on his birthday, a trick of the eye
a chime, lime green glimmering dark
slowly, a harp being plucked. another chord - a melody unfolds.
buoyant hum -- the first of seasons, the first of firsts.
climbing the rocky, root-laddered hill, Sylvia's blackberrying echoes on my breath. she frames the bakery courtyard, the home hill (an old couple planted daffodils under them, every year we cut some for our mother), and the bushes next to our apartment. my foot arches around the curve of a root, and an oriole beams last rays of sunset as he darts into the dark. cinnamon, caramel, and chocolate waft off my clothes. they dance with the open, earthy, and full scent of her, encompassing.
intertwined, woven in the basket that held my mother's ribbons, our gratitude, and the elementary playground (we climbed the fence behind the basketball hoops, stretching to reach and shake the pale purple, sweet berries). coils of gold, glitter, silk, satin, the handprint leaves, the gradient of small white to full purple bumpy pockets of sun. such of tangible happiness I could hold it - twist it in my hands... even braid it into my daughter's long blonde hair.
we watch the mother and her three fawns, so close. I can be happy anywhere if I see my friends. rabbits, deer, lightning bugs, blackberries, dawn redwoods, and birds at dusk. If I close my eyes I feel the earth, the prickly grass, and ants' expedition across my legs. I remember. like the first time, being called home for dinner. overturn a rock, mesmerized by the traffic of roots, bugs, the city underground. every day is something to cherish, to fill, to love, to share, to learn, to explore.
we are reborn in art. where the forest swallows the city horizon, a cocoon of peace. I am always transforming. a cool stream carved the valleys of Pittsburgh, beyond the plateau of the meadow hill and through the winding trails. sisyphus's stone is a pile sand; the rocks are smooth as I turn them over in my hands, no jagged edges in my pocket. my footprints fossilize, collaged with clover, fern, daisy. a resonance that opens your heart - bathing in belonging. the sounds, textures, smells, colors, and creatures welcome you here.
the museum of outside. it was one woman who wanted it. now it is everything. the pictures in the gallery sit still - i tell my children that we can play pretend. jump in the painting. take a deep breath. what do you smell? flowers, pine trees. what do you hear? rushing water, birds, wind, frogs ribbiting. what can you feel? splash the cold, clear water - woo! can a museum be a place of joy, exuberance, noise? can we see everyone represented in it - even the smallest of creatures? why have we done so much to be 'industrialized', 'civilized', 'developed', if we have sterilized, destroyed, polluted, and erased culture - intrinsically related to land?
I say thank you to all the beings. I say it out loud. Sometimes I whisper. Sometimes I am too awestruck to do anything but gaze.
I wonder if my presence transforms them, too. I teach in the museum the next day, waiting to surrender back to the blanket of green. from marble floors, satin walls, glittering crystal, and hand-painted ceilings, to holding hands. playing. running. being wild. whispering I love you to all.
the lightning bugs love the tree - they almost seem to follow our path home.
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