Summer Pod

When I think of a pod I think of dried poppies, milkweed, or something related to Apple. Not this. A new definition arrived mid-July: a compact, transportable storage container delivered, in this case, alongside my sister's driveway. The pod sat alone and untouched until four siblings could mutually agree upon an "opening date," which happened to be a week following it's arrival.

That's where the real story begins. For me, it was an endlessly long week of imagining its contents, the selection process, and feelings amongst siblings once the pod was opened. I experienced a complex medley of emotions: apprehension, anticipation, and anxiety, while waiting for what would become a punctuation mark in my life - the day we'd open the pod to reveal 75+ years - a lifetime - of artwork, all done by our father.

Multiple emails were exchanged trying to negotiate a fair selection process, how long the meeting should last, exactly who should attend, and whether or not to bring food. Dreams, both real and imagined, flowed in and out of my consciousness all week long. Would the pod hold any of Dad's good work or would it birth castoffs - a podful of irrelevant stuff, cleared from his studio? I decided to bring watermelon.

The big day finally arrived. For once in our lives, everyone was on time including all four siblings, my mother, aunt, two small dogs, and the watermelon.

Underneath our surface of pleasantries there seemed to be tension. It occurred to me to hold a family prayer before we unlocked the pod door. Maybe it helped - the sun shone down on us as the dogs playfully romped and slurped from a bowl of cold water, broom straws were created in differing lengths and chosen randomly, camp chairs were set up in the shade, and a rippling of relief was felt as we commenced unloading our father's work.

I discovered my brother and I shared a similar taste for his cubist and abstract works. My two sisters opted for prettier, more peaceful watercolors and drawings. The first hour went smoothly, with each person obtaining something they liked and wanted. As time wore on and the more complex, even tormented art remained it became difficult. The sun beat down on the pod, making its steel casing hot to the touch. Inside, black drawings and moody works lay huddled against the pod walls, untouched. I sensed discomfort and confusion as we considered what to do with the remaining art.

Multi-faceted reflections of my father's life lay before us. All we knew of him: his university studies, teaching, travels to far corners of the world, photography, paintings, and writing reverberated inside and outside the pod. For reasons not understood by any of us, he had hoarded his creative works and kept them safely archived in his private studio. None of us ever had free access to it. I remember him giving me a watercolor when I married, but that's all. None of my siblings or our 85-year old mother had lived with the beauty of his art on their walls. The arrival of this body of work and its proper dissemination was truly a hallmark event. We celebrated his life as our eyes were opened to a fantastic range of work: organic pen and ink drawings, woodcuts, expansive oil paintings, watercolors, charcoal sketches, abstracts, mural-sized portraits, atomic-like washes.

After five hours of gleaning, we locked the pod door. Whatever confused or moved us to some indescribable, uncomfortable place remained inside the pod - to be dealt with later. Sleek, black portfolios of unframed charcoal drawings and organic squiggles were removed to my sister's basement. We decided to arrange another day and time to view them. After a relaxed supper of spaghetti and watermelon, the clan dispersed. Although unspoken, it was clear we were allowing ourselves the ambivalence of what to do next.

I went back a day later to look at what was left. Somehow, it didn't seem as dark or gloomy as before. An idea sprang to mind: perhaps a local gallery might be intrigued enough to purchase the remaining collection. I removed what might interest them and re-locked the pod door.

It was my older brother who rose to the occasion and offered to store Dad's remaining works. Truth is, those pieces are as much a collective expression of my father's subconscious and conscious mind and soul as the more accessible, visually pleasing ones. They were worthy of safekeeping, to further peruse and perhaps begin to understand the enormity of this man, our father, his life and work - distressing as they might be.

My living room is strewn with masses of framed art waiting for a home - a place to be viewed, understood, honored. I find myself going around and around, looking at them all. As soon as one is hung, another beckons. But, I will take my time. Each deserves consideration. I think I'll store them in the attic and retrieve them as my mind and heart can handle. The mixture of pain and pleasure I feel doing this is understandable - at least to me.

