I IS FOR IMAGINATION

                       

::singing...it was just my imagination running away with me:: Well, it really was just my imagination running away with me! It does that occasionally. Maybe even more than occasionally.

Since I was a wee one, I have had an active imagination. It remains very hale and hearty to this day. Heaven knows it has gotten me into trouble and caused me unnecessary worry on occasion. No regrets, however. It is what it is. And I prefer to think it has been good for me far more often than not. Wait. I know it has been good.

 

My imagination is much like a snowball. It starts out fitting nicely in my hand. It is easy to manage and quite light. Suddenly, it drops to the snow-covered ground and begins rolling. Growing bigger by the second until it is the size of an iceberg, and I become a small ship attempting to get around it but unable to steer away from it. The closer I get to it, the larger it looms. It portends doom sometimes. Other times, I want to be as near to it as possible, because it gives me a magnificent view of breathtaking sights.

 

It can be exhausting. It can also be exhilarating. My imagination has been able to take me places I would have never thought of going. It has awakened me from sleep with ideas that came to life during those hours when consciousness was at rest. It has solved dilemmas I was having. Created fresh, new ideas to work with in many areas of my life. Those in my world know if something requires imagination, to come to me with whatever it is, and I will conjure up the "perfect" idea they are seeking. It has also foreseen situations that might develop (and indeed have), and made me think of the possible ways I should react.

 

Certainly I can recall times I wished I did not have such a vivid one. For instance, I used to be absolutely terrified to be alone at nite. This developed when I was about 19 years old and continued for many years. It bordered on pure, unadulterated fear. I would see shadows everywhere that were surely those of crazed murderers making their way to my bedroom. Heard noises that could only be made by people wrenching open my locked doors and windows. I honestly felt like I had a neon sign flashing atop my home that read, "I am all alone in here." An open invitation to every depraved soul (who resembled those from The Night of the Living Dead) to gain entrance to my abode. My heart would race, and I would wonder if I should pretend I was asleep. Sometimes I was brave enough to creep down the stairs to hunt for the intruders. After I would finally fall asleep and then awaken, I welcomed the early morning sunshine like a long lost lover. Somewhere along the way, the fear virtually disappeared. My imagination must have decided to forego leaving that kind of litter with me. In its place are other delights and creatures who wish me no harm.

 

My imagination has become an unseen shadow that has merged with my being. More often than not, it is a dear friend to me that I have come to rely on and trust its intentions.

 

And since I recently finished my second acrylics painting, which is of an insect (see, starts with an "I"!), I will post it here. My sister had taken a lovely photograph of a dragonfly resting on a reed above a pond, and I based this painting on it.

 

                 

 

"Imagination grows by exercise, and contrary to popular belief, is more powerful in the mature than the young." ~W. Somerset Maugham

MEMORIAL DAY

          

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

~John McCrae~

Have a safe Memorial Day weekend and take a moment to remember those who gave their lives for us.

(And a Happy Birthday to my mother whose birthday this year falls on Memorial Day. Smooches, Mom!)

H IS FOR HEART

                         

It has been said that when people develop heart problems, it rattles them to the core in a way unlike disorders of other body parts. The reason given is that almost all of us associate the heart with life and the center of our being. What symbol is used to denote love? A heart, of course. We live and love. Suffering from a heart ailment seems to jar our entire foundation.

Psychologically and physically, our hearts come into play every single day. Yes, so do our brains and other organs; however, we are aware of the heart in different ways.

 

Physically, when we are at rest, we might notice its rhythmic beating, or perhaps its irregular rhythm. Many of us know our resting pulse rate. Our ears often fill with the sound of our hearts pumping our blood. When we get a fright, doesn't the heart respond by accelerating its beat? We note it is working extra hard to get us through the dreadful scare. If we are fitness buffs, we consciously make it a point to be aware of our hearts during workouts.

