Thursday, April 17, 2014

On a Thursday

The calendar says it’s just a Thursday before a holiday weekend, but today was too special to be just anything.  I survived my position at the front desk of a large CPA firm. I survived tax season.  And while I have a couple of weeks of part-time days ahead of me, I’m transitioning back into my life at home.

This morning, instead of moving quickly to dress, eat, and gather what I need for the day, I poured my coffee into a cup with no lid, letting the aroma breathe.  I noticed how the sun caught the tips of the snapdragons on the counter, who were seeking refuge from an late spring freeze.  I washed breakfast dishes at leisure while my kids played in the other room.  I let all my favorite lyrics be acknowledged and heard, in the way they should.  And love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.   It was only us, my favorite songs, the morning chit chat of the feathered ones, children playing, the hum of the washing machine… the chorus of home.

I made bread that required four hours of rising, it seems a necessary ritual.  As the flour, yeast, salt, and water were mixed and allowed to rest, I pulled out my paints during nap time.  The brush danced with glee in my hand.  And my husband, he noticed. It’s like you’re back. Oh, I know, I felt it too.

I’m a huge believer in seasons and how even the unexpected ones are so important.  We play the roles we must and we face the tasks given with confidence.  And you know, sometimes, we’re really good at things we never considered, but it’s not who we are.  It doesn’t have to be. You can fake it till to you make, but there is never a substitute for our truest selves.  

So on a Thursday, when enough of the noise cleared and the minutes lingered, that primal instinct of my soul would not be silenced.  Dough was kneaded. Garlic was slow roasted to sweet perfection. Flowers were arranged. Lunches were made. A paint brush danced in my hand. My fingers fluttered about the keys. 

Today the creative energy burst forth from the damned walls of business hours and exhaustion, staking claim once again.

And it was good. So good.

 

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

A day is so many colors.

Once I painted a tree.  She posed irreverently with branches sprawled every direction.  She had no regard for the ways and regulations of symmetry.  She was wild and free.   Her vibrant pink blossoms danced to a song no one else could hear.  Once you paint something you know it, in a kindred spirit sort of knowing.  I saw her today, or perhaps it was one of her kind, but as I drove down the street, I whispered, hello, it’s good to see you again.

Once, I painted another tree.  He was pensive and captivating, bearing his spiny form for all to see.  Black lines etched against the grayest sky.  I saw him today, too.  Soon, before we blink, a new coat will appear and he’ll proudly wear a green masterpiece, the “it” color of the season.

These trees, I carry them with me through all the years, as though the paint on canvas was still shiny and wet. It’s not only trees.  Once I painted a sunset and years later it came to life.  In the moments when we meet again or for the first time, oxygen is insufficient and eyes see past human capabilities. 

A day is so many colors. 

Today, the world and all its tiny sub-worlds were just too full of noise. 

So, I listened to the colors instead.

I watched from my desk as the rain fell diagonally to the ground.  It turned to snow, giant flakes fell on the branches already are bursting forth with white blossoms. A confusion of seasons set against the grayest sky. In-between phones and files, I listened.  I saw the ominous clouds introduced a freezing rain and then they were sliced through with radiant light, as a golden sun illuminated the tops of the trees, creating the most marvelous of shadows.   Eight hours worth of effects set against the same backdrop.

It’s March and I’ll tell you, this month has a history of big changes for us.   In the last four years, we’ve moved three times during a March.  Tonight, we’re just a few days shy of 365 days after Minnesota.  And that saying, bloom where you’re planted is not exactly my first nature.  I think I’m downright awful at it.  I’m more of a float wild and free in the winds of change girl.  But, this March, we’re not changing anything.  It’s the most peculiar of feelings.  I’m itching for the calendar to announce that I can plant things in dirt, because it feels like a declaration of intention.  Bloom, this is where you are planted.   Pressing seeds into soil and surrendering to the germination.  It’s obvious in plants, as we celebrate inch by inch, sprout by sprout.  And it’s nearly painful in ourselves, with all the impatience and desire for understanding.   Surely, we are a complicated breed.

Trees. I like trees, noticing the way they bend and stretch towards everything above.   I rarely stop to consider just how fare below the surface the roots travel.

Do you see what I mean?

A day is so many colors.

 

Saturday, March 22, 2014

On a Saturday

The morning lingers.   Longer, deeper breaths celebrate the calm of this day.  I dress into a relaxed maxi dress, that oversized wool cardigan, the one he claims is his, and a pair of thick warm socks, because even though spring is tinting the world with green and sunshine, a winter chill haunts my toes.  My hair remains in a perfectly unkempt state, my favorite way.

Filling the kettle, grinding the beans, and the art of the press poured into small cups without lids.  I  draw back the blinds and open a few windows to hear the song of the feathered ones.  Sweeping  through the house, I let in the light, my favorite morning part.  Welcome back, dear friend.  The trees are eager to burst forth with foliage, but as of this morning, remain dark and spiny.  I can see a church steeple in the near distance, from where the bells ring at 11 o’clock every Sunday morning.  Soon the tree line will fill and the crepe myrtles will adorn the streets with the loveliest pink. 

More coffee is poured into small cups.  Pages of books are turned.   There will be porch swings, naps, and bubbles. 

Together on a Saturday.