Category Archives: Thinking Aloud

Viewfinder

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digitally doctored soft pastel and colored pencil

Home is located on Cloud Eight.

You will not be the least bit surprised to know that my lifelong residence on Cloud Eight is situated as close as possible to the proverbial Cloud Nine, where all is perfection and the joys of every ideal are quite simply the norm. You may not even be shocked to hear that I have no need, intention or desire to relocate permanently to Cloud Nine. Frankly, I’m afraid that living there full time would blow my gaskets. Too much ecstasy, constant adrenaline and a permanent state of bliss sound dangerously close to hysteria and collapse. Further, I fear that such excess would find some way to become dull, lacking the contrast of subtler and more refined things.

I have no desire for pain and suffering, mind you; I am very well adapted to my happy and near-perfect life, and I am far too un-evolved to handle the demands of a trying existence. I am quite content to be, well, contented. And on Cloud Eight, there are just enough unforeseen twists of the road, moments of sorrow or fear or illness or what-have-you that, when they have passed, become salt: a seasoning valued so highly because in addition to its own flavors it highlights and enhances the other flavors around it. The piquancy and clarity and intensity of joy is only fully possible, I suspect, if one knows a hint of contrast. Maybe that’s just another iteration of my love of black and white imagery.

In the meantime, as I say, goodness and happiness have their own complications, not least of all a jaded or surfeited attitude brought on by over-indulgence. I find pessimism and paranoia dreary and tiresome companions, but a little part of me needs to stand at attention and be alert to their opposites so that I don’t drift along, bleary, blind to the beauty and inspirations all around me. If I fail to see the marvels in my own (albeit somewhat raggedy) garden, the humor in a child’s uninhibited playfulness, the drama and magisterial artistry in a lightning-streaked sky–why, then, there’s no point in lounging around on the everyday cloud most proximal to the place of perfection, let alone taking the occasional jaunt over ‘next door’ for that welcome hit of delirium, is there!

With that in mind, I make it a point to revisit my own environs with a different point of view or a revitalized attitude whenever I can, lest I lose sight of the wonders all around. If I should lack for a blog post idea for a moment, what’s to blame but my own failure to adjust the lens, to improve my focus. To see and revel in what’s right in front of me. I should take every opportunity to pause and refresh my senses, and then I can’t imagine that there won’t always be a new idea, a dazzling insight or maybe just a friendly reminder of how great the seeming old-familiar can be if I let it.

soft pastel on paper

If I tire of the view, I ought to change my perspective . . .

Cave Painting for Dummies

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Who was it that first looked at a rock and thought, "Now *that'd* make a great TOOL"?

I’m fascinated by pioneers, inventors and explorers. Such minds are truly alien to me; how is it possible for a person to look at the same world that every other person has been looking at for ages and see something entirely different, something new? It’s nothing short of astounding that, when presented with what might be the deeply familiar, one person’s distinctive set of synapses suddenly makes a new constellation from the assorted bits of seen-before information to create a completely new idea–and out of this there is a new object or a new skill or a newly discovered country, in that one event changing the known world into a whole different thing.

I’m quite excited but not intimidated by doing that sort of inventive stuff artistically–in imaginary terms–but it’s quite another thing to consider pulling that sort of stunt to get a practical outcome. Those people able to envision a useful and purposeful way to take advantage of existing stuff have provided innumerable advances for human culture. I’m especially amazed by the intrepid andcourageous (or foolhardy) folk that break trail, build roads, cross unknown oceans and so much more, to open up new concepts and ideas to shift our entire understanding of our universe.

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Who stacked the stones that made the very first wall? The first road between walled places? The first trek that plotted the course of the road?

What gives me courage is that not only are there stronger and braver souls than li’l ol’ me to do all of the serious exploring and adventuring and discovery, but that somewhere along the line someone had the inspiration to make melodious sounds and so, sang. Made a drum from a log. Painted with blood or powder or crushed plants on a cliff side or a cave wall. It’s a wonder and a grandly glorious gift that these superlative scientists-of-delight chose–or were compelled–to create dance and drama and song and pictorial beauty, and the more so because they decided, somewhere along the line, to pass along their newly discovered links to yet more undiscovered worlds. They taught the next generation to do the same. On the strength of this wonder, we are the long-time beneficiaries of these marvels, and as it happens, the torch-bearers by whom this will be carried into the future.

