Yesterday I made bread both in kitchen and on canvas. The lines are definitely blurring between art and life, without imitation. But then I’ve never really been one to follow.
The North End of Van Dyke road was not just a direction. It was uncharted territory. The Norton girls, who lived the closest, were lucky — with five of them, they always had someone with whom to brave this open unknown. Perhaps my steps were extra loud as I passed their driveway, just before the final hill. Maybe they would hear me and want to join in the exploration. But it was hard to be heard over the din of five young females vying for the attention of one Phyllis, so I trudged on alone.
I was always amazed at how quickly it became so quiet. And I was certain, as I listened for each crack of twig and gravel, that someone, something, was also listening for me. And I found comfort in that.
Depending on the time of year, the mounds of dirt could be the dunes of summer, or our winter Alps. I suppose in all that quiet, my imagination was allowed to flourish. And I could become. And become. Not without fear, but in spite of it, beyond it, above it!
As I face new unknowns, (we all do daily), I channel that bumper-shoed young girl, and keep walking. Not to find the path, but to make one. I believe we’re here to create something. To be someone. Between kitchen and canvas. Between the certainty of bread and the exploration of the becoming. If you hear me above all the noise, you’re always welcome to join in. To sit at my table. To wander my ever changing trail. To become.