 

Psychologically, our hearts hold us captive. All of us have experienced or encountered broken hearts, happy hearts, smiling hearts, bleeding hearts, sad hearts, cold hearts, black hearts, and the like. We offer "heartfelt" condolences to the grieving. And we really do feel their pain in our hearts. Maybe not physical pain, but our brain tells us that someone's loss weighs heavily on our hearts. Home is where the heart is. Who has not heard that said? Wherever the heart is, then that is where the rest of our bodies can be found or would like to be.

 

There are so many other examples of the value and place our hearts hold in our lives. Yet, there is also a phrase I find extremely meaningful. Sometimes, I believe it is overused by the media. When applied in the manner I think it is intended to be, it is quite powerful.

 

The phrase is, "That person has heart."

 

If we can turn away from the negativity of the news' focus, we are able to see a multitude of people who "have heart." How many times have you read or heard about someone who goes above and beyond the norm in an effort to help others even at his own risk? That person has heart. Mother Teresa had heart on a grand scale. We all know people who have it. Some more so than others. And we often marvel at the "heart" they display.

 

This past weekend I had the opportunity on two separate days to be surrounded by folks who have heart. Both events I had the privilege of attending were ceremonies honoring people.

 

Saturday evening's dinner extravaganza was something else. 1,200 people attended to watch numerous people receive awards for their accomplishments. No, they were not given those crystal trophies because they had heart per se, but I happen to have firsthand knowledge of the heart many of them possess. I have seen their compassion and selflessness on many occasions.

 

Sunday afternoon's ceremony was a smaller gathering, but the lone recipient of the honor had more heart than anyone I have ever known. It was evident by those who gathered to celebrate that the compassion of the honoree was abundant. People from all walks of life came: the elderly and the young, the ailing and the healthy, the rich and the poor, white collar and blue collar.

 

Thoughts about both of those functions have been replayed in my mind many times. I have some photographs from them I also keep viewing. I think what impacted me the most was that many, many people in attendance at those events themselves have heart. Maybe, just maybe, when a person is compassionate, he or she has a tendency to attract or be surrounded by those who also have that wonderful character trait. And it is appreciated.

 

"One learns people through the heart, not the eyes or the intellect." ~Mark Twain

G IS FOR GLASS

                                           

Moksha had written a Sisterhood Sunday entry asking if we thought the art of calligraphy had been lost in this day and age of computer-generated calligraphy. It was interesting to read the comments left in that particular post. And as usually occurs after reading something that stirs my mind, it had me thinking about other lost arts.

We pay quite a premium now to have beautiful furniture crafted for us, yet it was once considered a common practice to create finely-detailed pieces. But, with the development of machinery to "carve" and manufacture the wood into furniture, few people are left who can genuinely make elaborate furniture from scratch. It is the charm of the old world furniture and other objects that I believe has turned me into an antiques lover.

 

My aunt spent many years researching her family tree (which, of course, would also be my family tree on my mother's side). She had help from various organizations like the Mormons. They keep amazing detailed records. When all was said and done, our family tree was one of the most fascinating and extensive ones most people have ever seen. Some of my ancestors were royalty, and others were peasants. I have a poster-sized copy of the tree that my aunt turned into something of a piece of art. She is a gifted artist who paints oil portraits.

 

Anyway, one of my more recent ancestors is my great grandfather. His profession was that of a glass blower. My mother did not know him, since he died at a very young age. His lungs suffered from his profession and caused his death. I have watched people blow glass, and it impressed me to see the process they used to create such lovely and fragile items. Rare now is the occasion when someone declares their occupation as glass blower.

 

Two years ago my son, his girlfriend, her parents, and my husband and I went to an exhibit at a local conservatory.  Displayed were the blown glass pieces created by a man named Dale Chihuly. The man's work is beyond belief. Certainly you can see the wonders he has crafted in the above photographs I took. He excelled in working with glass until he was left blind in one eye as a result of a car accident. His depth perception was affected, but his love for his work kept him from walking away from it. To compensate for his disability, he has his selected artists work with the molten glass based on his paintings. One of his well-known accomplishments is making sculptures out of the blown glass. The entire conservatory was filled with his works. The way it was set up was stunning, because it seemed to bring to life even further all of the lush greenery that is a constant part of the conservatory. To see glass flowers among the foliage was a treat for the eyes. Some of the glass was even set into ceiling panels. The sculptures were mindboggling. I found it difficult to be pulled away from one to go see another. Such talent. Such a gift to be able to produce works of art that leave others enchanted and wanting more.