So I’m not the heroine who’ll be discovering an unknown species of beneficial insect, finding the previously unseen river, designing the DNA modification that cures Alzheimer’s, or changing the course of history in any way, shape or form. But I will be using shape and form, along with color and texture, character and text, to see what I can bring to this world as we know it, to see how a measly twerp with less sophistication than your average cave-dweller might be able to be an inventor and discoverer of my own sort of thing.

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. . . and I'll keep my eyes open for inspirations wherever they may be . . .

Brace Yourselves! Commissioned Salesman Ahead

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I am not fearless. There are so many things, situations, creatures and people capable of putting me right into a state where I quiver all over like Billie Burke‘s ‘Glinda‘ vibrato that you’d be harder pressed perhaps to find anything that doesn’t scare me. I may possibly be the biggest nervous Nelly alive.

But there are few fears that compare, in my catalog of terrors and trembling, with unwanted attention from anybody trying to sell me anything. Even, sometimes, things I might actually want. I dread confrontation of any kind, and will gladly spend the afternoon crouching uncomfortably behind a large spittoon if it means I can evade the silky admonitions of a time-share agent. I could easily be persuaded to skip bail and dodge out of the country incognito if I think I’m being pursued by an eager pamphleteer or community activist, no matter how praiseworthy I think her cause.

My ideal world is one in which, when together, we all cheerfully agree 100% on every concept and construct governing the universe and our little souls within it, and it doesn’t matter a tenth of an iota that in our hearts we know that to be a false front. We can just make nice for the nonce, skip around giving each other sweet-natured high fives, sing charming campfire songs until we begin to feel faint or peckish, and then meander off, comfortably believing whatever it is each of us needs to believe when we get back to our own happy huts. Okay, that modus operandi may be a bit of a push, and I really don’t want to force the idea on you, since that would belie my whole premise. (AWKward!) But still. Can’t we all back off on the urgency of our personal agenda sales pitches just a little?

digital photo illustrationKnow Your Audience–and Your Auditorium

When proselytizing,

You may find it surprising

That all are not moved

To be so improved

As you might hope,

Be you the Pope

Or Guru wise,

So proselytize,

Whether thinly or thickly,

With an eye on the door for exiting quickly.

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The Train Passing through by Night

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What mysterious music leads me there?

I have been yearning. It’s no one’s fault. Someone casually mentions a city I’ve visited and loved. A food I associate for its first heart-stopping recognition with a particular time and place. Friends not seen in an age plus two more ages, and miss with all my heart. And off I go. Yearning, once again, to reconnect. To plug my lonely, under-appreciated passport back in to the hot socket and rev it up for travel.

Homesick! Happier than a pig in dirt where I am, loving every minute of my today-is-today life, rejoicing in the beautiful and joyful things that make my existence such a pleasure and a fulfillment–but able on top of all that sugar-frosted wonderfulness to still feel deeply homesick for places and people who make my many other homes, both slightly and exceedingly far away. From my longing distance, I throw kisses to all . . .

To our family all around the world–tied to us two by blood, or by music, by hope and serendipity and adventure. I miss you whenever we’re apart. To those magical places called cities, countries, houses, apartments, ships, fields and forests, or convent cells, that have given us shelter and, far beyond that, a sense of home wherever we may be on this big watery hunk of rock: I miss you every day that I can’t be there. To the memories and sweetness that have arisen from so many escapades and accidents and crossings of the way, I relish even those precious sensory connections that I never would or could repeat; you, I miss you too, and my mind roams your way whenever it can.

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Above stairs, below stairs and through a million passages . . .

Beautiful are the passages in life that so stamp us with their marks as to turn up the corners of our mouths in blissful grins on every recollection. That make our eyes blur hazily in that inward stare of endlessness that can take us back at a second’s wishful impulse, taking us back on the vicarious flight to relive a bit of it.

