to be, meaning you just seriously never know. I arrived in my rental car at the estate where we’d be spending a few weeks. There was a large stone building set on a sprawling, verdant property. I’d never been to Ireland before, and it was exactly as I imagined, green and pastoral. The first thing the program’s director did was escort me to my room. She was lovely and welcoming, and she seemed especially impressed with the physical state of me. My room had a fireplace in it and its own separate studio space in which I was expected to make some bit of artwork while there. For the life of me I can’t recall what it was I made for our end-of-program show to which the public was invited. But there are other things I remember instead.

I remember how these accomplished artists straight away had an amused interest in the pregnant member of the group. They quickly turned me into the mascot of the residency, or maybe it’s better to say they adopted me. But I was both: an adopted mascot. I was the youngest of the group; the one with most to learn; the one with a roly-poly presentation. Regardless, instead of being the artist who’d least earned her position there, I was put on a special podium of care. My worries were not materializing. These artists weren’t overly grand and lofty. They were decent and grounded.

I remember sitting in the darkened presentation room with the others and watching the individual talks given by each artist over the weeks. It wasn’t at all what I thought it would be: a hierarchy of experience and name recognition prancing about. Rather, it was a diverse community who were sharing a collective of ideas. There was much consideration and mulling over. There were earnest and curious questions. It wasn’t a vibe of excluding. It was a creative fellowship. Since I was still wet behind the ears, I didn’t know about these things: that given a conducive space, varied folks will seek understanding and education from each other.

I remember working in my room’s studio, trying to focus on my work. With each passing day I wanted to be back in NYC with my husband and share the development of our tiny creature growing down below. As I fiddled with the materials on my studio table, this little presence would slowly adjust his position underneath my working hands. The further I got towards delivery day, the more I wondered whether I’d still be an artist in the future. This question was starting to percolate in my head while I was taking part in one of the most exciting opportunities I’d had thus far in my fledgling art career.

But I like the way, if you’re lucky, life will sometimes shuttle you to the next chapter of your life with comedic flair. One weekend, the program offered to take the resident participants to tour the local prehistoric Irish treasure, Newgrange. As the weeks in Ireland wore on, I noticed my stamina lessening and my fatigue increasing, but I didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to see such a historic site, so instead of lounging in my living quarters, I signed up for the day trip.

A group of us were chauffeured out to Newgrange where we strolled around the grounds, taking in the incredible history on the site. We eventually got corralled into a formal tour presentation by a docent. Other folks joined in, and the docent gradually led the group over to a long passage tomb which is cut into the huge earthen mound that comprises the Newgrange monument. It’s a narrow passage that slices itself down into the earth, which is wide enough for two people to fit abreast, but becomes a tight squeeze with a crowd.

I’m not sure if I was being an eager beaver by being the first to enter the tomb in front of the rest of the tour, or if it was a misfortune of positioning, but I ended up situated at the far back of the crypt, sardined in, with the rest of the crowd in front of me. It wasn’t until this point that I asked myself, “Steph, you really think your claustrophobia will be okay with this?”

Well, I sure did my best to listen as long as I could. I tried like the dickens to enjoy the discussion about the winter solstice’s first light shining through a stone gap at the opening of the crypt. I urgently tried to remain calm through the prehistory lesson on the bones, stone carvings, and the deities. I began to emphatically stroke my belly as folks started to ask their fascinated questions and the docent gave his fascinating answers. I sincerely tried to take charge of my hyperventilation as I tapped my colleagues on the shoulder to ask if I might possibly squeeze my way out of the chamber. But my face betrayed my panic and that’s when my new international pals geared up to rescue their adopted mascot. “Hello! Hello! We have a pregnant woman who is about to give birth!!”

Now, this was a misconception on their part. It was simply an innocent claustrophobia speaking up, but by that time I was absolutely willing to leverage the fastest way out of there. The docent’s eyes popped right out of their sockets, the crowd started to clamor and gasp and push their way out of the tunnel, and we all dumped ourselves out of the crypt like toothpaste from a tube, plopping into the fresh air in a big splat. I, having come from the far back of the tomb, with the rotund belly and sweating face, splatted last.

I was free.

It took some explaining and reassuring and apologies, but in due time our little arty group was back on the resident program’s minibus and headed to a pub to properly end our day in Irish style. That evening we crowded around a circle table and regaled each other of our interpretations of the day. It was great craic (a saying I learned there: jolly fun). There was extra loud cackling coming from our table, and extra Guinness taken by some of the ladies. And even though I was yawning as if my head was going to turn inside out, I was supremely happy to have made it across the ocean to discover these beautiful humans.

What happened next is history. I flew home at the end of my weeks in Ireland, had a baby boy named Quinn, and became a mom. The folks who I thought would be unapproachable and above my station ended up being the ones who gave me a ceremonial sendoff to the best thing I ever did, be a mom. I came home from Ireland so grateful for their kindness and heart.

We just never know how life is going to play out. There might be a hundred different things down the road waiting for us, but I’ve learned I’m not the best predictor of how the road is going to wind around. I’ve also learned that the folks along the way consistently pay me far more kindness than I ever imagine ahead of time.

And yet, despite this wisdom, I still get nervous when I’m the least experienced one in the group. I know this is a universal experience. But the funny thing is, the group always ends up being accepting, enlightening, entertaining, and gracious. I have a guess as to why this is. Humans, for all our rough edges, are really quite lovely creatures.

And finally, a pro tip. Don’t go into a prehistoric crypt in front of the crowd. You can trust me on that.