Open The Door

When I’m hanging out on our back deck in the mornings watching seedlings suck up radiation, pushing out of their small pots, intent on becoming a jungle, I like the heat. When I’m walking through the warm air in the evening, under Venus, drinking in honeysuckle smells, I really like the heat. But when I’m in my studio, so charming and rustically uninsulated, I definitely do not. I’ve been putting in some decent hours in studio since I got back, gearing up for the summer festivals but Monday was intense.

I got an early start and put in most of a day. I really sank into the work. Sometimes I get in that zone where I’m unaware of my immediate environs and get lost in what I’m doing. So I didn’t notice the swelter at first but when I finally called it a day and oozed home, I was in a poor state. I probably didn’t drink enough water so dehydration was added to my low blood sugar (I forget to eat when I’m in there). As I was flopped almost catatonic on a chair at home, mumbling, “ Shit, it was hot out there today. How hot was it ?” Oh yeah, 91 degrees ?!! Oh, boy. And that was outside. What about inside a hot box enclosure. There was not a drop of animation left in me. I was completely baked.

I’m funny about stuff. I read into things. That heat was like a little voice, a gentle nag, saying: open the door. Well, I did have the doors in the back of the studio open that day but it was urging me to go all the way. See, I had an epiphany recently about opening my space to the public. I work in this neat space (old redwood walls, skylights, old windows and French doors) in a great neighborhood (the old JC) and the only thing that separates the two is a big sliding door. I’ve been entertaining the idea of opening it up once a week on a regular basis to offer a place to peek in, have a seat, sip some tea, look at art, browse through cards and prints, talk awhile or whatever. So, “opening the door” is symbolic as well as literal for me. I'm getting ready to be seen.

Ironically, I had spent some time a few days earlier moving things around with just that in mind. I’ve already got a sitting area, a tea table, some canvases on the walls and my altar set up on the north wall. Boxes of junk still clog the “gallery” area but I’m making progress. Already hatching a plan to make the portal inviting with plants, paintings and a shingle. Who will cross my threshold when it opens ? I'm curious.

Photo: Painting currently on the altar-Truth, the Seed of Intimacy or maybe just The Kiss.

Redbuds

This is the street I grew up on. It's about five blocks from where I live now. Aja and Eden stand under the spectacular branches of three Western Redbuds (Cercis Occidentalis) that marked the years when I lived with them. Buds beneath the buds. Folks used to come from all over to gawk at those trees. I bet they still do. It is strange indeed to be living in this neighborhood some 30 years later. So little has changed. All the trees are taller, thicker. Yard shrubs have become imposing in places. The houses mostly look the same. Paint faded some, flaking at the edges. A bit shabbier but just a bit. Eerie, too, to see my own kid standing on ground where I once roller skated, hopscotched and stretched out in a wet swimsuit on hot summer days eating graham crackers. I can even see my own ghost sitting on that lawn curb just beyond, scratching out doodles in chalk on my front sidewalk. My kids and me-as-a-kid in the same place, just at different times. Weird. I tell my girls stories from my growing up so this place is peopled for them. Mr. Wood with his goo-goo goggles, Joe and Trudy and the jar of candy bars, the Man With No Face, Ernie "Monsta" with his spastic foot, Shaleen and the Chateau Mousseau. They know about the Swing Low Sweet Chariot Lady and how we extracted fudgcicles from Opal and Earl by skating incessantly and noisily in front of their house. The past is alive for them but did I have any inkling back then that a future me was walking by with my family? Maybe I was too distracted with water balloon battles or playing "The Fifty's" with Tammy's portable phonograph and collection of 45s. But there were quieter moments I seem to recall, sleeping out on Jenny's front porch, sunbathing smeared with stinky baby oil or just counting stars when those kind of thoughts may have crossed my mind. Some think all time happens simultaneously so maybe I can still catch my attention when I'm passing through.
Photo by Robbi