 

All too often I wish more of the "lost arts" would return...along with a less hurried lifestyle that was once upon a time.

 

"A lot of work I do is nature inspired or looks like it might come from nature, but I don't look specifically at something to make it. I just sort of have a natural feeling for using glass - trying to take advantage of the colour and transparency that glass offers and the ability to take this ancient material which is blown with human air, this magical material." ~Dale Chihuly  

F IS FOR FRAGILE

                         

There were quite a few entry possibilities for the letter "F" that rattled around inside my skull before I could decide which one to use. As it turns out, I selected none of them. I got myself situated here at the keyboard to begin typing what I had thought I would write when the word "fragile" came to mind. It seemed to fit perfectly. And maybe I will regret dissecting that word here as it applies to me.

I am not entirely certain what is going on within me. I cry far too easily. A song can get inside of my heart and leave me weeping. I can visit some journals/blogs and tear up in a matter of seconds while I read the words posted. I happened to stop for the first time at Christina's mother's art website, and I cried. I called my husband into this study to view her breathtaking murals. And as he stood to my right admiring her talent, the tears flowed down my cheeks. Such beauty she creates.

 

Thinking perhaps I needed to take a break from reading so many blogs and listening to my music, I made a point of doing other things with my time. Visiting with my mother, shopping, spending more time with my children and husband, talking to friends, having company over, cleaning, painting, and making plans for a trip to Chicago occupied my hours.  

 

I spent many a moment giggling, laughing heartily, and smiling. I felt the warmth of those moments intensely. And guess what? I either began to well up with tears, or I outright sobbed. They were not tears of anguish. More like ones of joy. Pure joy.

 

It puzzles me. For instance, on Mother's Day I went over to Mom's with a gift in hand. One of my sisters and her daughter were there. The four of us were having a grand time. There was much joking~as there always is whenever any of us get together. Because I am going to help Mom redecorate one of the rooms in her house, I was rummaging through a shelf in an attempt to clear it of unnecessary items. I came across a diary she had kept during 1996. My mother has kept diaries from the time she was very young. There are some years she missed, but not many. April of 1996 was when my father suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm. I wondered if she had stopped writing in that particular diary when he took ill. I looked over at her and told her what I had found. I asked if I could look at it. She nodded.

 

The first entry I turned to was Sunday, March 24, 1996. This is part of what she wrote, "I noticed little rainbows reflected on my cream carpet. They come from the sun shining through the living room window and through the crystal candlesticks on my coffee table-so fascinating. I guess it shows that in life little rainbows can be found in unusual places to make life happier."

 

I once again looked to her and read aloud that passage. I had an overwhelming urge to cry. I could not help but instantly recall all of the dreadful things she has experienced during her life, and the simple words of hers about rainbows tore at my heart. Both my sister and niece were moved by her words, too. But not to the degree that I was. I choked back my tears and directed my attention to something else.

 

Those rainbows have stayed in my thoughts since Sunday. I think about the timing of her discovering them when she did. Her spending time admiring them and then recording in her diary what she saw. Perhaps their images were sealed in her mind to help her cope with the following heartbreaking years of Daddy's illness and passing. The promise of rainbows.   

 

And that is how I find myself these days. Empty or full. Edgy or light. Quiet or loud. Singing or silent. Vulnerable or strong. Laughing or crying. Yearning for an unknown something to complete me or feeling fulfilled. No middle ground. And the feelings can change in a heartbeat. It alarms me sometimes. How can I go from one extreme to the other like that? And just how long will this battle of emotions last?

