A dear friend said to me yesterday,
“I’m homesick. But I don’t know what I’m homesick for.”
That’s where I am too. Some things I know I miss. Things I’ve missed for years. Some things are people. And some things I think are just ideas. Loss of innocent dreams, or states of mind. Do you go through that?
Sometimes I cut the flowers out of my garden for the friends I miss that live all over the country.
Earlier this week I cut fennel, lavender, and wild marjoram for that very reason.
Today I cut bachelor buttons, the last of the poppies, lemon balm, the first of my strawberry fields globe amaranth (it’s my mid summer favorite) and a wiry squirrely vine I’ve forgotten the name of.
I miss year 8. I have a memory of waking up one warm spring day and just knowing in my bones that it was finally truly warm in the world. No foolin. Light had returned. I raced downstairs, out the back door and into the field where my great-aunt and uncle were burning a brush pile. And I remember thinking, this is joy. And family. And a moment. The horses were in the field. Whinnying. The sky was spring blue.
And within a year my world changed. That’s the last memory I have of life there. Life among the family that’s lived on that land for generations. Sometimes I haunt the house I grew up in. I have dreams. I’m in the walls. I’m in the trees. I’m walking through the fields of hay. Running over hills and into the sunset to return to grass and the clay. Today I miss what it was like when I wasn’t a haunt but a girl.
I have a newer haunt now. A house that I shouldn’t dream after for so many reasons. But I find myself going here most nights. Into this field. Out this back door. Into this patch of green. Homesick for somewhere I’ve never lived. For children I don’t have.
My friend Katydid says that it’s my job to long and grasp and suffer over dreams. She says, You’re an artist. Sorry. My pal Karie’s gentleman says the same things in tones of sympathy to her.
I think we ask our artists to sit full in the human condition & the condition of the monster -both in love with beauty and in disgust of it. We ask them to create a bit of peace of understanding between the nature of the duality of this living.
So I’m back at it. Going back into the atelier door. To finish a piece I’m long since over. Disgusted by making more into the world. Driven to create. The condition. And the compromise. The idea that it’s all shit – why do I try? And the need to capture the feel of that spring day. Age 8, running through lands of heritage, unaware of the bends in life’s road. Run full out. Run strong. Run sure. Run towards summer and past horses into a sky of blue and hills of never ending green.
Somethings in the air because I’ve had similar thoughts lately. Summertime does that to me. So does blue grass music for some odd reason! Haha!