I confess, this week's Artist's Way work has been very hard for me to sit down and do. I keep finding other things to write or read. I'm in the middle of designing my website, applying for a business grant, rehearsing for upcoming shows, blah blah blah... Everything takes precedence over me opening doors for myself. Unacceptable! It's 2:00 in the morning, and I've finally logged off the website, closed the ebook I was reading, put aside the notes on the lyrics I was working on for my latest song... I've parked my butt in the chair, poured a fresh cup of tea, and I'm face to face with time. *hides eyes*
Today, we're taking a field trip to the Memory Museum. More specifically, we're touring one wing of the museum: Sarah's Hall of Champions. Please make sure you turn in your permission slips before you board the bus, and stay with your group... I refuse to chase you down if you get lost in there! I'm your tour guide, not your chaperone! :-d
Every tourist likes to visit local museums, right? My museum looks like an ancient Scottish castle. Some parts are crumbling away, teetering on the edge of the cliff, slipping slowly toward the ocean far below. Other parts jut sky-high, grandeur in every fluted parapet railing and tower turret.
As we approach, griffins beside the heavy bronze and oak doors spring to life and glare at us from heavy-lidded eagle eyes. A docent sitting nearby on the bench treats us to a broad smile. "Scratch the one on the right on the head, and he might stretch a wing to you," she advises with a wink. "but beware, the one on your left might snatch you up in those lethal talons and bear you away to his lair if you annoy him or don't feed him a bit of your lunch. Watch your back pocket, he might try to steal your.-- Oops, sorry. So much for your chocolate stash. I was trying to warn you. Come on in before anything else happens. Please don't feed the ego-griffins, thank you. We're trying to keep them on a diet..." Her voice is lost as you enter the building and the doors swing softly shut behind you.
Inside the main entrance of the museum, a hush prevails. Huge paintings in gilt frames hang before you on a long stone wall, lit by a skylight above. I know the faces well. Come this way and let me take you on a guided tour of my hall of heros. No, don't go down those stairs! That's the hall of bad memories and villains... that's for later.
Today, let's go wander up this curving staircase to the first balcony. That woman in the gorgeous portrait with the soft knowing smile and the eyes you'll never forget... that's my Mama. See those hands, so small and gentle? They're more delicate than mine, yet I still marvel at the strength in them. She's elegant, yes, her hair covered, her face care-worn but alight with inner beauty. I haven't seen for twenty-five years, but when I'm stuck on a hard line of music, I remember that small smile that starts with slightly parted lips, and ends with the gentle upward curve of the corners of her mouth. It begins in the depths of her eyes, and shows up before you know what hit you.
But here, in this next portrait, she's not smiling. She's not crying; she's just standing with her hand outstretched--guiding, comforting, leading, supporting. My mom can do all four of these things simultaneously far better than anyone else i know. When a choir teacher told me I didn't belong on stage my freshman year of high school, Mom was the only one who said I knew where I belonged, and no one else knew that for me. "Only you can do what you need to do." she told me that night in my room before I got up and sang despite the warnings of that teacher. I've never forgotten those words. "No one else will be you for you, Sarah."
In this next picture she looks like she might sprout wings and breathe fire. When she gets that tone in her voice, I feel about two inches tall. But I always deserve it... We each have to learn life for ourselves, but moms are *never* wrong. Or at least, if I'd listened to mine, instead of doing my own thing, I would have saved myself a lot of pain. But I would have missed some very important life lessons, too.
Yes, this next one is the last big picture in this gallery. I hear they're planning to add a few more later on... But in this one, we're standing on a balance, clasping hands across the distance. She's watching with that same smile, but her eyes are a little sad. She nows I'm on my own now, but neither one lets go. She can't guide me by the hand as she used to, but my mother still guides me by the heart. She's my greatest hero, an angel walking this Earth. There are so many people looking up at her standing on that balance. They all need her and love her, but sometimes she's so busy watching me and hoping she won't fall that she doesn't know they watch her like that, with admiration and gratitude in their eyes.
Around her gallery, fountains splash and dance, casting rainbows from prisms suspended above the pools. Motes of sunlight pierce through stain-glass windows, and the scent of lavender and black tea fills the air. Soft cello music plays, and peach-colored tapestries of silk hang against the cold stone walls. It's a beautiful place. A table set with a delicate tea service glints in the afternoon sun. Hummingbirds zoom around jasmine and hybiscus flowers trailing on an arbor near the low table. Steam rises from the teacups. Mom passed her philosophy on to me that a cup of tea can cure anything wrong with the world. I wish we could linger here, but there's still more to see. Come on.
just down this corridor is another gallery. In here, you smell ginger and molasses. Peter and the Wolf themes play from a live chamber group seated in a circle at the center of the room. Snowflakes fall through the air (the special effects in this place are fantastic!) Over in the corner is a big pile of red and gold Autumn leaves for you to play in, and a grand piano with music on the rack sits in the opposite corner. The window over the piano looks out on a summer garden full of blooming fruit trees. The tick-tock of all kinds of clocks suddenly stops, and as you look up, they all begin to chime. But it's not a discordant sound; they all somehow go together--the cuckoo, the bong of the grandfather clock, the ding of the french clock, the chime of the little Big Ben, and the soft ring of the antique weighted clock sitting on the mantlepiece of a blazing fireplace. Above the mantle rests a wonderful painting of a sweet-faced, well-dressed woman. She sits in a dark blue wing chair beside the same hearth you see before you. on the hearth sit three wooden ducks with their heads turned at commical angles, as if they are inspecting you curiously. beside them sits an old ceramic porch dog, his mouth open, tongue lolling, with a few pieces of popcorn stuffed into his mouth by a sticky-fingered granddaughter. The lady's hands are folded primly on top of a book, and she gazes out at us from steady, clear eyes, her lips set, her back straight.
