I knew something was wrong with my son. Not what it was. Just that it was.
It was a mother’s knowing, the kind that settles in your gut and won’t move. Calls weren’t picked up. Texts went unanswered. And I was more than 2,000 miles away, stuck in the purgatory of not knowing.
There was nothing I could do.
When the call finally came, it didn’t come from him. He was too sick to speak.
It was terrifying. It was also a relief to finally know.
All my fears collapsed into a few words.
A rare genetic disorder. Wilson Disease. Liver failure.
His only hope was a transplant.
But first the wait.
Was he strong enough? Would it come in time?
After the Call
After that, I went quiet here. Not as a decision—just as a consequence. Writing stopped. Arting stopped. Everything that wasn’t essential fell away.
Not knowing had been its own kind of hell. Now there was a shape to it. A name. Something we could move toward, even if it was unbearable.
Within a few days came another call. They had a liver for him.
Relief hit first. Then terror. Then the impossible weight of knowing that my son’s life would continue because someone else’s had ended.
Gratitude and grief arrived together, inseparable. A family I would never know, already part of our story.
We left for the airport before dawn. The pups watched nervously as I zipped and unzipped my bags, trying to make room for one more thing. Then another.
The sky was just beginning to thin toward light as we headed down the lane. I remember noticing the dark giving way to gray. Gray to the orange of autumn foliage in the drizzle. The ordinary mercy of a day continuing.
When Noticing is the Work
At the time, I didn’t think of this as creativity. I wasn’t making anything. I wasn’t trying to see.
I was just holding on—moving from one necessary moment to the next. Packing. Traveling. Waiting. Loving my child as fiercely and practically as I knew how.
Only later did I understand that this, too, was a form of attention. Somewhere on that drive, before the sun was fully up, I began taking photos. Not to make art. Just to hold on.
The way the dark lifted into gray. The orange of wet leaves along the road. Light filtering through drizzle on the windshield.
The Muse was with me, not asking for paintings or polished words. She asked for noticing. For bearing witness. For seeing what was there without trying to shape it into meaning.
Creativity didn’t disappear. It narrowed. It stayed close. It did the work of witnessing.
So here’s the invitation, your creative prompt this week—the Noticing Practice.
If you can’t make, notice. Light. Shadow. A window. No output required. Let that be enough for now.
This post is Part I of a short series on how noticing and bearing witness during difficult times shape creativity.
If you feel like noticing out loud, you’re welcome to leave a comment below.
If you’d like to learn more about Wilson Disease, you can find reliable information at the Wilson Disease Association.
Thank you, Susan, that reading feels, felt like support. A guiding hand for today’s attention.
Hi Kate-
I’m responding with the warmest smile and a handful of heart emojis. Knowing that my work has a positive impact is the best knowing of all!
xoxo
Good morning Susan,
I just read your article. I am sorry about your son and I hope he is thriving with his new liver.
I am not an artist but would like to start writing poetry again after a fifty year lapse. Life just got in the way and now that I am ready to write, it seems so overwhelming to me because I didn’t know where to start until I read your article….”just notice”…..”just notice”. Those two words symbolize freedom to me because I do not have to find meaning, I just need to “notice” and see where that takes me.
I am Jeanne Tepper’s friend and have accompanied her on art tours. We came to your home several times. I love your transparency , your art and your willingness to share your techniques so openly with others.
Thank you, Cheryl
Hello Cheryl-
My son is thriving these days, thank you for asking.
I’m absolutely thrilled that this post is helping you get started with poetry again! I had the hardest time getting back into blogging after taking the last few months off. Writing seemed impossible until I sat down and actually did it. And then the words just flowed…
Enjoy your creative freedom and just notice where it takes you! And if you’re ever moved to share your writing, please do.
Much love and hi to Jeanne-
Susan
Susan
I have had you in my mind sooo much not knowing what was pulling you away from your beautiful art and your creatively exciting writing…. Now I know. Now I pray for you and those around you to move forward and use love to grow stronger.
I have an issue too that I am learning from and will use to add depth to how I see the world and add to my art.
Onward!!!
Dee
I’m so grateful to hear from you, Dee! I put my words and paintings out into the world never knowing where they’ll land–or even if they’ll land at all. I needed time off–didn’t know how much time I needed–to process my thoughts and emotions around all that went on. Even things that turn out well can be draining…
I paint in layers. I live in layers. May our issues always add depth to our lives and art (thank you for that line, BTW)!
Onward back ‘atcha!
xoxoxo
I had been wondering where and if your blogs had gone, whether temporarily or permanently–now I know and am glad to have them back since I so enjoy your writing. I’m so sorry to hear of your son’s health issues but buoyed to know that they are being positively resolved! And yes, even positive tensions and traumas can drain energy, so I hope you regain your full energy soon enough. I’m glad to know that you’re keeping on keeping on…..
When I came back from Texas I gave myself permission to decompress, to process everything that had happened. Eventually decompression became outright inertia and I just couldn’t figure out how to begin. Last week I said ok, so maybe painting isn’t happening now (lack of studio/lack of space) but I’m taking photographs and noticing things–I can write about that. So I sat down, started writing and the words just poured out. Now I’m writing again and I’m so grateful for those AH-HA! moments–even when they keep me up past my bed time…
This is beautiful writing. And a powerful message. Thank you
Thank you Susan. Heart emojis to you!