July 20, 2014
Today art was for the soul and heart, breakfast with my husband, son and amazing daughter in law and a drive out to Roses by the River to pick nectarines and yellow plums ….. and so much more. Dusty fields, barns, tractors and fruit trees all conspiring to weave their magic which I am so easily and readily attracted to. Magically luring my heart and soul back to what they miss so much, that which is gone, that which is happening, and that which is to come.
Everything I ever loved in this world existed in a small dusty town in Eastern Oregon, nestled between the Umatilla and Columbia Rivers, miles and miles of wheat fields, sand, sagebrush, train tracks, water towers, city parks, small town parades, and my grandmas house. Everything a kid like me needed.
Don’t get me wrong, don’t get out any pity, even though I have health challenges right now, life is good. It is full and it is rich, it is simply that the heart never stops remembering heaven on earth. That’s what my grandma was to me, heaven on earth.
Hearing the water running through the house as I am watering plants on my deck reminds me of hearing the pump running in my grandmas basement. There isn’t one thing in life that doesn’t tie me back to there, fondly. I stitched myself there in every filament of life. Like embroidery. It’s the water running, or the train whistle, or the smell of rain, or beans cooking, or the smell of the sheets, or watering plants. I recorded every millisecond and I bind myself to it. I stand in the coolness of her kitchen still to this day and it is outdated yet it is a queens castle to me. Everything I need to be happy is there. Little yellow and white curtains fluttering in the breeze, cool from the locus shade, trains barging by in the blazing sun, the dusty smell of old newspapers and canning on the back porch, And the hot painted porch on bare feet.
My grandma also taught me to love the birds. There is a song sparrow that comes and ministers to my heart, hopping among the pots dipping his beak into cool waters and sharing his song. The sun is going down and the moon will soon rise,blurry to my eyes. The sky will hang balanced between night and day, the commitment to night slowly creeping on. Day lingering, confused uncertain. The tree tops sway, dancers in a lurid ballet of seduction, giving and receiving in a swirl of tempest that repeats itself as sure as the breeze blows.
Today art is magic upon the breeze, swaying in the tree tops, free for the taking if we stop for just a moment and gaze. I am not sure where all this takes me but I am mighty sure that it feels good to know that my heart is full of the present yet tied to the past, woven into one tapestry. Memories are treasures of the heart and soul and my grandma taught me to love it all.