 

So, yes, I feel fragile. Handle with care.

 

But if you mention the dreaded menopause word to me, I will punch out your lights. ::laugh::

 

"At twenty you have many desires which hide the truth, but beyond forty there are only real and fragile truths - your abilities and your failings." ~T. S. Eliot

E IS FOR ETHEREAL

                         

Heavenly beings

garbed in starlit brilliancy

guide and watch o'er us

MOTHER'S DAY

               

To the woman who gave me life and continues to enrich my soul each and every day, I wish you a Mother's Day that is as warm and beautiful as you. I love you.

And to all of you women who have nurtured and loved your own children or who care for and love other children as though they were your own...

 

         

 

 

(Alphabetical series of entries will resume on Monday.)

D IS FOR DREAM

           

Typically, it went like this:

There was a room in my house that I had somehow forgotten existed. I would be bustling around doing chores by myself or sometimes company would be over. Often the company was my parents. It never mattered which would be the case. What was important was that I rediscovered the room. I would stumble upon it on my own or when my parents would point to the ceiling and ask what that square spot was that was there. I would look up and be filled with dread. It had the appearance of an attic entrance. And I would gasp. The room. That room. How could I have forgotten about it?

 

I would pull down on the small chain, the square portion of the ceiling would open, and a set of steps would unfold. As I very slowly ascended the stairs, my stomach would tighten. I would remember that I had left living things in there, yet I had neglected the room for so long. Sometimes I would remember that I had fish in a tank in there, and I would panic at the thought they had gone months without food and would surely be dead. Other times, it would be plants I had left unwatered for weeks and weeks on end. My guilt and fear would be tremendous and cause my feet to feel heavier with each step I took. By the time I reached the very top step and was ready to look inside, I would be extremely agitated and frightened by what I expected to find. No one ever joined me walking up those stairs. I was always alone.

 

And then, I would fearfully take my first glance inside. Ohhhhh, it was a beautiful room. Absolutely gorgeous. The sofa and overstuffed chair had a rich floral fabric. The coffee table and end tables were of good wood and in perfect condition. The knickknacks on them were tasteful and displayed just so. Plants were thriving. The fish were swimming happily in their tank. There was an immaculate kitchen located just behind the sofa. The appliances were seemingly new and the latest models. A charming table was off to the side of the kitchen; placemats and a floral arrangement were carefully arranged atop it. Further investigation revealed a small bathroom just behind a door on the opposite side of the room. It, too, was lavishly decorated and clean.

 

As I took in the sight of this gorgeous room, I felt a sadness that such beauty could be forgotten by me. How in the world could I have let a room this lovely go vacant? More importantly, how could it have escaped from my mind? What was wrong with me that I could completely fail to remember that this room existed in my own home?

 

It was always at that point when I would awaken. I would feel out of sorts. Sick inside. Sad, too. My mind would play the dream over and over trying to make sense of it. This recurring dream had been taking place for years. I did not have it every nite. I might go a month without it visiting me in my sleep. And then it would reappear. Sometimes frequently. There were times the room was not the one I described here. It might be a forgotten room off the main portion of the basement and not nearly as attractive. But, the majority of times, it was THAT beautiful room. And all of the times, my reactions in the dream were the same, and my reactions when I would awaken would be the same.

 

It bothered me a lot that I could not interpret that dream. It simply did not make sense to me. Usually, I can identify some trigger or connection in my real world that allows me to understand my dreams. I dream a lot. Every nite. Even during the occasional naps I take, I dream. I remember them, too. Always. I hated that this recurring dream would not stop, and I despised how it made me feel for an entire day after having had it.

 

I happened to mention it to a psychologist friend of mine (the late friend who gave me the shadow box in my previous photo tag journal entry). John was very interested in the particulars of the dream. He had attended a seminar in Boston, which dealt exclusively with dreams and their hidden meanings. He said he had learned so much from it. He even knew of an "exercise" the dreamer could do to help uncover the message of the dream, along with the assistance of a psychologist. He asked me if I wanted to give it a try. I jumped at the opportunity. I felt if I knew what it meant, then perhaps it would no longer haunt me during sleep and waking hours.

 

It has been several years since we analyzed that dream. At the moment, I cannot recall all of the particulars of the exercise he had me perform. I do know I would cry (!) when I would close my eyes and remember everything I could, in detail, about the dream. I also was told to focus on the specific version of the dream that happened the most frequently~that of the beautiful room, as opposed to the very infrequent version of a basement room. Every single thing ranging from what I saw in my dream to my feelings during it and after awakening, plus the ones I was experiencing right then while thinking about it, I was instructed to write down. That was a critical part. Recording it on paper.

 

I did everything I was asked to do. I wrote. I wrote through tears. I wrote through agitation. I got a clear glass jar and one by one, when directed, put the objects inside it that I was told to place there. Five stones and a piece of ribbon. The ribbon was the final object to go into the jar. With that came the interpretation. John had been able to guess fairly early on what it meant, but he was not 100% certain. He told me it was important that I come up with my own ideas during the process, and then we would discuss them. He also informed me that I had the most complex and vivid dream of anyone he had ever helped. ::laugh:: Figures. He said he would love to pick my brain sometime!

 

I kept that jar. It sits on a shelf inside the glass cupboard of the hutch on this desk. Beneath it is a piece of paper. The final jotting of emotions and thoughts I had when I closed my eyes to relive the dream. The summary of what I believed the dream meant.

 

This is what it says:

 

"7/31/02~Wednesday

Shocked, forgotten, abandoned, room in home, relief

 

Sad, tears, Daddy's illness a shock? Did I feel abandoned & forgotten? cried

Relief that I was ok?

 

The room is part of me and it didn't change even though I didn't take care of me. Relief knowing that. Like I put a part of me on hold for so long b/c of Daddy. cried

 

Sick feeling will be dead going in there."

 

He and I discussed it then. Yes, I was on the money with my guess as to the meaning. My fear of something living being found dead when I went into the forgotten room signified my apprehension that one day I would walk inside Daddy's room at the nursing home to find him dead. (He did pass away there on January 6, 2002, but I was with him when he passed.) I had done nothing for myself for the six years of Daddy's illness. I did for everyone except myself. And John felt I had all sorts of beautiful things inside me that I kept tucked away in a "room" during that time and possibly even in the years preceding Daddy's illness. Forgotten. Abandoned. He wanted me to let them out. He said it was long past time for me to be completely me.

 

And that shadow box filled with miniature artist's paints, apron, easel, and paintings soon arrived in the mail for me. A gift from John...my dream solver.

 

I have never had that dream again since the discovery of its meaning.

 

"Leave me to lay, but touch me deep, I don't sleep, I dream." ~From the song I Don't Sleep, I Dream by R.E.M.

C IS FOR CANDLE

                                   

                                   

B IS FOR BEDAZZLED

                              

This alphaBetical series of entries will most likely take on a somewhat Bizarre twist from time to time. Why? Because I have such fun thinking up ways to entertain myself in this journal. And since B is for Bedazzled, I suppose this entry will Be the strangest of all. ::smile::

I am Beyond excited playing with my PSP program. The aBove puzzle is something new I learned how to do minutes prior to posting this entry. As odd as it may seem to others, I get great pleasure from creating something as simple as the graphics for my journal. A few I have created even Bedazzle me!

::tapping my chin thinking what else I should say aBout myself and what I find Bedazzling::

 

Books Bedazzle me. I think far too many people overlook certain Books thinking they are Beneath their intelligence. Ah, But I think they are wrong. A Book does not need to Be full of 50-cent words to impart a powerful message to its readers. Take a look at children's Books. I truly Believe some of them have the aBility to convey a wealth of wisdom through their simple illustrations and simple words (some of which are even goBBledygook words). You can Be a Book snoB just as easily as someone can Be an art snoB or a car snoB. Sadly, Being that way may cause you to Be unaBle to see the forest Because of the trees. Spend the Big Bucks on those heavy, 500-page Books that will allegedly help you understand the riddle of life. Read them and mayBe you really will see the Big picture...just Be sure you have your dictionary handy to Be aBle to follow the author's words. Perhaps you will not need the dictionary, But I would wager you will not get any closer to finding the answers to life like you can with some of the incredible Books written By children's Book authors such as Shel Silverstein or Dr. Seuss. Yes, those two immediately come to mind.