Horrible and wonderful both, these cataclysmic catalysts that make me long, no matter how content, to rise up and run off! A fugitive passage of song, that peculiar light at the end of the hall and behind a certain door; the sound of beech leaves shivering in a breezy rain–suddenly I’m transported to the land of transportation, getting yet again that nearly irresistible urge to hit the road, the air, the sea, the rails. And while I’m not really moved to love the arguably threadbare joys of air travel in these latter days, there is one sound I love above all others that might cause this sort of travel-dreaming reverie and ache in the vicinity of the ventricles, and that is the sound of a train. Rumbling, purring, chattering. Calling out its whistle code to draw me out and wake me as it passes through the sleeping dark on the other side of the ravine to slide its way out of the present night.

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. . . and every episode leads me to the next, and the romantic, mysterious next . . .

Stage Blood and Loud Noises

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graphite drawingI’m a big fan of cheap theatrics, except when they’re being used to manipulate the innocent for nefarious purposes. Take, for example, the “rainforest” fakery of grocery stores that play a musical little mini thunderstorm soundtrack for a second before spritzing their produce bins with a fine mist of “freshening” water to impress us all with how natural and pristine their dew-flecked delectables are. Always hoping that we will be pleasantly enough diverted by this charming display to ignore the general reality: that we are being annoyingly dampened whilst attempting to retrieve our groceries in an ostensibly sheltered indoor space. That the soundtrack is remarkably similar to that White Noise one we play to put us in a somnolent state in the comfort of our own boudoirs, and could reasonably, therefore, fall under suspicion of attempted brainwashing more than vegetable-washing (no one need comment here on how much the two may be assumed to resemble each other by our grocery-vending overlords). That adding moisture to vegetation that has been removed from its growing environment speeds its decay and makes it more vulnerable to contamination of many wonderfully creepy kinds. That the ensuing waste of live produce drives up the cost of said produce almost as much as does the production and installation of the whole set-piece that put the drama in motion in the first place.

And we complain about the price of the Real Deal in the farmers’ market.

On the other hand, as a flaming fan of fantasy, I have to show my appreciation for the sincerely phony. You know: art for Fun’s sake. Silliness. Over-the-top drama on the stage and on the page, to drench the theatre or the reading room with tears and terror. Wildly, extravagantly gorgeous embroideries and carvings and photos and engravings and pastels and bronzes and encaustics that make no pretense of being journalistic but want only to transport us to their own extraordinary alternate worlds. This is the stuff that dreams are made on, and from which new dreams are made. Because it expresses our true selves in ways that no other thing can: art.

There are many lost or neglected skills and crafts in the wonderful world of art, and many yet to be discovered. The universe is awash in potential song, image, and dance, and the invitation is out: come and play! Write a play! Bring on the new opera, the marvels of a magical aquatint, a novel, a scintillating sweep of tapestry, a ballet, a symphony–or maybe it’s time to revisit some longtime form and bring a new perspective to this fabulous world of ours by opening new vistas into yet another set of worlds. Write a love letter to creativity that you’ve never written before, and all the rest of us are here waiting to share the love. After all, there is something deeply inviting about fiction and fun for their very own sakes.

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Pressing the Reset Button (A Walk in the Park)

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To take a moment to savor serenity . . .

Sometimes I’m taken aback, when I not only have but actually take advantage of a quiet interval, a space for introspection . . . and realize how rarely I do this simple exercise that I ought to do consistently. Stop. Think. Breathe slowly and deeply. Imagine. And let everything else just go. Let it flow away, sink out of sight.

Life in general is not (for most of us) the proverbial Walk in the Park. But is that because it’s how it has to be, or because we let it be so? Will the earth really fall off its axis and life as we know it end because I took an hour to do nothing except regroup silently and maybe take a stroll around the building, around the neighborhood? Of course not. There are moments of life-and-death drama for us all–for some, every single day. But if we let those be all that we have, what do we sacrifice in the exchange? Whom do we allow ourselves to be, and how does that affect all of the people around us whom we profess to treasure so?

I think I know. And in moments like this, when I do allow myself to slow down and take that healing inspiration of a meditative calm, of a purposeful emptying of my busy heart and brain to open up space for something less frantic and a little less fixed–I find beauty. Not because all of the Stuff stops mattering; I’ll return to the buzzing hive soon enough and take up my part in the foolishness once again. Because I find just enough renewal in the smallest pause to sustain me through that next onslaught of outrageousness, the incoming demands and the overwhelming sense of Things That Must Be Done. And then I will try my best to remember from time to time to reboot, to hit Pause again. To purposefully do nothing at all.