It saddens me that my father was incapable of letting go or giving his work away earlier - that, in fact, it took needing his studio for living space for him to part with it. I heard the struggle in his voice when I called to acknowledge his incredible contribution and thank him. He said shakily, "At least 15 of those pieces were shipped by mistake! The larger, mural-size oil paintings I wanted to sell!" Oh, the happiness I'd have felt to hear, "I'm glad you finally have this." Or "You're welcome."

I've learned how little I want to cling to things and how I value my relationships so much more. If my own children should want something of mine, I hope to part with things willingly, as a simple demonstration of love.

The company that manufactures, markets, and delivers these strange looking things called pods is picking ours up today. Goodbye, pod.

Creativity

I guess you could say I'm a philosopher, who likes to think a lot about ordinary things, then express what I think by writing, speaking, or painting.

- Robert Fulghum, cowboy, folksinger, artist, minister, teacher and author of Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

Good Enough

Summertime beckons gardening. Over the years I've dedicated my energy to growing perennials, but this year two friends inspired me to try my hand at vegetables. One has several acres of vegetables and the other, a master gardener, has innumerable varieties of heirloom tomatoes, exotic vegetables, and herbs.

The first part of summer my mind was busy thinking about vegetables, while my body was actively planting and pruning flowers. Soon it was mid-June and I'd done nothing. A serendipitous castoff jump-started the project: driving through my neighborhood I noticed a handmade sign offering free yellow pear tomato plants. A few small pots perched hopefully by the side of the road; I snatched one up, never having seen or tasted yellow pear tomatoes before.

The universe had assisted by transforming thought into action! At the farmer's market that week a vendor had flats of colorful, mixed lettuces for a dollar apiece. Purchasing two packages I plopped them next to the tomatoes, still unplanted. A couple of days later, I noticed fresh basil for sale at a garden supply store - four plants made it home to the growing pile of waiting pots. My father sent a herb basket for a special occasion - soon tarragon and parsley were added to the fray.

A week went by and my easy luck was arrested. I fretted - what next? What to buy, where to plant? I had no plan and summer was marching on. Frustrated, I resorted to digging up two beautiful mounding evergreens from a narrow spot at the rear of the house. Shaking each tiny plant and herb free, I mindlessly dug holes in the ground and planted them. There - all in. Stepping back to view my work, I smiled. My vegetable garden amounted to a total of about two square feet!

I felt defeated. What sort of a garden was this? What could I cook with this mish-mash of items anyway? My mind shifted, remembering the yellow pear tomatoes: a gift, a gentle push to just start somewhere. Mine was clearly a work in progress: a messy, random, evolving vegetable garden. I sensed heaviness lifting from my shoulders, a new freedom to appreciate my tiny garden. Small and imperfect, it was good enough.

A Kiss

Come
and
share
a kiss
with
me
and
taste
the joy,
the sorrow,
that
will
be.
- Elisabeth

The Garden Tour

The bus was alive and rumbling loudly when I arrived at 6:30 a.m. - a monolithic thing, worthy of shame. Smiling, dried-apple lady faces were handing out paper bags packed with fresh bagels, cream cheese, bananas, homemade oatmeal cookies, and bottled water for breakfast. In a blur of sleepiness I took my bag and boarded the bus, shyly greeting watchful eyes as I veered toward the back. I was the newcomer, youngest of the group by at least 15 years and not a member of the Garden Club.

I felt lucky to land a seat by myself, in the rear! Organizing my travel bag, looking for the poetry book a friend sent me, stowing away my garden hat, and shifting into a comfortable position, I couldn't help but notice the eyes on me. Interested eyes, friendly eyes, welcoming eyes. I nestled down, burying myself into obscure and ethereal poems, head leaning against the plate glass window.

About an hour into my trip I glanced up; the others were napping, chatting, looking out the window at the rapids of the Susquehanna River. Sleepily, I allowed my eyes to close and take in the sounds. The start and stop of the engine heaving forward, the hum of polite chatter, rustling paper bags, the click-click of the bathroom door lock. It was all so innocuous, so pleasant. I allowed myself to fall asleep.

