SWEET SLUMBER

It was during the middle of the nite. The darkest dark of nite. She was sound asleep, surrounded by oversized pillows, and nestled beneath her new quilted bedspread. I could hear the soft sound of her breathing. The fragrant scent of her shampoo and body wash hung in the air. The only light in the room was cast from a dim night-light. I stood at the foot of the bed just looking at my baby girl. She seemed so small in that queen-sized bed. Memories chased around my mind. I had an almost overwhelming urge to scoop her up into my arms and simply cradle her.  Quite a few minutes passed while I resisted the temptation to awaken her to hold her. Then, I left her room.

She is 20 years old. I am her mother. And that scene took place last week.

 

In many ways it is the same scene that has occurred over and over these past twenty years. I recall the tiny six-pound newborn who looked far too small sleeping in her crib. She was dwarfed by the size of that crib. Countless times I stood watch over her slumber. I listened for the sounds of her breathing and watched for the rhythmic and gentle rise and fall of her chest while she slept. The fresh and sweet scent of her permeated my senses. She was so perfect. I wanted to lift her into my arms and rock her. I wanted to feel her warmth against me. To let her know she was safe and loved. That she would be for all of time. Sometimes I gave into the urge and swept her into my arms and against my heart.

 

I should have given in the other nite.

 

"The only thing worth stealing is a kiss from a sleeping child." ~Joe Houldsworth 

Tags: child, sleeping

COLOR MY WORLD

The other nite someone asked me to name my favorite color. My response was that I like all colors and do not have a favorite. That was laughingly called a "bullsh*t answer." And yet, it is true. I do like every single color. They all have a place where they look radiant.

We went back and forth a bit about it. He said life is about choices. Choosing. He is quite correct. It was suggested that I could have replied, "I choose not to choose a favorite color." Okay. But had I said that, it would have given him no real insight into me and the way I think, would it? I believe he asked the question to learn more about me. And learn he did! 

 

His question was a difficult one. It was not a simple one to answer like when I am returning a wedding reception RSVP and have to choose whether or not I want my dinner to be beef, chicken, fish, or vegetarian.

 

We are talking COLORS. There are endless colors, and I am to select one as my absolute favorite? Impossible. You see, had he asked what was my favorite color for a car, color to wear, color for a house, hair color, etc., I would have had a chance to be specific.

 

In retrospect, he wanted a black and white answer to a question that resides in a world of gray...and blue...and red...and purple...and yellow...and green...and pink...and orange...and gold...and...

 

"Color is my day-long obsession, joy, and torment." ~Claude Monet

Tags: colors

THE BATH

 

Torrents of rapture

weave through my thirsty body

liquid heat embrace

 

~Nikki~

 

I so do love a nice, hot bath. Preferably with fragrant bubbles. Submerging myself so I can feel the weight of the water pressing on me. Low lighting, perhaps only with lit candles. Soothing moments spent in an environment where nothing matters and nothing troubles. Sheer delight.

 

"The Temple of Diana is in the vicinity of the fountain, which has given rise to the conjecture that it originally constituted a portion of the ancient baths." ~Marguerite Gardiner

Tags: bath, haiku, Temple of Diana

REJUVENATED

Whether or not this painting o'mine I just completed is any good is almost unimportant to me. Two reasons why that is the case. First one being that I had never before done a landscape scene using pastels instead of acrylics or watercolors. This was like a test for me to see how I would go about creating one. The second is where my thoughts took me while painting it.

I believe I have figured out how to use the pastels when painting a landscape. I am eager to attempt a completely different type of one soon. Maybe one with trees and a stream. Maybe a field of flowers. Maybe one more contemporary and far less structured. I will have to see where my imagination takes me.