If only for a moment.

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I'll allow little spaces for larger beauties to come into view . . .

High Heels and Long Underwear

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photoThe change of seasons, whenever and however it happens, always leads me to revisit the idea that we humans are mighty changeable creatures ourselves. This week it suddenly started to act like Autumn here in Texas, after stubbornly refusing to budge from sunny sameness for-seemingly-ever, and instantly there appeared on the public horizon a whole shift of attentions and fashions to go along for the ride. It reminds me as always of what will o’the wisps we are, how fickle and full of silly fancies and steered by every faint current into yet another direction entirely tangential to purpose and meaning, but gripping to us all when we are in it just the same.

Our concepts of beauty and usefulness and value are so mutable, so flexible, it’s a miracle we can find any consensus in our own hearts let alone in the larger community to define what’s important and desirable in our lives from day to day, year to year. I would include most “hard-liners” of any sort in this human whirlpool of constant shift and adjustment too. They will argue that their political or religious or societal stance never alters, but in fact it must if its context is constantly flickering and wriggling uncontrollably, just to maintain the semblance of fixity: the language, tactics, audience-targeting, tools to be used and even reasons for being considered an Immovable Object all have to adjust to the surrounding circumstances and forces in order to keep the believer’s sense of continuity and commitment firm. And that’s both a good and a very scary thing for both sides of the conversation. The Believer side, because it’s really not open to discussion and therefore should neither be questioned nor called to adjust, and the Other-Views side because it’s sometimes hard not only to consider whether we have become fixed in our own ways but also to consider which ways we can and should be going.

That idea alone can veer off into far deeper waters than the initial premise of this rumination warrants, so I’ll leave it by saying that I think of myself as being fairly comfortable with uncertainty and rather not so certain when it comes to taking sides. There isn’t much in the world I know that I see in clearly demarcated black and white, practically speaking. Maybe that’s why I do like to make black and white artworks as much as I do, after all.

mixed media B/W illustrationIn the meantime, the changing of the seasons and its concomitant change of more frivolous things teases me into enjoying the oddity of how easily we are steered in matters of taste and pleasure. The college cuties rambling off-campus are still wearing the same few molecules of skirts and spray-painted tops, but in a faint nod to the changing wind and temperature, suddenly they’re accessorized with bigger than ever Sasquatch boots, long-fringed fake-fur (though still sleeveless) hoodies and, when the males of the species are out of gawking range, garments that look suspiciously like emergency-rescue wrappings used to save hypothermia victims from impending death. I presume these latter items reside, in male-proximal moments, in the depths of those Volkswagen-sized handbags so prevalent nowadays.

Certainly, you can see just from the way I use of the word “nowadays” that I’m old enough to be wearing underpants that could be mistaken for a parachute, holding my socks up with garters, and wearing clothespins on the back of my neck to keep my facial features more reliably in place. To be fair, I was a geezer in many ways from about when I hit the age of ten, so although I eschew such age-appropriate gear myself, I have never quite been what anyone would call At One with the trends. Fortunately for me, I find myself quite fabulous as-is, and apparently those around me have either built up serious tolerance or agree with my skewed view.

So I’m quite happy to live-and-let-live when it comes to personal decoration, even if it means watching delusional dames dress like teenagers, teenagers dress like trashy skanks, and grown men unable to recognize that their comb-overs neither fool anyone other than themselves nor do they remain hugging the skull as insulation when the wind arises but rather take sail and remain vertical until alighting after the storm passes or the gents go indoors, whichever comes first. After all, what would be the excitement, the entertainment value, if we all decorated ourselves well or sensibly or beautifully?

What, especially, would be the fun in all of us considering the same things beautiful? I know one thing: all species would die out shortly after becoming severely inbred if every creature were attracted to only one form of every feature of that creature. And don’t get me started on the likelihood that a handsome sawfish would find a cyclamen pretty or a person who loves to grow prizewinning turnips would like to date a person who looks like a really fine turnip. When it comes to beauty, I’m all for letting you keep your ridiculous prejudices as long as you let me keep my equally ridiculous ones, my friends.