This is my mother's mother. grandmama took me to symphonies and concerts as a child, and exposed me to all kinds of classical music. She encouraged me to play make believe with the ducks on the hearth and the old porch doggie. Grandmama always brought me along when she went around the house to wind the clocks with her. We'd walk under her fruit trees and look for ripe fruit. (My favorite was the crab apple tree just because I liked the funny words "crab apple.") Grandmama was a musician herself, but she died of brain cancer when I was twelve, long before I came into my own as a full-fledged musician. Before she passed away, she had a very special medallion made for me that bears the words "live, love, laugh" in tiny Braille dots, dripped as molten gold. I've never forgotten those three simple words, and I think of her and ask her to stay beside me whenever I perform. If I do have a guardian angel, she looks and sounds like my Grandmama.
on the other side of the room, near the pile of leaves and the snowman (sorry, I forgot him when we walked in) is another painting. This painting is of a tiny woman with the cheeriest smile, and the merriest eyes you've ever seen. in her lap sits a ball of yarn, a half-finished blanket, and a pair of knitting needles. Children crowd about her as she reads from an old book with an apple tree on the cover. A shaded lamp casts a golden glow on her walnut skin, and makes you want to curl up in that blanket she's knitting and listen to her story all day long. Behind her in the painting, a porch window looks out on a green lawn sloping down to the blue-green waters of Pleasant Bay, cape Cod. the edge of an old weathered baby grand piano is visible in the right-hand side of the painting, and to the left, you can just make out a bookshelf, and a child's fingers fiddling with the tattered edges of one of the bigger volumes.
This is my other grandmother. Grandma Outwater is the ultimate super-grandma. She could beat her grandchildren on a ten-mile bike ride, ski the steepest slopes, race us on the beach, and tell the best stories. With her hands over mine, I learned to knit and bake, pack snowballs and feed chickens, catch fireflies and explore the keys of a piano. She, too, took me to orchestral concerts, and played records of ballets and concertos for me. She taught me about Papa Haydn, beethoven, Tchaikovsky and Vivaldi. Sitting in her kitchen eating cookies, I met Choppin, and mozart, and Bach and Schumann. She made them come to life for me, sit across the table from me, and fill my ears with their musical stories.
I'd love to stay here all day and play, but there's still one more place I want to show you. Just up these stairs and through this maze of years...
We enter a long gallery with vaulted ceilings and more sky-lights. A jazz band sits on a stage at the far end of the hall playing songs that make you alternately sit and think about life in the sumptious-looking leather sofas along the back wall, or get up and dance beside the stage. Along both walls are portraits--of teachers and friends. There's Andy in his boots with that unstoppable grin. I learned to be an eternal realist thanks to that veteran audio engineer. He taught me life is hard and no one will believe in you if you don't know you've got it in you ahead of time. "I've never heard of a blind audio engineer before, but if you want it bad enough, you'll make it happen. I have no doubt, sarah," he said.
There's one of my high school teachers. "You're blindness isn't a hardship to you, Sarah. It's a challenge to you, something you just make the best of." He told me.
There is an old choir director, a stern hard expression on his face after I confronted him about losing a solo. "I pick the best singer for the music, Sarah. be the best for that song, and you get the part. Sometimes you've got the voice, sometimes you don't. welcome to music."
There's my friends teaching me to dance, to move and enjoy the stage. There are Tori and her mom reminding me to have faith, and gently unclenching my fingers from the choke-hold I had on my shame. They gave love like the sun gives light. There's Jason singing "Don't stop believing" when I wanted to give up. There's Rob and Bren, Kate and Troy and Makenna standing beside me as I fought to get better this summer....
And we've reached a stretch of blank wall... waiting to be filled by more heros. WE've missed pictures, and I'm sure we'll come visit again, but you've met the stars of the show. Some spots are darkened, as if a picture once sat there and has been taken down and moved. Yes, of course that's happened. Life changes, people change us, some stay and some go. Some you'll meet deeper in the museum some other time. For now, it's time to get out of here.
Hey, aren't you in luck! As we walk out, there will be a gift shop on your left. stop in there, and buy yourself a few extra minutes. What a precious commodity!
Take your few minutes out to a nice lunch, or a quiet afternoon in the park. Sit down, just you and your "free" time that you just bought (love that paradox), and explore your own museum of time. Don't go to the cavern of the villains and bad things just yet. Walk the hero halls where the champions of your art reside. Remember them, visit their faces, remember their voices, re-live their influence on your life. Replenish yourself from their words or their actions. Take heart from what they sacrificed for you, or helped you do. Then, through your own words and actions, without consciously trying to do it, build yourself a gallery in someone else's Hall of Heros. And don't look at me like that! It is not that hard to do! Go see for yourself.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment