How peculiar…a mere
whisper of a thought, quiet and uninvited, and yet it transformed my life
forever.
♣♣♣
Peaking around the green leaves of a blue hydrangea, a young
and healthy caterpillar heads out into the wide and marvelous world to explore.
Her eyes are filled with wonder envisioning the endless possibilities of things
to see and do. Eventually though, being both intelligent and practical, she
settles into the important things in life and gets to work, munching and
toiling her way towards building her dream home. Ever aware of the dangers of swooping
adversaries, she employs her wit and intuition, and begins spinning and weaving
silken strands of thread into a cozy, cradling home. She works with joy and dedication, until, she
takes one last look at the outside world, spins the last thread around her head
and closes her eyes to rest. It is warm
and peaceful and she is tired and happy. Contented, she sighs; “That will do.”
And then, a voice, sweet and so soft as to be nearly silent,
whispers, “But there’s more”.
♣♣♣
I sit at my kitchen table and scan the elements that make up
my earthly kingdom. Polished and gleaming, the fully stocked kitchen makes an
attempt to beckon me to try a new recipe. But I ignore that and instead, tilt
my head to spy around the large Italian-style fruit arrangement on the table to
check the blaze in the family room fireplace.
I approve of its crackling flames assured now that it is sending gray
tendrils of lazy smoke up the chimney and out into the mountain air. The view from the window nearby displays the
mountain peaks draped in frocks of glittering snow. I’ve worked hard to build this dream
life. My husband of thirty-three years
is in far off Canada
on business, but will be home tomorrow.
He swept me off my feet when I was eighteen years old and the ride has
been an exhilarating one. Kindred
spirits from the start we had the same dreams and looked at the wide, wide
world with even wider-eyed wonder. But
first, we must eat. So work, work, work.
And then enter the children. Oh the
children! Two boys. Two little people, who each, at the moment of
their own births, make their way into our hearts and teach us that love actually
multiplies to the second power. Through the years we find better jobs, build
bigger houses, cheer from the grandstands at baseball games and wave goodbye to
little scouts heading out for day camp. We see them go to the university and
watch them fall in love with their dream girls.
I cry happy tears at their beautiful weddings and then, just today, my
very own, perfect in every way, grandson looked into my eyes with his own
crystal blue ones and said, “I love you Gwama”.
I pull the turtle-neck of my cozy cashmere sweater up to my chin and with
contentment, I sigh, “That will do!”
And then, a voice, sweet and soft as to be nearly silent,
whispers, “But there’s more.”
Unexpectedly, uninvited tears stream down my cheeks. The blue satin bow on the tiny white box
tagged, “My Childhood Dreams” that has been tucked away in the confines of my
heart and mind for all these years is tugged loose and the lid opens. Childhood dreams
pour out as if from a Pandora’s Box. “the
artist, the photographer, the writer, the world traveler, the speaker of
foreign languages”. The unrealized
titles spin around my head like rare and unattainable butterflies. And I cry.
I’m too old now, 52, what I have . . . will have to do.
My cell phone rings and then rings again before it jolts me
back to reality. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands and click it
on.
“Hello?” I say in forced cheerfulness.
“You’re crying!” my husband knows me far too well!
“No, just day-dreaming, what’s up?”
“Pack your bags!” he says.
“Oh, Dale, it’s a bit cold in Toronto right now isn’t it?” I moan.
“No, not to Canada ! You’re going to Florence
Italy .”
I’m shocked into silence.
A rarity it seems as he is compelled to ask, “Hey are you still there?”
“Yes, I mean I think so, I mean…huh?” I attempt to make sense of his words as I try
to speak.
He explains, “I just saw a documentary on TV about an art
school in Florence Italy . It’s perfect for you! And I’m sending you there!”
“Oh I couldn’t, I just couldn’t…could I?” I ramble
on…more like myself now.
“You’ll have to send some photos of your work and apply.” He
instructed.
“Oh there’s the glitch!” I sigh and feel my heart sink from
the height it had just soared.
“No, take pictures of your drawings. You can do this.” He
persisted. “You’ve spent all these years working in my business, raising the
boys, putting everyone else first and now it’s your turn, I want you to do
this”.
With his voice cheering me on through the cell phone, I made
my way up the stairs to my studio/sewing room/craft room/computer room and
gazed at the drawings pin-tacked to the wall.
Figure drawings I had done years ago.
“I’ll do it!” I said. “I WILL DO
IT!” He gave me the web site address and
hung up, first reminding me of his arrival time the next morning.
The next moments were more like a child trying to jump into
a swimming pool for the first time instead of a middle-aged adult woman. Step to the edge, back away, try to gain
courage, realize you don’t have any. You
really want to…you don’t want to at all. Leave the security of the solid
ground and jump into the unknown? Am I
crazy? Yes! I decide….Yes, I am! And I grab my digital camera and take the
plunge, I snap picture after picture of my work. Several, 8x10 glossies later…I download the
application from the internet, fill it out in a shaking hand and seal it all in
a priority envelope. Done.