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Hey, Baby, Wanna Ride Shotgun in My Pinto Wagon? (Daffy Drivers, Part 2)

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I don’t know why it sprang to mind just now. Well, maybe I do. I seem to have been stuck in the previously described drivers’ vortex for a strangely gelatinous trip through surreal-ville lately and I’m thinking of drivers, pedestrians, bicyclists and cars with a certain measure of disdain, loathing, hilarity, terror, and mild psychosis, sometimes in turns and occasionally all in one big deliriously bleary blend. Despite knowing in my heart that traffic in suburban north Texas is marshmallows and candy-floss compared to the traffic experienced in much of the world (just check the all-too-true comments on my previous traffic-related post) I cannot resist a further rant.

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Details, details--automotive fanatics do love their detailing . . .

I have seen (three times within two days) the indescribably death-wishful strolls of different (but each time, ahem, male) pedestrians not only on the wrong side of the road but well into the lane of steady morning traffic bearing down on their armor-less backs, all the while with cars going past at 30+ mph in the next lane over, so NO chance of the drivers approaching said amblers’ backsides actually swerving to avoid hitting them. What do we in the cars get to do? Pot along behind a slowly walking person as though theirs were the most ordinary and acceptable behavior on earth, despite this being within blocks of the university, where every dull-witted bipedal being over age 11 knows that college drivers and mad professors are on the loose? Stunningly insouciant, these moseying moon-brains, to say the least, and irritating, too, by gad.

I live in the land of the “free” right turn–where it’s okay legally, if you’ve stopped at a red light, to proceed with a right turn if (a) there’s no one coming from another direction that has right-of-way by green light or prior arrival at the intersection and (b) you are actually in position to take said right turn. I’m all fine with that, despite being still a bit piqued that an intersection camera once got me dinged for a turn where I was positive I had followed all of the rubrics scrupulously. Recently, however, I got to witness two rather egregious abuses of the privilege right in a row and was glad to get home with skin and fenders intact. First there was the intersection where I stopped at the red light and waited to turn left, where ahead of me on the other side of the intersection a minor accident had stopped up the front of the right-turn lane. I waited for my left turn, which I began to execute when the requisite green arrow shone before me, and found myself suddenly front-bumper-to-front-bumper in a very nearly compromising position with an enormous truck (of that variety known in my heart simply as a “big-butt truck”–the sort that is large enough to haul a full load of heavy equipment to the farm but is waaaaaay too clean and scratch-free to ever have tried it). Mr Truck Driver had arrived behind the stalled accident, whipped out around it, and deemed it logical to grab a free right without ever considering that he was both out of turn and entirely invisible to us across the road.

After our close encounter I took a deep breath, released my crushed brake, took two more deep breaths, didn’t say or gesture anything that I was thinking, let the truck get well away from my vicinity, and went along my way. Not a mile later, I was stopped by a red light in the right lane. As it happened, I was first in that lane, so though I had no plans to take a free right myself (being in need of going straight ahead), I didn’t feel it likely that someone from across the way would try to cut me off by surprise again. Which indeed no one did. However, the young and helmet-less (I’m still baffled that that’s legal anywhere, but it is, so I’ll simply note it here as another risk factor the other driver took) motorcyclist behind me felt deprived of his free right turn, and rather than drearily waiting through another boring ten seconds of red light on my behalf, he swung out into the left lane and blasted around to the right in front of me to turn, just about in sync with the drivers coming from across the way who of course were being treated to an actual green light.

How I got home with both an undamaged car and clean underwear is testament more to good fortune than to my skillful driving or the strength of my nervous system, but I shall leave that musing and my temperamental unburdening here for the nonce and move on to what was really renewing my interest in road-tripping, if I may now use it in the more psychedelic sense. It was, you see, about the automotive beauty pageant.

I’m a dull person when it comes to vehicles. In our family, learning to drive required us to learn a couple of additional fundamental automotive survival skills, things like checking the oil and changing a tire, and, oh yeah, filling the gas tank. Like making sure air filters were changed as needed and seatbelts worn and like how to pump the hand brake in case those other brake-thingies just happened to go out of commission (the latter only happened to me once, but it was at 50 mph and the brakes croaked just as I watched a rock-filled dump truck pull onto the road a hundred feet ahead of me, so I am glad I was given that particular bit of useful wisdom). But outside of that, I wasn’t infused with lust for four-wheeled artful luxury. I’m strictly practical about my expectations from a car. Transportation. Carrying capacity as needed. Inexpensive to buy and to maintain. Generally reliable and safe. And I’ve done pretty well in that, too.