 

Ever read The Giving Tree By Shel Silverstein? It is a classic kids' Book that defines unconditional love and the pure gift of giving. It is definitely a tearjerker. I do not need to get all intellectual to know what the message in that Book is.

 

Try reading Dr. Seuss's Oh, The Places You'll Go! I do not care if you are 10 or 100, that Book will guide you through life and all the ups and downs of it. And it is done in Dr. Seuss fashion with the charming made-up words and rhymes. It is my all-time favorite Book in the world, and I hope I will Be reading it until the day I die.

 

Jewelry Bedazzles me. Uh huh. I am a Bit of a Bling Bling Broad. I love the way jewels sparkle, the many colors of gems, the various ways stones can Be set in necklaces, rings, earrings, and tiaras. LOL! I do not have a tiara. I just kinda threw that in the mix.

 

I am utterly Bedazzled by creativity. Other people's or my own. It is a thrill to see what people are capaBle of creating with all sorts of mediums. Learning my own limits and then pushing them to see if I can get past those walls is a challenge I am always up for.

 

Children Bedazzle me to pieces. I love them. They keep me young at heart, make me laugh, try my patience (which is actually a good thing for me to improve), astound me with their oBservations, and Bring out my nurturing instinct. Some even own my heart. ::smile::

 

Who cannot Be completely Bedazzled By all that nature allows us to see? No matter the season, the time, or the place, there is always a Bedazzling element to Behold and emBrace.

 

Listening to the diversity of music is Bedazzling. Just think how many years music has Been around. And still we come up with new techniques, new instruments, new words, new compositions to delight our Beings.

 

People in general are Bedazzling creatures. While I wish I could say I like all people, the sorry fact is that I do not. Some are not likaBle to me. Never will Be. If I make it to Heaven, I would imagine I will somehow Be chastised for that inaBility to like all mankind. I will probably Be forced to room with someone I despise for eternity. Ugh. Wait. That sounds more like Hell to me. ::grin::

 

Who am I kidding? I will not possiBly Be aBle to sit here and list all the enchanting things that Bedazzle me. There are far too many. From the tiniest of things to the Biggest of things, I am Bedazzled by something on a daily Basis.

 

I cannot end this entry without saying that God is By far the most Bedazzling of the Bedazzlings. Always has Been, always will Be.

 

“An enchanted life has many moments when the heart is overwhelmed with beauty and the imagination is electrified by some haunting quality in the world or by a spirit or voice speaking from deep within a thing, a place, or a person. Enchantment may be a state of rapture and ecstasy in which the soul comes to the foreground, and the literal concerns of survival and daily preoccupation at least momentarily fade into the background.” ~Thomas Moore

A IS FOR ART

                                      

(Following in the manner of Sue Grafton and her books' titles, I have decided to do a series of alphabetical journal entries.)

This is not the first time I have featured this particular painting in my journal. In my previous blog, I used it to represent some sentiments I had about the grieving process. I did not analyze the painting itself.

 

I am not usually attracted to "dark" art. I seem to gravitate toward the light and airy works. The ones that while they make me think, the thoughts are pleasant ones. I can easily imagine myself inside those paintings. Strolling down the street, sitting on a stone bench in a colorful secret garden surrounded by high walls, or stretched out on my back in a field among masses of wildflowers and gazing at the clouds.