Heightened voices and the bus grinding into a parking spot woke me. We'd traveled over two hours for the garden tour: thirteen beautiful homes, all spruced up for seeing, shiny new planters burgeoning with rare grasses and flowers in compositions only seen in expensive architectural magazines.

What impressed me most vividly was not the lavish outdoor living spaces, extravagant ponds, magnificent fountains spilling into streams and pools, walled gardens, pine straw-laden wooded paths, original sculptures, and every flower known to mankind - but the people. The extraordinary wealth, privilege, position, and what that meant in the lives of the homes and gardens we had paid to tour. Photos of well-bred racehorses standing next to famous men and women, one-of-a-kind paintings and prized oriental rugs, the uppermost elite of our society poised with blonde-haired sons and daughters at wedding parties, hushed servants stockpiling dining tables with silver-trayed tea cookies and freshly squeezed lemonade.

By contrast, I noticed my group of elderly tourists reverently taking in the smallest of details, making notes into tiny, well-worn notebooks, dutifully donning the pale blue booties over dirty street shoes, sharing grateful exchanges and transparent smiles with our hostesses - with simple compliance, a gentle acceptance of what was. Throughout the day of well-paid for glimpses into the private lives of the privileged few, they solemnly pushed themselves to stumble up and down hills and cobbled walkways hour after hour, bodies moving slowly, with determination, feet sore, mouths parched from our supply of bottled water running out - all without the slightest murmur or complaint. At the end of the tour, finally comfortable atop our cheaply upholstered bus seats, they gaily exchanged notes and remembrances. Beads of sweat streamed down their calm faces, the large windows sealed shut in mid-June, for the air conditioner was broken and we were consigned to suffer the long trip home in unbearable heat.

I learned something this day. It wasn't the privileged few I admired most, but the aged, seasoned group I had traveled with. These people were the best small-town America had to offer. They were everything our modern society has forgotten: kind, patient, genteel, yielding, gracious, wise, and nearing the end of long, well-lived lives. What had begun as a carefully orchestrated, solo garden tour ended with unexpected insights into the very group I'd carefully avoided at the start. I charged myself guilty of sidelining, marginalizing, and pretending the elderly didn't really matter. Yet, at the end of the day, truth is I was humbled and proud to be amongst them.

Freedom

Leading a family life, with a dog and two cats to boot, can be overwhelming. The demands on my time are endless: cooking, shopping, clean-up, laundry, bills, homework help, driving to marching band, baseball, voice lessons, football, playdates, Scouts, yard work - it's not an original list, by any means. But, on any given day I can get lost in responsibility.

Last Saturday I had an idea. I thought, "What if I just let everything go and take off?" It's not as if the children will die from starvation or the house will burn down! Feeling giddy that's exactly what I did, entreating my husband to join me.

We rooted a couple of helmets out of storage and hopped on his motorcycle. In our part of the world, it doesn't take long to get out in the countryside. Before long we were riding on back roads, surrounded by cornfields, alfalfa fields, apple orchards, dairy farms - we even discovered a buffalo farm. Sweet-smelling air, the wind at our backs, me holding onto his middle like a teenager in love; it was just the two of us - not talking, resolving problems, or seeking a destination. A spree it was, and we found ourselves completely surrendered to the moment.

About an hour later, thighs chaffed and stiff, we headed for home. And when we got there, everything was just as before: messes waiting to be cleaned up, bills to be paid strewn on the kitchen table, hungry children waiting for supper, the telephone ringing.

But, something had changed. Everything looked the same, but felt different. We'd given ourselves a gift: some breathing room, a refueling of weary spirits, a delicious slice of freedom. Transformed from our time away we felt younger, refreshed, sporting a spring in our step. I need to remember to do that more often.

Creativity

We write to heighten our own awareness of life...We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection...We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it, to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth...to expand our world, when we feel strangled, constricted, lonely. When I don't write I feel my world shrinking. I feel I lose my fire, my color.

- Anais Nin, The Diary of Anais Nin

We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.

- C. Day Lewis, The Poetic Image