So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…
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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.
I was about her age when I read it for the first time, The Great Gatsby. The green light that I sought was never about the opulence of wealth and fame, but I had one. Pick any one of the 10,000 lakes in Minnesota where I grew up, and I could see it dock dancing. It was my love of words. Paint. Creativity. Expression of any kind, reflecting Gatsby Green in my eyes and heart. I follow it still.
At first glance, looking up at her from the Mediterranean, I’m sure they think she has everything. That she is shining green. And yes, she lives in a beautiful home. The right cars and clothing. Even her hair looks expensive. But I have the privilege of seeing her up close, in home and heart. Her newly teened soul is looking. She paints in those perfect dresses. She bakes and cradles the cat. She takes the summer course of theatre and dares to dream of the stage – that one day it will be her script, loud and clear and glowing green.
When I invite her out on the balcony, (the only gift I have to give really), I don’t need to tell her to assume the pose. She is living it. Looking outward. Onward. Not reveling in what she has, what the others see, but looking for her own light. And what a thing to behold! — all these words from the page coming to life, right there in front of me, shining so possible — Margaux, on the balcony in Marseille.