 

Yet, the above painting is probably one of my favorites I have ever seen. It hangs in The Art Institute of Chicago. Funny, I was most eager to see the many works of Claude Monet that are displayed there. (Outside of The Louvre, The Art Institute of Chicago has the largest collection of Monet's paintings.) He has always been my favorite artist. To be surrounded by the beauty he created was staggering. Silly me, I cried when I stood right in front of his Water Lilies painting. It overwhelmed me to see it in person. And you can clearly see my swollen eyes in this picture taken of me standing beside that painting!

 

                                           

 

After spending an enormous amount of time looking at his paintings, I moved on to other areas.

 

And that is when I came across the painting at the top of this entry. To say I was mesmerized would be a gross understatement. I could barely breathe while I stared at it. It is one of the most compelling paintings I have laid eyes on. I could not get enough of it. The title is That Which I Should Have Done I Did Not Do (The Door). The artist, Ivan Albright, spent ten years working on it. It is a fairly large painting, 97” x 36”, and absolutely riveting. Oh, what must he have been thinking when he created it?

 

So many possibilities. It, to me, is one of the exciting parts about looking at paintings. Analyzing. Wondering. Deciding for myself what the artist is saying, as though he wanted ME to know what he is expressing through the use of his paints.

 

Is that woman’s hand opening the old door displaying the funeral wreath? Is she entering with much trepidation because she feels she should have spent more time with the one before death took him? Did she have regrets about her treatment of the deceased? Had there been some sort of rift in prior years that kept them from contacting each other? Is she frightened to enter because she is overcome with such deep sadness knowing the person she knew is there no longer? Or is she closing the door and leaving with the “what ifs” flooding her mind? The “should haves.” The title of the piece clearly indicates there was no relief felt from the visit. Whether or not she is just arriving or just departing, guilt has crept into the picture. The kind of guilt that can haunt the living for a lifetime.  

 

I saw paintings by Van Gogh and Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec and Degas and other world famous artists at The Art Institute. I was in my absolute glory. But, the painting that left the biggest impact on me was this one. Rightfully so.

 

"I am not interested in the landscape in the topographical sense. I am only interested in painting one's feelings, strong feelings, passionate feelings. One paints in order to try to understand a bit about life and about oneself." ~Norman Adams

 

                   

IN MY HANDS

                  

May arrived today. The weather could not have been more perfect, nor the sky a prettier blue. I grabbed my daughter, put down the top of my convertible, and headed to an art show. After admiring the works of art (and purchasing two multimedia pictures), she and I went to a garden store. I found most of what I needed there, and I dropped off my daughter at work before returning home.

 

We had a great time together...just the two of us. Giggles and confidences were shared. Her thoughts and feelings expressed. Seeing how very much alike our personalities are. Noticing how she gravitated toward paintings that I disliked and how I leaned toward ones she did not especially like. Coming together and finding two pieces we both liked.

 

The whims of the wind were blowing my hair to and fro and tousling it. My music was playing. I sang with each song, not even giving any concern as to how I might sound to anyone unlucky enough to be next to me at red lights.

 

The day was a good one. Better than good. But, it still did not take away the pain in my heart. Literal and figurative pain is rooted there. I could not help but be disappointed that the gentle warmth of the day and the time spent with my "little" girl did not alleviate either hurt. I can easily understand why my heart hurts figuratively. Such a simple thing for me to determine. It is the physical pain I cannot quite comprehend. All I know for sure is it has been happening for a period of time. Not too long, but not too short. Yet, perhaps the one is responsible for the other. The two often do go hand in hand.

 

No, I am not going to go to a doctor. I need to make a point to be more aware of those times when I clench my stomach due to tension, the occasions when I suppress my feelings, the frenzied moments when I am trying to accomplish too much too quickly. Recognizing them is half the battle. Searching for the calm that lies somewhere within me is the other half. Hopefully, soon the pain will diminish with some deep breathing and closed eyes while I envision myself driving with the wind slipping its fingers through my hair.

 

Yes, my love affair with the wind might just be the very thing that restores my well-being.

 

"Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?" ~William Cullen Bryant