I’ve yet to capture it on film. (But certainly in the shutter of my heart.) Some call it golden hour. And I suppose, as glorious as it is, it’s not that uncommon, but in this house I live, at this one certain time, I have witnessed this light between rooms, not only shine and illuminate, but bend.
It’s just a small window in the sewing room, Grandma Elsie’s sewing room, but when the hour is golden, the light thrusts through every pane. And you may think thrust is too strong, but wouldn’t it have to in order to bounce off of two doors, across the hallway and land beautifully upon the painting of the children at the beach? It’s almost as if it knows the destination, knows how deserving they are of the light.
It doesn’t last long, but spectacular rarely needs a lot of time to make its point. It’s in these tiny, well lit moments that I remember how lucky we are. How we are given everything we need, and more! How even in our struggles of darkness, in our failed attempts to reach all that shines…with obstacles lining the way — magically, joyfully, light bends. Golden.
We used to play croquet. Lawn darts. Frisbee. We’d throw or knock almost anything around the lawn on a Sunday afternoon. But it was horseshoes that my mother loved. That may surprise you. She, always so elegant. Bloused without a wrinkle. Creamed without a wrinkle. But once her church clothes were hung, folded. Her shoes put back in the original box. Her jewelry in the dresser. We would play. And she was good. Leaners. Ringers. She could really do it! And maybe it was the unexpected that added to the joy. This letting go. This letting fly. Tossing and clanking every “should have” and every “supposed to”.
Walking through Centennial Lakes park, I see them playing croquet and mini golf. Pedaling big ducks on the water. Not to win. Not to get anywhere, but just to be! The freedom of play. And I think, wouldn’t it be great if we allowed this for everyone. Allowed people to not just be one thing. Didn’t put them in a box. Label them. That if they had one thought, they could only have that thought.
I don’t want to be contained. I can still hear the mantra of the Stevie Nicks 45 that my mother played again and again, “Leather and Lace.” It could have easily been ruffles and horseshoes.
This trip I have shopped at the finest stores in the Galleria. I have thrifted at the Goodwills. Joy is everywhere. Not to be contained. I, we, can toss and clank the “rules,” and just enjoy!
It was our first book connection. The fact that we were even exchanging notes of literature was a good sign. My Antonia. His in French, mine in English, but the story was the same. And we were linked.
I suppose it’s like how some will save ticket stubs from a concert, or flowers dried in a box, to serve as reminders. It’s the same for me in a bookstore. I saw it on the shelf yesterday. I picked it up and held it towards him. We both smiled. On the back of the jacket it read, “Antonia had always been one to leave images in the mind that did not fade.” The Antonia of my heart did, does, the same.
People always ask me, “how do you remember?” I guess it’s love that leaves the images. And if I feel the slip, I race to paper or pen, to computer or sketchbook, and gather them in. Is every detail perfect? I can’t be sure. But I know it doesn’t have to be. I’m not making a map. I don’t need to travel back, only travel with. And those images, those feelings, they are secure. They will not fade.
I don’t remember the assignment. Were we studying California? I can’t be sure. But the speed at which I raced home from Washington Elementary, (well, the bus went at it’s normal lumbering yellow pace, but my mind was feverishly blurring) to build a replica of the Golden Gate Bridge, reflected the certainty of my need to cross over.
The size was already established. I found only one piece of plywood in the shed that divided our lot and Dynda’s empty one. Did I ask for permission to use it? I hope I did. Anything found on Van Dyke Road seemed like community property, so I put it in my rusted wagon and went back to our basement. Since the Tech School renters had moved out, I used the downstairs kitchen for making things – anything. I wasn’t allowed to use a saw, this would have to be the size. I went upstairs. Put a chair in front of the cupboard where my mom “hid” the chocolate chips. Passed them over. There was art to be made. I opened the thin cupboard beside and pulled out the off-brand roll of tin foil. It was probably only minutes, but it seemed a lifetime, with feet dangling over the kitchen floor, that I worked to release the foil from its own jagged grip. Once freed, I ran back downstairs and covered the entire sheet of plywood. Crinkled it like waves. With neither a mask nor a drop cloth, I spray painted it blue (also found in the shed). There was nothing left to do but plan my argument on how my mother should drive me back to town after just driving home from work. I had already made a list. Popsicle sticks. Glue. Wire. Red paint. I watched the second hand on the clock.
Once released from her nylons and having heard my plea, my mom drove us back to Ben Franklin and purchased the goods. It took me an entire week to finish. It was too big for the bus, nearly three feet in length, and almost as high, so my mother once again had to drive me to school. Nyloned or not, I never heard her complain.
I suppose we received grades, but that’s the thing about art, the real joy comes in the doing. It was my first bridge. I have been building them ever since. Word by word. Heart by heart. Day by day. Seeing it yesterday, The Golden Gate, I was reminded, the only reason I am here today, is my willingness, my eagerness, to cross over to the beauty that lies ahead.
It’s all about the choices we make. We can choose to stay or to cross over. We are offered these bridges as gifts. It’s not always easy to dare to cross over, to get through, to get beyond… but it is a choice. So many rivers to cross. And with one step, we choose… we decide to love, to be loved… we decide that we are actually worthy of the giving and receiving… we choose to live… and we cross over… we cross over to the beauty that lies ahead. What a journey!
