First and Last Impressions

When trying to draw the contours of an object is it natural to make some mistakes--drawing things as you remember it to be rather than how it is.  To not take the time understand how the parts relate to each other in space.  It takes time and attention to observe the reality of the object.  Time and attention is hard to come by.  And when drawing or paiting it is very difficult to capture the life behind the lines; the energy inside of the contours.  The Impressionists tried to get around this by not worrying about details but capturing the tone or mood of the subject.

My friend Marjorie would have been a great subject for an impressionistic painting--she was colorful, frenetic and intelligent.  Marjorie recently suffered a massive stroke and was left unresponsive and I was glad that I was able to make it to her bedside in hospice to say goodbye.  It was after normal visiting hours and the halls were quiet and empty.  I was led into a room where a woman slept, at least I think she was sleeping.  Approaching the bed I really thought that it may be the wrong room.  This person did not resemble my friend at all.  I looked around the room for any evidence one way or the other, but there weren't any personal objects in the room.  Then off to the side I saw a little table with name tags on it from all of the organizations that Marjorie volunteered for.

Her hand was frail under mind, but I gently held it and closed my eyes.  In my mind her true nature came to visit.  A big, mischievous smile outlined in bright red lipstick greeted me.  Eyes sparkling under blue shadow; tilting her head back to peer at me through the glasses slipping down her nose.  Proud stance adorned with not quite matching patterned top and flowing skirt.  Cloth bags over her shoulders and a travel coffee mug held in her hand sloshed a little as she waved it around in animated conversation. 

Truthfully, she rarely stopped talking.  Once in a car ride she was quiet for two whole minutes.  She had just dozed off but woke with a jolt when I  panicked and yelled her name.  "You thought I was dead, didn't you!" she accused me.  And yes I had, so I responded "Well yes-- you've never stopped talking for that long before!"  Although her chatter was incessant, it was also intelligent, insightful and observant.  But unlike other people that talk non-stop she managed to listen and retain information as well.  Just when you thought she was completely self-absorbed she would pull out an obscure fact of information about you and sincerely ask about it.

In that quiet hospice room while I was having a moment with her in my mind, our breath fell into sync with each other.  It felt like I was breathing for her, willing her to be comfortable.  I opened my  eyes and thought that maybe I could see a little of her personality in the contours of her face after all.  I won't risk trying to draw a picture of her now that she has passed on and not around for me to double check the accuracy of the lines, but I can always close my eyes and remember the bold and beautiful impression of her spirit.

Power Tools and Pencil Marks

You may be wondering if I’d fallen off of the face of the Earth.  If you were to ask my children they would say we have and landed in the middle of the Boonies.  In reality it is an artsy thriving college town of about 20,000, filled with great restaurants and only 30 minutes from a good-sized city.  I'll let them have their gripes during the transition period if they aren't actively wallowing in self-pity.  In almost all categories, this move was a step up in our standard of living. That is not to say that there weren’t a few pangs of nostalgia even on my part. 

On the day of my final move-out inspection I returned to our "old" apartment for a few items I had left behind and to check that the cleaning person had done a sufficient job.  Regardless of all of the things that I did not like about living in that smallish apartment, I can't deny that my boys and I had grown a lot in those four years.  As for me, I learned how to really be independent.  At age 40, I worked through (although did not eradicate) my fear of the dark and my aversion to sleeping alone.  I learned how to ballroom dance, studied Shamanism and began to write again.  As I walked through the apartment, I saw the plethora of holes in the walls from my fledgling attempts at drilling screws into drywall to hang art, mirrors and drapes.  I remembered feeling empowered the day that I bought my drill and other tools.  As for the boys, two of them turned into young men, and their younger brother is no longer a little boy.

Their emotional strides are recorded in my memory.  Unfortunately, my memory records things much like an old LP complete with scratchy white noise and the occasional scratch that skips part of the track.  But enough remains for me to enjoy and to recount back to them when the time comes. Their physical growth was marked in pencil in the doorway to the kitchen.  Little lines with initials and dates.  The latest marks showing my oldest at 6 foot 3 and the youngest passing the height his other brother was 4 years ago.  Whenever they were called over for a height check they would exhibit the best posture ever--seemingly gaining inches in an instant, wanting the number to be an high as possible.  Straining to grow.  It was sad to walk away from that doorway.  I thought about taking a photograph of the writing, but I knew that it would not be the same.  The pencil marks hold little value without perspective of height from the ugly linoleum floor, without the fingerprinted refrigerator covered in magnets, without the sound of growing boys asking "What can I eat?"