 

As for my thoughts during the creation of this painting, I loved what I was thinking. Most of the paintings I do usually have so much "more" to them than anyone else can see or than I am capable of expressing with whichever medium I use. What I kept thinking over and over is that even though something is timeworn and perhaps appearing somewhat decrepit (in this case that would be the barns), there is life brought to it with the emergence of something new (the hollyhocks). Before I painted the flowers, the barns stood out as being dilapidated but still sturdy enough to be useful. The cracks and holes in the wood were very prominent. Yet once the hollyhocks began to be added, a softness crept into the scene. They seemed to revitalize the barns with their freshness. I envisioned a farmer's wife planting those flower seeds. Perhaps she wanted to add a touch of beauty to the plain view of the barns and the overgrown grass. Still, it was the way the barns became transformed with the addition of new life that stayed with me.

 

It made me realize that no matter how old people become and how their ages might show in their faces or in the way they move, there is always some source of beauty that can come to them in any number of ways and rejuvenate them. Restore their energy and sense of purpose and soften the passage of time.

 

Ah, I think I think too much sometimes.

 

"We must always change, renew, rejuvenate ourselves; otherwise we harden." ~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Tags: hollyhocks, pastels, painting

THE WINDOW

Above my kitchen sink is a window. At no time am I ever at the sink when I do not look through that window. Be it early morning or the dead of nite, I look. Sometimes there is specifically something I am hoping to see. Other times, I simply gaze at my backyard and the sky. No homes are behind us, so it is rare that I ever see people when I look.

About a month or so ago, I noticed a crack had appeared in the right side of the window. It was quite small...perhaps an inch long. I immediately pondered how it had happened. They are double glass windows, and the tiny crack is on the inside pane of glass. We had had a very short period of time when the weather was frigid. I wondered if my penchant for sliding open the window a wee bit to always allow fresh air to enter my home had somehow been too much for the glass to handle on those bitterly cold days.

 

Instead of checking into having the glass repaired, I let it go. It was such a small blemish, after all.

 

During these past weeks, I have watched the crack grow. It is stretching across the right side of the window. The line is not straight; it has angles to it. Zigzagging across the pane.

 

I touch it to find out if it is in danger of shattering. It seems sturdy. There are no protruding edges on the crooked line. It quietly reaches farther and farther up and across my window. It does not distort the view I have of the trees I have planted in my yard, nor does it interfere with my view of the grass and the sky.

 

It simply is.

 

And it makes me think.

 

Maybe we are a lot like that cracked glass. We experience times when we feel a little broken. A chink in our armor, so to speak. Other life events take place, and some cause us to break slightly more. We may stay even for a time, then another episode of concern or worry or pain occurs, and our fragility causes the crack to expand. Our emotions may seem jagged, much like the uneven line on the pane of glass. We fret. We wring our hands wondering what we should do to "fix" ourselves.

 

Meanwhile, life goes on and the crack seems to stop growing. It is still there, but remains static. We feel sturdy, strong once again. We might even convince ourselves that it will pose no problems for us. Until the day arrives when something catastrophic takes place. Suddenly, we are surrounded by shards of broken glass. Shattered beyond repair. It might take years for that moment to come. Or it might never come.

 

We never really know, do we?

 

"Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass." ~Anton Chekhov

 

 

Tags: life, broken glass, window

MINUTIAE

I have been robbed. This is winter. Have I seen the snowfall that winter is supposed to bring? Nope. Sure, there has been a dusting or two here and there, but I have been subjected to ::gasp:: RAIN way too often. I despise the rain when temperatures are cool or cold. It is annoying, and it sends unpleasant chills through me that cannot be relieved until I soak in a hot bubble bath. It rained on Christmas Day. It rained on New Year's Eve. Where is my snow? I want blizzards (sans deaths related to said blizzards). I want my world to come to a screeching halt because of the snow. No cars on the roads. Schools and businesses closed. I want to be the first one to leave footprints in my yard. I want to pelt my hubby and kids with snowballs. I want to look outside and see white covering everything for days on end. Now, is that too much to ask? Methinks not, and what I think is what counts. ::smile::

I just completed a portrait unlike any I have previously done. This one is of a child. A young child. I had painted older kids, but never one who still had baby teeth. It was quite a challenge to capture the innocence present in the face of such a beautiful little boy. I do not think I have done a stellar job expressing that quality of his, but my hubby likes the portrait, thinks it looks like the child, and has told me he thinks I should go ahead and give it to the couple who requested that I paint the little boy. (I told them I absolutely was not going to do it. No way. I knew I would attempt it, but I did not want THEM to know it. That way, there was no pressure on me except what I put on myself.) What I discovered is that the very young have no defining aspects to their faces. There is a genuine softness...almost a blur to their features. The lines and sharper characteristics will come with time. Probably around the time they lose some of their pure innocence.