I can admire a beautiful vehicle, don’t get me wrong. I’ve had crushes on a strange variety of cars that struck my fancy at one time or another. When I shopped for my first car (as I was beginning construction work), I was offered a 1957 pushbutton-transmission Mercury that was in nice-but-not-cherry condition for a very fair price. It was a ridiculous Pepto-Bismol® pink and had a more extravagantly fabulous back-end than a Brazilian beach bunny’s, its trunk big enough for Mafia use–or at least for carrying all of the painting equipment and tools I was going to need to haul. But it really wasn’t the kind of car I could seriously contemplate filling with 300-pound paint sprayers and tool buckets and piles of dusty tarps and abusing in quite that fashion. Because it really was more about fashion than about transportation, and much as I could love its ludicrousness I finally opted for the more practical used Volare station wagon with fake-paneled sides and the super-duty shocks that I put in ‘er to hold up my cargo’s bulk. And it turned out I developed a crush on that car’s slant-six engine. Go figure.

There are plenty of supremely handsome vehicles out there, to be sure. A ’29 Pierce Arrow, all decked out. Vintage Bentleys or Silver Wraiths. A perfectly restored period Duesenberg. Not to mention, say, a sleek blue 1967 Barracuda. Flash. Glorious. But any of those beasties would so outshine me that it would seem sacrilegious to even consider such a thing. Not to mention that if I had any sort of spectacular car I would still be unable to support it (insure it) in the style to which it might deserve to be accustomed.

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Smile for the camera!

Meanwhile, there are a whole lot of people who do have deep passions or perhaps even rather unseemly romantic notions regarding their various automotive loves. We’ve all seen those whose car, truck, motorcycle, RV or tractor represents (or, in many cases, clearly substitutes for) their identity as a male, female, or Other. The wheeled transport associated with that distinctive breed of guy-hood truly dependent on its vehicle for its masculinity gets from me the designation TPV, or Tiny Penis Vehicle, for that rather laughably desperate form of self-identification. There are lots of levels of vehicular artistry, from true-amateurs’ loving attentions to purists’ slavish restorations to custom trick-outs to the movable museum-pieces that are one-off sculptural artworks on wheels. So many fun options! I’ve seen the fantastic and the phantasmagorical, the happy and the horrific, and many a piece of magic in motion.

Perhaps my favorites are the outlandish and ridiculous concoctions put together by aspiring molto-machismos on a tight budget–whether of the wallet or of the imagination. The jacked-to-the-sky mini-boxes on massive heavy-equipment wheels so high that the driver can barely herk himself up into the driver’s seat. The I-did-it-myself custom paint job with heavily textured brush strokes running through its thick housepaint coat or the would-be designer approach whose flames and pictorials ended up a little closer to junior high graffitists’ than to graphic artists’ work.

Or one of my all-time favorites: it was an early-80s Pinto hatchback customized with massive tires that appeared to be crammed dangerously into the wheel wells as well as making the teeny car precariously high and teeter-y, and was painted antenna to tailpipe in dull metallic gold spray paint, all with a stingy and shaky hand. I came upon it as its young driver was cruising a mostly deserted street in a semi-rural suburb, and I remained unsure for a long time afterward whether it was pure cruelty on my part to have laughed so heartily on seeing it. Surely such effort deserved, at the least, a joyful response, and that I did give without hesitation.

Truth be told, that’s my reaction to car-love in general. I’m glad it seems to give so much pleasure to so many people, but I’m pretty mystified by it too, and mostly the seeming excess of affection just makes me want to fall on the floorboards howling with laughter. Good thing my seatbelt keeps me from any such thing when I’m behind the wheel myself. Hopefully, in a really outstanding specimen of a silvery-blue ’67 ‘Cuda, rebuilt to my own personal specs with eco-fuel conversion, a skillful on-call chauffeur, comfortably glove-fitting heated and cooled passenger seats for my companions and me, a mini-fridge in the trunk full of the day’s edible necessities and the proper libations for the non designated-drivers to sup during those pit stops requisite whilst road-tripping for joy, plus a lifetime’s supply of fuel, parts, insurance and police escorts to clear the roads ahead and find ideal parking spots. Either that or my ordinary, everyday, plebeian, functional, dependable and non-fanciful car. It’ll do me.

