Author: cometsgirl

I’m anxious. I’m worried. I’m concerned.

How could any of us not be?

My best coping skills at the moment are to swallow hard, avoid thinking, and pray. Let’s say that again. Pray. Swallow hard. Avoid thinking.

What I do think about, though, is that it is Spring. A season of rebirth and renewal. And HOPE.

In what I see no more than 30 feet from my front door, are spring–things that give me hope.

A bee foraging on a lilac bloom. Make that a ginormous bee foraging….

Hope of food shared for new birth.

A black trillium. For a number of years this trillium has been solitary in its faithfulness. This year there are two. A lovely surprise.

Hope of increase in due time.

A Buckeye sapling. This was planted as a buckeye nut, gathered on a fall walk at Vogel State Park a dozen years ago. It was at the base of the largest Buckeye tree in Georgia. There is hope it will one day bloom and produce a buckeye nut. That’s a Leland Cypress in the distance. It was a 5-gallon plant about 10 years ago.

Hope of living long enough to harvest.

A Ginko tree leafing out. It was an extra that friends offered if I wanted it. Of course I did! Though it prefers sun, I could only offer it sun abundance in Spring. It was just a foot high; now look at it.

Hope of overcoming an unfamiliar living location to flourish.

The Cherry tree. It was purchased in the early years of this place. It now stands 10-12 feet, with arms dressed in pink.

Hope of putting down roots for the future.

And fifteen herb plants which UPS delivered a day ago. They await planting as they acclimate to their new climate.

Hope of nourishment to come from a small beginning.

I didn’t make them wait very long! While planting, a line in May Sarton’s poem Gestalt at Sixty, immediately came to mind: “I worked out my anguish in a garden.”

Hope that anguish can be stilled by placing hands in a garden.

Late last night as Í was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, I heard just outside the window “hoo-h’HOO-hoo-hoo, hoo-h’HOO-hoo-hoo“. I was charmed, needless to say.

Hope to be charmed, again and again.

I chatted with my brother yesterday. The conversation originated because of a post I had made on Instagram that morning. My post was of a lilac bloom near my front door which is just becoming a full bloom.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

My brother, sister, and I grew up with lilacs. In our front yard were three large lilac bushes, which kind of grew bunched together in a circle. It was wonderful as kids to slip inside the shrubs to play. We were covered in lilac petals and perfume.

I’ve loved lilacs ever since. Lilac memories connect me to my growing-up home. And oh, they connect me to so much more.

To the woods of Downeast Maine to seek out a hidden cluster of lilac trees. I brought back a lovely bunch of branches for the dinner table. Fresh-caught lobster, cooked down in the woods in freshly gathered seawater was the fare that night…

to a day many years ago when my brother sent me fresh picked lilacs from his lilac bush in Santa Fe. He had wrapped them in wet paper and sent them overnight to my office…

to lilacs awaiting me in my room on trips to visit each of my sons…

to an etching my sister gifted me some years ago…

to glee upon finding lilacs on trips with my very best friend.

In Butterfly Weeds, Laura Miller writes, A faint smell of lilac filled the air. There was always lilac in this part of town. Where there were grandmothers, there was always lilac.  My grandmother smelled of lilac.

Mary Oliver writes, “Every day I see or hear something that more or less kills me with delight, that leaves me like a needle in the haystack of light.” That is exactly how I felt when I walked outside this day and pressed my nose into a lilac bloom for a long drag of lilac perfume.

Seeing my lilac budding and blooming out gives me hope in this topsy-turvy, frightening time in our lives. I’m calmed, a bit.

These days I feel safest when I’m outdoors. It feels like deep breaths are gulps of fresh air. So, too, are lilac memories.

So we got arrested today. Not literally but it kind of felt like it.

We arrived at Crystal Bridges Art Museum at 10am. While it actually was to open at 11am today, we we’re nonetheless welcomed as if it was open.

We proceeded through several galleries, aware that many groups of children were gathered alongside art pieces.

When we pushed open the doors to the Early American Art gallery, we were stopped by museum security persons and questioned. “What are you doing here?” “How did you get in?”

Then,”come with me”.

We asked if we could just sit in the galleries and wait until 11 o’clock. “No. Come with me.”

Questioning continued by a higher-up security guard. We explained how we had been welcomed as we entered, and again by guest services.

Questioning grew intense, as personnel tried to figure out how we gained entrance. “We walked in.”

Walkie-talkies went off. Other security personnel came to question.

We repeatedly told how we entered and how we had been welcomed by a number of museum employees.

Eventually we were sent outside to sit in the woods until the 11 o’clock opening.

I write this because much of the art we experienced addresses the plight of refugees seeking a better life and opportunity by entering America.

By no means did I experience what these seekers have, but I was most assuredly uncomfortable being escorted by a security guard and questioned about my presence.

So what must it feel like to be on the margins hoping to be welcomed?