My poochie was cremated. I wanted her ashes. I could not bear to think of her being discarded or buried in the ground. Not my baby. I went to the funeral home to pick up her remains. She was in a small wood box with a latch. It was a nice box, I suppose. Yet, it was too plain and common for my liking. Like most people who have had a pet for many years, I felt she was special. I asked the gentleman who assisted me if they had any other containers I could buy to replace the wood box. They did. A curio cabinet full of them. And I found the one I wanted in the blink of an eye. It is a cloisonne urn. I have long thought cloisonne to be an amazing art technique. This urn is absolutely beautiful. It is unique. Then and there I bought it. He transferred her ashes to it (out of my sight, of course), and I asked him to please glue on the lid. Now she rests on my bookcase. I look at her often. But not as often as I feel her absence. I miss her. And I cry.

 

Ah, but I laugh, too. My son (age 23) and some of his buddies played in a flag football league for fun. The name of their team was The Nads. Their team cheer? GO NADS! Geez, I cracked up hearing that. His sense of humor is brilliant at times.

 

We are in the process of redecorating our daughter's bedroom (age 20). After the Bobcat cleared out the piles of junk that had made walking through it an impossibility, the painting of the walls began. She is delighted in many ways about the transformation. I had her choose the bedspread, curtains, pillows, and wall color. She is also getting a new mattress. Queen-sized to boot. Hell, she is not a very big girl...weight or height, so she will be able to do somersaults across it. I have warned her that if she trashes her room in ANY way that she will be forced to sleep in the basement. ::grin:: She is petrified of the basement. It is a miracle to get her to go down there to retrieve something from the freezer. And when she does venture down those steps, she has to have on the light and leave the door open. That is when my sadistic streak surfaces. I quickly flick off the light, shriek, and shut the door. She cries and literally flies up the steps. And she tells me what a sicko I am. She is correct. But it IS funny.

 

That just reminded me of something I am still laughing about. No one ever helps me decorate the Christmas trees except for my daughter. Well, this year she was not here the nite I decided to do it. I asked the hubby if he would at least come into the living room to talk to me while I hung the lights and ornaments. He did. Ultimately, he actually got up and helped me string the lights. When the first set of 100 lights had been placed on the tree, he grabbed the next strand. Just as he was plugging it into the first strand, I screamed. The man jumped like a little girl. I went into quite a laughing fit that went on for the next few hours. Big tough guy was scared to death. He SAID he was not expecting it. Then he said he thought I had been shocked. Let's get real. I know and he knows that I scared him. Haha.

 

And a giant bravo to Coach Bob Knight for becoming the winningest men's college basketball coach in NCAA history. 880 wins. 80% of his players also received their college degrees. That is TWICE the national average for men's basketball players. You rock, Coach, and I love you...even though you call me Noisy. ::grin::

 

Today is a day I am thinking about my father. January 6. A date I will never look at in quite the same way again. You are in my thoughts, Daddy. I am making sure I recall the funny tales and escapades of yours along with the heartwarming ones. A beautiful mix of what comprised so much of who you were and are. Missing and loving you. ~Your ornery #3 daughter   

 

"The beauty of the world...has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder." ~Virginia Woolf

FIVE YEARS

That, that is one of the many things I miss so very much about you. On Saturday, it will have been five years ago that I held your hand for the last time. Or were you holding mine? I gained so much strength from and through you. And you also brought out an inner strength that I never realized I possessed.

Oh, to hold your hand one more time...just one more time.

 

Missing you today and for always.

 

"God has given us two hands, one to receive with and the other to give with." ~Billy Graham