Amidst the Mists: The Bridge (1)

He opened his eyes and they looked out at the nighttime darkness of a cozy room, but he didn’t even see that.

The image before him was that of a bridge.

The most beautiful, unrealistic bridge he’d ever seen.

A fairy bridge. Made of lights, colors, and threads.

And he had seen it before.

He had run from it before.

That night…

He steadied himself in his mind. No more running.

Besides, what was frightening about a bridge? Even an unworldly one? Even one created by fairies and woven by spiders with spider-thread? Ones that caught the silver-and-gold light and turned it to dancing rainbows of dancing color?

He looked the bridge over carefully, in his mind.

He had seen pictures of bridges built that way, he knew with certainty. Huge steel behemoths, towering over waters, the bridging held up by what looked to be fine dainty fibers but were actually metallic cables somehow spun together to bear great weight, but with flexibility.

He thought maybe he had actually seen one, without the colors and the soft focus. Real ones. Or maybe only one.

But where? He’d had to travel, at times, but those times he tried to keep few and far between, and also short. He had never liked being away from home for long, even before he had married and started with the children.

Home was everything, and the best part of traveling for his work was when he could return home, whether as a success or a failure. It all worked out.

It always worked out.

After he got home.




It didn’t really matter where he had seen such a bridge (New York, maybe?), he just knew that he had.

There was some comfort to be found that an actual bridge designer, working with real and modern materials, had seen such a bridge and figured out how to build one. He’d made it real.

It was a real thing, in the world.

Not, he reminded himself, made of cobwebs and moonbeams, but still real. The cobwebs and moonbeams were for the future. Something for the young to aspire to.




The thing about the bridge – he studied the mental image once more. The bridge didn’t end. It arced, and it faded into the distance, the bridge lights mingling with the stars. The bridge wasn’t swallowed by fog, or obscured by scenery. It was there, and you looked as far as you could see, and it was still there, and then there was a point where you could no longer separate it from its background. The words ‘blur’ and ‘fade’ were inadequate to this great light-based phenomena, but they were the best he had.

The important thing about the bridge wasn’t its style or even its existence.



The important thing about the bridge was its load.

Unbaring the Walls

 I surely do understand why children draw on walls.  All that white space is so inspiring.  That short wall needs a waterfall surrounded by autumn trees.  The long wall cries out for magnificent mural.  Trees and a stream,  rocks and a muddy embankment,  children and a bridge, filtered sunlight.

The wall behind the door begs for a bare tree outlined against a silver moon.  Maybe some snow-capped or icicles. 

The rest of that wall,  to the window could be the milky way,  spilling stars from its spiraling bucket.

Chalk or pastels.  Crayons or watercolors.

Muted but vibrant colors,  blending peacefully.

It's really a good thing that I know I can't draw.

Warren's First Year of World.

Tomorrow is Warren's last day of school for the year. The time flew by.

It has been a good, great fantastic year for him. Finally becoming aware of colors and shapes and numbers -- although we still have a long way to go with that one.

He still communicates uniquely -- that will likely never go away as it seems to run in the family. He uses his own made up sign language, a lot, but it's a lot easier to interpret when there's a color or a shape to go along with the sign! And, of course, there's the familiarity factor. (If he's ever telling you about the "red-blue, he's talking about the Food Court here in Mt. Orab. Why red-blue? It has red letters (that he calls numbers) and blue awnings.) But you'll only know that if you know him.


He was, in my judgement, about 18 to 20 months behind in speech and comprehension of 'things' (colors, shapes, counting). He's made up a lot of ground, closing the gap, again my uneducated but not inexperienced judgement, down to 9 - 12 months.
He's a smart boy. If we keep working with him, maybe he'll close the gap this summer. Or maybe he'll just learn at his own pace and in his own way. Maybe the challenge will be helping him accept his differences in learning and applying lessons.


As long as he keeps learning, we're all good.




And isn't that true of all of us? When we quit learning, we are in a world of trouble.

Making Magic

Today, I made magic for a child.

It was a follow up to the magic I made last night, when I took cookies out of the oven, and promised her that tomorrow we would decorate them. She didn't know what decorate meant, I think, but was willing to take my word for it.
After all, a Mammaw who can get cookies out of an oven instead of a bag must know something.

Today while she was watching tv, I got my powdered sugar and my milk and food coloring and 4 bowls and 1 coffee cup that belonged to my dad and started mixing. When Hailey's show was over, she came out to the kitchen and climbed up in the chair.

"Mammaw, it's purple. And orange."

I showed her how to use the purple plastic knives to spread the frosting on the cookies, but it was still pretty runny, so I reached into my bag of powder and dumped another handful into each bowl. Then I picked one up and started stirring it in.

"Ooooh, Mammaw! You're making magic! I want to help! We can make a RAINBOW!"

So, I told her to pick up a bowl and stir it up. She said she was making green magic, and I was making purple magic, and blue magic, and yellow magic, and she was doing orange magic.

Then we painted the cookies.

I put sprinkles on the cookies after they were painted and she yelled at me that I was "Messing up" her magic paint cookies.
But she was liberal with the sprinkles and the candies herself afterward.

Sadly, we still have paint left, and nothing to paint on. My flour is nearly gone or I'd make a plain cake or something -- then we could indeed make a rainbow. I put the leftover frosting in jars in the refrigeratoe. She keeps telling me the food paint is getting cold. I have no idea if it will keep or if it is safe to keep that way, but if it goes bad, there's always the sink.

I could have a rainbow drain.

The real magic is in the child's simple belief that Mammaw can do magic -- and lets her help.

Surely there's no greater magic than feeding the children -- bodies and imagination both.

Art will Out.

My husband used to say. when we'd go flea marketing, "I could do that if..."
He could be talking about wooden yard cutouts, or concrete statues, or handmade pottery, or plaster busts, or just about any handcraft.

His "if" was usually
"If I had the tools."
"If I had the equipment."
"If I had the space"

I was usually the penny pinching bully who wouldn't "let" him have the whatever he wanted for something he might do. Never mind that he probably never would do any of it.

I knew he wouldn't.

I made this judgement because he could have done many of the things using the tools at hand, but because they weren't specialty tools, he 'couldn't.'

Art doesn't work that way. If you have a need in your soul to create, you create. You don't wait for tools or stop for argument. If the need is in you and has to get out, you use what's at hand and do the best you can.

Period.

I know this, because I write. I write in all conditions, under any, many circumstances. I HAVE dived into trash cans for something to write on. I have used a mascara brush to jot down notes for a plot twist that just came to me as I was waiting in line. I have written with crayon, with full-fledged permanent marker, with broken pencils where I've chipped and peeled the wood away from the lead with my teeth and fingernails, because the words need to get OUT.

If I had no tools or equipment, I created some, I found some, I made some.

The same can be said for those who want to dance, or design, or act, cook, or do any other creative, expression.

There is no "if" in making art.

I'm reminded of this today watching my granddaughter.
She draws.
She paints.
She has taught herself to use the Paint program on the computer. She knows more of how to get it to do what she wants than I do.
If she finds an ink pen, a crayon, a marker, a burned stick, a charcoal briquet, she picks it up and draws a line or a circle with it.
If she has no paper to draw on, she uses a sidewalk, a rock, a board, a wall.

There is no "if" in this child when it comes to her art.

"If" she has no other legacy, I hope this is what she gets from Mammaw.

There is no "if" in "art."