I can go outside and sit on a bench for a few minutes, then return to be welcomed back in, unlike those who may never receive a welcome.

Walking the many galleries within Crystal Bridges Art Museum, I’ve been struck by the variety of ways artists express their feelings, make commentaries, speak out.

Art displayed here is by contemporary American artists. There’s no limit to how these creative minds express themselves through art.

It’s joyous and jolting.

A piece that caused me to linger is titled Unraveling, by Ursula von Rydingsvard. The medium used is cedar and graphite, not something generally associated with unraveling.

I admit that at times in the past ten months I’ve felt like I was unraveling.

Today we attended a drop-in art making session. Led by artist Edra Soto, we used her medium – glass bottles – to create. We used modeling clay, epoxy and a glue gun to make art. After creating shapes using the clay, we affixed them to a bottle. I chose to make free-form shapes to create my version of Unraveling.

I anticipate I’ll have a solo show in the near feature with my solo piece.

One clear thing about art is how it expands our capacity to see. To understand. To delight. The exhibits I’ve seen at Crystal Bridges Museum of Art in the past two days do this.

One exhibit in particular does all of the this.

State of Art 2020. A team from the museum visited artist studios across the country, eventually choosing 61 artists to include in this exhibition.

I was struck with this photograph.

Art Miller’s AT&T Cellular Tower, First Church of the Nazarene, Springdale, Arkansas got my attention. Enough so that we decided to drive over to Springdale and see this for ourselves.

Twenty-five minutes later… we were in Springdale, gazing up.

Miller’s photograph is taken from the rear of the church, mine from the front.

The point of our trek to Springdale was to see the original image, a cross that doubles as a cell tower.

Commentary by Miller about his image: Rising high into the clear blue sky above the American heartland, these larger-than-life Christian crosses serve as beacons to those in need of spiritual guidance. Or perhaps, cellular service.

Last night we found a Saturday evening service at All Saints Episcopal Church. This church has a more traditional cross tower.

“Be glad, you righteous, and rejoice in the Lord; shout for joy, all who are true of heart.” Psalm 32:12

This morning, as I prepared to leave for Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson airport, lyrics of a song came to mind – “what does it mean to travel…”. I quickly Googled that line and found all the lyrics to Mary Chapin Carpenter’s song of those same words.

From departure to arrival
What does it mean to travel
With your suitcase by the handle
Holding everything you need

.

Are you going or are you coming
Walking slow or running
Toward somebody or from something

Trade your longing in for speed
And the freedom to be a stranger
Is a bargain that’s ours alone
Sometimes you just want to be someone else Unencumbered and unknown

From departure to arrival
What does it mean to travel
And from taking off to landing
You could feel your heart expanding

You walked halfway down Manhattan
Till you met the Brooklyn Bridge
And in a two A.M.transmission
From a high wire act position
How the skyline behind you glistened
As if someone pulled a switch

And I don’t want to be a stranger
And I don’t want to be alone
But sometimes I just want to be somewhere else
Untethered and unknown
When I am far from home

From departure to arrival
What does it mean to travel

Yes, I’m in that chair in the sky once again. This will be trip number 410. But who’s counting? Oh right, me.

I’m headed to Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas. Located in the far northwest corner of the state, and surrounded by national and state forests and parks, this is a gorgeous place for a short retreat these first few days of Lent.

What does it mean to travel for me is summed up beautifully by the words of Mary Chapin Carpenter.

Traveling mercies.

What does it say about waiting – longing – for something, when certain criteria first have to be met? I’m talking about snow. I crave snowfall. That is, when convenient, and when there will be no disruptions to my plans.

Then there is the waiting for the snow. No disruptions expected, so where are the falling snowflakes?

Since moving to Georgia I’ve taken delight in seeing and experiencing snow. I grew up with snow and for almost 40 years I lived in non-snow climes. Now that I live in the mountains I welcome snowfall. Just as long as I am not inconvenienced.

You’d think having retired and moved to the mountains, I would relish being snowed in. Well, quite the opposite it turns out. If I have just a hint that I might not “get out” because I have to be somewhere, I completely miss the snow experience.

Yesterday I had to be somewhere an hour’s drive from home. I was reasonably certain I could get back home before the white stuff arrived. I got back by the predicted noon snow arrival, but then I was frustrated by having to wait an hour or so for the snow show. What is it about my timetable?

At last the big show began!

May Sarton talks about snow silence in her poem, December Moon. “…so calm, untouched and white, snow silence fills my head.” I know that hushed silence. It stops me; it quiets me. When time dictates that I have nowhere to be, that is.

Mary Oliver writes, “snow was falling so much like stars filing the dark trees, so that one could imagine its reason for being was nothing more than prettiness.”

Prettiness indeed.

Of course this kind of prettiness and silence is only for a time. While fleeting, my snow craving is satisfied, my soul is quieted. Hopefully I’m learning lessons about patience.

“But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” Romans 8:25.

I wish.