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  • I’m just happy if it gets me from here to there and back again . . .

Into Each Life a Little Rain *Should* Fall

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The spring rains near where I spent much of my youth watered many a tulip or daffodil right along with me . . .

I come from waterlogged stock, I suppose. Born and bred in western Washington, where it is rumored that children are born with webbed feet and mildew is every basement’s middle name, I grew up accustomed to the proprietary blend of intense green and hazy grey that is the trademark of the region, a badge of honor of its own kind. The Evergreen State was not called that for nothing and earned the moniker by the bucketful; as a child, I may have feared that the immensity of the rain’s reach might require us all to develop gills, especially if Mount Rainier also decided her geologic pregnancy was complete and blew off the entire west coast into the ocean. There were times when, of course, I doubted the mountain‘s very existence because it had disappeared behind a rain-cloud bank so persistent that we hadn’t seen that glorious white diadem on the state’s brow in ages, but eventually a good shaker or at least a seismic cough would confirm that behind the cumulonimbus wall somewhere lay the spectacle of the mountain in wait for the return of drier skies.

Don’t mistake, as much of the Outside World has done, that this is indeed the whole Northwest experience. Children, perhaps, would contend that there is nothing but rain their entire lives, but I know from a much longer stretch of years, not to mention a gradually shifting climate over the last number of decades that has seen a skew toward somewhat later seasonal changes all ’round and definitely a degree-or-two of push in the direction of both the warm and cold extremes (among other things): the northwest is gorgeous, The Mountain does grace us with its presence pretty often, and the sun DOES shine. With true shimmering spectacle, in exaggeratedly cerulean skies. Sometimes whip-creamed with piles of white landscape-painterly clouds and sometimes just in that fabulous bowl of uninterrupted enameled sky inviting eagles to slide across it if they dare.

As a transplant in Texas, I’m learning a whole new vocabulary of extremes when it comes to things meteorological and geological. I spent a couple of brief, mountain-less years living near Chicago in my youth and had made enough family road trips to know a bit about how much terrain and weather could vary even over short distances. Moving to Texas, even north Texas, proved something of a paradigm shift in that regard, especially as we arrived seemingly on the cusp of some rather spectacular worldwide change when it comes to things weather-related. So it was an intriguing and, well, oven-crisped adventure to face a summer where our county officially slipped into drought right on the heels of all the other counties in the state, most of them throughout the region as well. My roots, accustomed to their abundant if not excessive access to cool clean water, began to protest. The arrival of the first low enough temperatures, accompanied by the first blessed misting of rain, well into October, and the appearance then of early summer blooms as though they thought it was just hitting mid-May seemed slightly ludicrous but nonetheless as welcome as a long-awaited prison pardon.

Today the temperature dropped, thanks to a sudden “cold front”–sorry, I just had to put it in quotes when it referred to 12C/52F degrees at the end of October; that’s the Northwest in me talking. Since we had had pretty solidly insistent summer temperatures until yesterday, this seems like rather high drama! It’s a firm reminder, if we really needed one, of our being composed of such a high percentage of H2O ourselves and having not just an inborn affinity then but a core-deep need for water, water everywhere. The problem is distribution. There’s so often too much of it in one part of the world and too little in another. Balance, by planetary measure, is not the same thing as our sense of balance as tiny little individuals and groups upon that planet, so we’re almost always wishing, wherever we are, that Ma Nature would set up a much fairer sharing system. Least she could do is let one of us kids divvy up the water and the others choose which glasses to grab for our shares.