At just what precise moment a caterpillar begins to realize
that her chrysalis stage is nearly over and a metamorphosis is approaching, I
don’t know. But this moment was
mine. The silken cocoon, which I had
woven around me with love and earnest, was starting to feel a bit tight for my emerging
wings. Wings I hadn’t allowed myself to
believe I had!
♣♣♣
And so began my metamorphism and my year sojourn in Tuscany spent
stretching and spreading my wings. I sit
at a table on my canopied terrazzo overlooking the wonders of Florence and
scan my adopted kingdom while nibbling on a salad made with pears, walnuts and
pecorino cheese drizzled with golden honey.
Four months into my experience, Dale took a break from work and flew to
my side, where he has also taken up the art of leisurely lunches, strolls
through museums and palaces dripping with the highest quality of inspirational
artwork, cooking the Tuscan way, long train rides through valleys adorned with
ancient vineyards of grapes and olives and with great contentment, absorbing
“la dolce vita”.
I frequently open up e-mails from women at home who say they
are inspired by my courage and bravado giving every indication that they are
feeling the stirring of their own wings.
My dear sister in Alaska, to whom I e-mail daily photographs of the
beauty I encounter, suggests that I should make a coffee table book of the
realization of the dreams of someone who once thought…”That will do”.
I discovered here that along with photography, sculpting is
my art of choice and I will be going to the Loire
Valley outside of Paris soon to study with a famous and accomplished (56 year old) sculptress.
Hurray for me!
As the song says: “I believe I can fly...I believe I can
touch the sky.” I’ve been given wings and I intend to use them!
♣♣♣
I return home and life will never be the same. I have experienced an artistic renaissance, I
see everything through different eyes, things are more colorful, more
desirable, more reachable, more possible than ever before. I think often of that butterfly, with it's vibrant blue wings and I make plans to move
forward with the next steps of my journey. I am happy and I am still deeply in
love with my best friend and we are enjoying the artistic expressions of life
together. On a moment’s notice we will
grab our cameras and head out to find a hidden waterfall or some other wondrous creation, even clouds or to chase a rainbow in order to capture another precious moment in time, always
amazed and appreciative of how different our views are of the same objects. We
drive great distances, always finding something to say; something to laugh about, something to marvel at;
something to plan. Oh the plans we make!
But then….as if caught in midflight, my dreams, my joy, my
desires shatter on a single frozen January day.
Dale died and I’m alone without a single desire to do anything artistic. I have no interest in bringing out my camera or my paintbrushes or my sculpting tools. And I discover that one must feel joy or even anger to create but
I feel neither of these. I worry that I
may never feel joy again. I can find
things that make me laugh, I can find things that make me happy, I can find
things that motivate me - but joy? The
joy that is necessary to create a thing of beauty? I feel as though I’m wrapped back in that cocoon.
The wings that gave me flight are holding me earthbound now. It’s over.
♣♣♣
I’m working hard on the details that accompany the death of
a loved one. Lots of paperwork, lots of frustrations to add to the emotional
loss. I’m writing out checks for the mundane necessities like heat
and power, internet and Directv. I sigh and look out at the gray unhappy sky outside my window.
Unrealized plans spin around my head like rare and
unattainable butterflies. And I
cry. I’m too old now, 62, what I have now . . . will have to do.
My iPhone rings and then rings again before it jolts me
back to reality. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands and tap "accept",
“Hello?” I say in forced cheerfulness.
“You’re crying!” my son knows me far too well!
“No, just day-dreaming, what’s up?”
“It’s time for you to write a blog”. he says.
I’m shocked into silence and he is compelled to ask, “Hey are you still there?”
“Yes, I mean I think so, I mean…huh?” I attempt to make sense of his words as I try to speak.
He tells me that I need to start writing again. I need to find a way to reawaken my
creativity. He tells me to write about
this journey that I didn’t want to take but I am on anyway and to write and keep writing until I
find where it’s leading me. He
remembered my “Midlife Chrysalis” story and said it’s time to break out of that
cocoon again. It will take courage and strength but I can find my wings, again…..in
time. So together we meander through the
set up process and he names my blog....Brave Blue Butterfly.
♣♣♣
How peculiar…a mere
whisper of a thought, quiet and uninvited, and yet it is transforming my life
forever.
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Now it's time to describe in detail the city or town where you were raised.
Remember this isn't a Wikipedia thing - it's YOUR hometown from YOUR perspective.
Don't worry about details like population; land mass etc. unless that is particularly interesting to you.
Imagine yourself on the streets of that town, what is happening around you? Who do you see? What's in the store windows?
Don't worry about telling what it's like today, unless it's relevant to your autobiography.
If you lived in more than one town, choose one or all, it's up to you.
Just remember to paint pictures with your words!
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WRITING ASSIGNMENT #4
Your Childhood City (Town)
Now it's time to describe in detail the city or town where you were raised.
Remember this isn't a Wikipedia thing - it's YOUR hometown from YOUR perspective.
Don't worry about details like population; land mass etc. unless that is particularly interesting to you.
Imagine yourself on the streets of that town, what is happening around you? Who do you see? What's in the store windows?
Don't worry about telling what it's like today, unless it's relevant to your autobiography.
If you lived in more than one town, choose one or all, it's up to you.
Just remember to paint pictures with your words!
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