Thursday, April 14th.
When an artist paints, they paint. Do they not? If I am to write, to create….then I must write. Hmmm, obvious point #798.
Technically, it is NOT a photograph of another blanket! A rug, and now as I look at it, and my computer, I am caught by my own little time warp. Photograph. Is that word even applicable anymore? Digital image, perhaps? I don’t know, I suppose I will grudgingly admit it is more an image than a true photograph, but I still remember the days of dipping photo paper in pans of chemicals. Although nostalgic, I can do without that particular smell. One true “magic” of our era that one can either choose to coast through the path of its simplicity or appreciate its welcome mat to the door of abundant complexities it enables. Hmm, guess which I choose?
Speaking of welcome mats, I replaced the rug to my front door. Yawn privately, please. The rug. It is not a genuine Turkish variety nor is it the cheapest I could find in order to replace the worn out braided rug which had become my focal point in the last few weeks. As I shopped for rugs for one of the buildings I wondered why I had not invested in some small touches for my home. The big dream changes will have to wait, along with their price tags, but I could both a) Clean (for heaven’s sake!) and b) Make little improvements. Somehow the entryway needed to be more me. I knew it the minute I saw it… I knew too, its value as it was expensive enough for my head to calculate how many hours work it represented. Not so expensive enough to wince with regret every step to the department store checkout line. Nope. Perfect enough to hug proudly, claiming as my own.
I have never loved the spring season more than I do this year. In Wisconsin we have one or two March days which fool a person into dreaming of summer, teasing us with false hopes of brilliant sunshine and warm winds when actually they are only the backdraft of more snowstorms. Still those extremes are enchanting – snow and sunshine – a chance to rip open zippered coats and forget the sweated gloves for a day or two. Amazing how a few weeks later, the sun shines a bit more true and the winds, although cooler than those foolish March “summer” days, are gentle invitations to open windows a few inches more. The earth has turned, woken by its own clock. The shells of hardened icy earth give way to the glorious smell of mud. The softened mud pokes at frogs to sing their songs of night and to begin the green-shading of slumbered grassroots. The cycle renews, not beautifully from pristine white to full-bloom daisies. Nope. Grunge. The earth goes through mud and dirt and sleet (its disgusting, wonderful and uneventful.. Too mushy to play upon, yet too warm to pretend any longer that spring is not arriving). Spring woos a person….Come outside. Watch. Begin.
So I named her “Eve.” Think what you will, but not because I have gone through a divorce and I hate men. Ahem. Not one bit.. Religious theory could claim several meanings, but to me, it is a beginning. That’s it. My home, as I see it, can either be a symbol of the mess and reclaiming or it can be my “fixer-upper”. It can be my beginning. It can be whatever I wish her to be. Theory sound familiar?
My home. “Eve.” The woods? Saint John of the Cross. White building? Esther. Big building, my passion? Matthias. 2015 Jeep? Augustine. I name everything. It’s what I do. The 1995 Ford pickup truck that I love to rev “just because”, sounding totally badass? “Bennie”. Jet. Jets. Bennie. And the….
Quirks. What would life be like if humans did not have quirks? Blah, that’s what. Blah. And since when did quirks define craziness and since when did ‘differences’ define craziness? Wait. Maybe I got that backwards.
Or, worse yet: Since when was “different” equated with “bad”?
In a book with which I both struggle and adore, there is a beautiful piece of wisdom: Embrace that which you believe is your weakness or your fear. Finally I have peeled back the layers of years of my ready-to-wear collection of roles to embrace me. I am the lady, the girl, who played with rocks, pretending they were hot rods, carving roads in the cellar step sand, never caring if she had Hot Wheels or not. I never was blocking out the world or escaping. I was just in my own little place in the world. My soul place.
Call me nuts, if you wish. Oh, it has been inferred. No significant other? Alone? Bought two buildings? Divorce? ….I take a breath….
Peace. I fought hard for my peace and calm for my place called “Eve” surrounded by the sentinel trees of the woods of “Saint John.” (Please note, I start laughing just at the thought!) Yep, I might be living up to the description of being “weird”. But the most wonderful part of skipping along a path is the allowance provided to skip over the unnecessary parts of the path. You might even be lucky enough to find one wonderful puddle…a new one…one of those miniature mud lakes warm enough so that ever so secretly you can bare your feet for the first time of the year.
Go ahead. I dare you….dip your toes in…
Love and Blessings,
(aka The Lady with Rocks)
#thebrickdandelion #stephsjourney #selfimprovement #theladywithrocks #eve