That’s what makes it seem like such a benison when the floodwaters recede, the monsoon season ends or the hurricane relents and dissipates. When the parched clay gets a sip of rain, the stream-bed feels that first trickling, slaking return, and the blurry looking cloud that’s been hovering just a hair too far off by the horizon finally acquiesces, rolling in with its bellyful of soothing eau-de-vie. Today we’ve had a bit of rain again at last, and the grey lid over the oaks looks promisingly like the skies I knew in my “northwet” youth, and I am comforted by it all. Sun fills me with hope much of the time, I’m moved by the legendary promises of rainbows whenever they bend across my view, but when it’s been long enough between squalls and spritzers for me to miss them so, nothing is more beautiful than the dirty mashup of colliding clouds as they commence spitting their payload of rain on house and garden and me, umbrella or no umbrella. Let it rain!

oil on canvas

When I am thirsty, let it rain . . .

Homecomings of All Sorts

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photo + poemOver the years I’ve learned that there is a huge range of meaning in that puny little word Home.

That broad spectrum has been on my mind a lot during the last couple of weeks.

colored pencil on paperEarly this month my parents visited an apartment complex near where a couple of my sisters live, and shortly after the visit we got a phone call from Mom and Dad to let us know they’d put a deposit on an apartment and would be moving from the house they’ve lived in for a couple of solid decades plus. This wasn’t truly a stunner: it’s something we had all discussed in various ways and at various levels of intensity over the last couple of years. After all, moving was kind of on our minds. My husband and I have changed addresses four times in the last seven or eight years, thrice by short distances for more practical-seeming digs and once across the country for a change of work life. Amid those moves of ours, my mother and father-in-law got on the moving-truck bandwagon and shifted from their own many-years’ home to an apartment as well.

For us the moves were partly logic-driven (so we hope at all times!) and always emotion-driven. No regrets on any of them; they were all the right thing at the time in their own ways. I think Mom and Dad S are satisfied with their life-shift too, and I sincerely hope Mom and Dad W will find as much good in the balance as well. I know surely enough that every gain tends to be accompanied by some tradeoffs, large or small. That’s life. I just spent a few days on a dash-through with my parents to assist with part of the sorting and packing and organization and shopping and networking that their move requires. It’s little enough that I can do, but it always unearths a whole slew of things–objects and thoughts–that center on the Homely concept and how it may differ for each of us and can also change over time.

mixed media collageWhat I think of most distinctly and frequently in this whole house-related context is of course that thing I mentioned about the meanings of Home.

I’m sitting in the centerpiece of what makes Home for me right now: a very comfortable house in a nice town, and most importantly, cozily perched next to my life partner, love, best friend–my husbandly-type person. Only the tiniest bit of elementary observation necessary to see that this combination provides a goodly batch of Home definitions straight off: physical shelter; a place to centralize my daily existence; comfort and safety and a sense (however delusional) of control over my life and environment. It’s a concrete expression of my sense of how I fit in the world and the pleasures I take in it. It’s a container for my current life story and my history, both personal and in the far broader ways of culture and roots and outright humanity. That’s where I begin to veer off into that lifelong learning curve of what Home means to me.

I think of arriving on Norwegian soil for the first time when I was twenty and being overwhelmed by the sensation of being rooted, blood-connected, of holding hands with my ancestors, in a way that caught me utterly by surprise. I think of listening to my grandparents and aunts and uncles unfurling their memories over me in my childhood and youth and how those people were my Home as much as anything in those days and in turn, the way that learning those bits of family and personal history further shaped my understanding of this whole construct. I think not only of all my grandparents and great-grandparents braving new worlds to create Home in America after uprooting from Norway, to build a new self or job or family or place or all of those things.

I think of my grandfather moving his family back to his hometown in Norway when my mother and her next sister were still very small, seeking a re-creation of Home as he had known it, but ultimately finding that place didn’t fulfill the need as much as his wife and children and his suddenly faraway life did, so with his homesick young spouse in the lead, headed back to the States with their little pinafore-clad girls to restart their own Home on their own coast. And I think of my youngest sister searching out the family history’s effects on her own notion of Home and landing, of all places, in a beautiful Norwegian city where some of Grandpa’s relatives still live and where she’s now been rooted back among them for over twenty-five years.

graphite and colored pencil on paperAll of this, jumbled and tumbled together, is what makes Home for me, but the center–the linchpin and the heart of it all–is unquestionably love. Wherever it’s located, however it’s designed, whatever it might constitute in the physical world, Home is clearly all about that connection shared with what and whomever we love most. And that will probably never change for me.

soft pastel on paper