Nocturne. 2020.

Sunday, August 16, 2020

Art - Thank you, Mother
Art – Thank you, Mother.

Sunday ends as it began. Every rooted, living being in the woods stands still. I live not so far away that I do not hear the noises of civilization. But the buzz of a far-off lawnmower nor the roar of a motorcycle does not even interrupt the stillness in my opening in the woods. My lawn is a constant struggle between my own mower and the forest’s invitation to wild honeysuckle bushes. My home is a breath in the woods. And this Sunday, I imagine the stillness which insulates me, seeping all through the forest.

Usually, the forest is never without some sort of movement. The trees branches twitch; the palms of maple leaves open and the feather duster pine needles stretch. The trees themselves, so stationary yet so alive, always seem to be moving.

Not this morning. Accustomed to the pre-dawn wake-ups of the work week, I first opened my eyes in the darkness. I woke, each hour after, without the nag of a snooze on the alarm clock. but not in the unpleasant stirring of restlessness or a tired which increases tiredness. I stirred and restirred without restlessness or agony. Each awakening rolled me like the waves of a warm surf in hot summer sun. I was warm. “Please, toss me again,” my soul begged to the morning.

And I would fall asleep again.

It is your turn.
“It is your turn..”

Mid Morning.

When was the last time I slept so late? My mind never even asked the question. I slept on.

The sky was true blue, morning blue. I heard chirps and tweets of goldfinches. But the trees stood empty, blankly staring into the distance, as if they too had slept late. But not one tree moved. No leaf. No branch. Even the finches and nuthatches dared not be too loud as to awaken those giants.

“It is your turn,” Wind breathed in my ear.

Through my half-open eyes, the trees remained still. I could see no Wind.

“But Wind,” my mind whispered back. Stillness.

“Wind?” I called out with the huskiness of a lazy Sunday morning. “Wind, I am tired. My feet hurt. My thighs ache. I ache, Wind.”

“It is your turn,” Wind patiently replied with a flattened voice.

“Ah, Wind,” my eyes opened fully awake.

“Ah, hello.”

And the leaves tinkled in reply.

Art in the Dark.

I have this idea for a light installation art exhibit at the Matthias building. Late in the evening this past week or more accurately, early in the morning this past week, I stopped to check on how it looked. After months of procrastinating, I finally made the form from chicken coop wiring and restrung the lights.

Lights - Art Installation Autumn 2020
Lights – Art Installation Autumn 2020

“Needs more lights.”

I always think that about lights, but it is starting to make me smile. There are a few precious truths to the development of the building. One is the concept of light. In his part of town (the building is a “he”, nee Matthias, yes?), he must thoughtfully light the night streets. I like to give that mission a bit of verve with the use of light installations.

It’s kind of my thing.

Nocturne.

Moondance.  Mooddance.
The Moondance of Imagination.

The moonlight searched through the crowds for his love. “Dance with me, please. I give you clouds from heavens and diamonds on black velvet. No stars this evening, my love. Just my light, just mine alone.”

Just the moondance.

“You really take nice photos.” concluded my mother after analyzing my new pieces. Every time I see her, I show her the latest views of my world. “They are really good. You should have a gallery. Nothing huge, just a storefront.”

Her eyebrows raise. She lowers her glasses to peer over them. She re-examines my work, then looks to see that I am listening.

“They are very good.”

I smile. “You think so?” I know it too, but I devour her praise. G~d has given me a universe a million times over with as many details to capture. I am but a lens. I am a moment, like a second of time caught in focus and perhaps, framed.

But my mother’s words draw me to her. She would no more lie to me about art than I could to her. We smile at each, then make some joke about art and computers.

Shadows of West Main Street
West Main Street

We are woman to woman or at least as woman to woman as a mother and daughter can be. She is my mother and the toughest critic. And in these moments, the warmest of sparks is assured a home in both our hearts.

Nothing can tear us apart. Nothing. I love her more than time.

I always leave our visits too late, but too early in the morning. In this small Wisconsin town I call home, the police officers and I roam through the streets. I believe that they have long ago identified me and my Jeep. I stop at the Matthias Building to look at my lights, check on him and plan the next steps.

My big, little gallery.

Sunday evening sitting on the stoop.
Sunday evening, on the front stoop.

Sunday Dusk.

Twelve hours have lapsed since Wind begged me to waken. My favorite Sundays give me time to cook, to fill the house with the smell of food. I had it in my head that every Sunday I was home from work I would cook, but sometimes the day does not work that way. (Particularly if a person sleeps three hours later than usual.)

Tonight I rejoice in pizza takeout. On a Sunday! Afterwards I sit on the front stoop. The birds too were finishing their evening meals. The winds have finished chasing leaves. The fresh air stilled.

It is Sunday evening.

Oh my friends, have a wonderful week.

Lots of love,

Stephanie

PS> Until we meet again, a kiss perchance?

Please check out the updates on my business, Winds Paradox at http://www.windsparadox.com and my style blog StephanieSpringborn.com.

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