Some Joy

 In these waning days of 2021 (am I REALLY writing this already) when everyone I know, myself included, are just sort of 'mmeehh' - neither good nor bad, neither depressed nor joyful, neither cold nor warm, neither utterly despairing nor hopeful, all just teetering along, taking each day as it comes - nay, each moment as it comes, when something really heartwarming happened.

A couple of cold and - thankfully rainy - afternoons ago, I sat at my kitchen/art table, laboriously mixing paints alongside the specified munsell chips.  My phone rang - again.  It never rings until the moment when I can't really answer. Already that afternoon I had got up several times to peer at the names appearing on my phone.  Not easy to see the names, of course, but when I did discern them I didn't pick up the receiver. It rang yet again and I went into my darkening office/yoga studio/spare room and peered at the name.  To my surprise a name from the past appeared.  It was the grandmother of a little girl I had worked with at least 13 years ago.  

 Smiling I picked up the receiver.  

This was a family I loved.  The very first time I went to evaluate the little girl she sat in a high chair banging her spoon, drooling profusely.  She had large black eyes and a shock of braids with different colored barrettes.- She took one look at me as I walked in and sat at the table, and she began to laugh.  Apparently I was the funniest thing she had ever seen.  She laughed and drooled and chuckled. Her grandmother was mortified, but that little girl's laugh was so contagious that she had set me off as well.  And so began our love affair.

She and her twin brother were born at seven months on the streets of Fresno to a homeless, addicted mother.  They were placed in foster care. The mother died, and the twin brother died also.  Somehow the system tracked down her grandparents who lived in Richmond. They drove to Fresno and brought her home.  It was quite obvious she had cerebral palsy, and so I began to see her from when she was 10 months old until she turned three.  

This was during the great recession.  The grandparents lost their home. They both worked, then grandfather lost his job.  Grandmom's job was not nearly enough to support a family, but somehow, with faith,  they carried on.  The little girl never quite got over her mirth whenever I was there, but we managed to play and to work between bouts of laughter.   She tried so hard to sit, to stand, to chew, to modulate her facial movements, to coordinate her limbs.  It was for me another case of an environment in which the love was so thick and palpable it felt as if everyone was held, warm and upright.

The years passed, Granddad got his job back, they found a decent place to rent, they supported their granddaughter. She was going to school - she had botox injected to relax her muscles so she could stand and learn to walk, with the use of a walker.  Eventually she had surgery.  

After she turned three I no longer went there, but we kept in touch, and then I 'retired' (was retired) and that was 5 years ago. And now, on this gloomy day Grandmom called.  What joy - we caught up and then I spoke to the no longer little girl, a teenager.  She sounded incredible - she's in school and planning for college -  I told grandmom how her call made me feel so grateful, and warm, and joyous, and she said - "Nesta - you were there for us through everything. We love you."

What more could I want?   

And Now?

 Eye surgery is over.  Done. Completed. Finished. 

I now can see - After all I have endured concerning my eyes I lost sight (forgive the pun) that the reason for these procedures is to restore my sight. Suddenly I see the word in sharp focus, like 3-D vision. The white walls in my apartment are blindingly white - I had no idea.  The sunsets which are always spectacular are out of this world glorious.  Of course glimpsing myself in the mirror is quite revelatory as well, to say the least.  I said to a friend that this is like painting a wall in your home, or getting a new sofa,  suddenly the entire home has to be redone!  

Deep gratitude for this outcome and for the wonders of modern medicine.

It will be interesting to see how this affects my painting.  In the meantime my teacher in England has covid and is on a break, and my teacher around the corner has vertebral fractures and is on a break.  Because of my eyes I was on a break - but today I have determined to begin.  I also determined to blog - briefly.  

So this is brief but grateful update.

Photos of the Gone Art

 

Obliteration

 One of the surprise benefits of this new pandemic era for me has been participation in an online art class with a teacher based in the lovely Cotswolds.  Since last year I have attended his various courses, and am learning all about value, hue, and chroma.  I had no idea what these words really meant, in fact, I must admit, I still don't, although goodness knows I am trying to learn about this.

 I have invested in 8 x 10 ampersand panels, many many brushes, and oil paints.  This is not a cheap endeavour, but it is worthwhile, I think.  I have learned a lot, and have almost completed two years of studies. How is that possible? Just another aspect of my new and different relationship with time.  For me time has condensed and expanded and zigzagged back and forth and made circles around itself.

Today my other art class was cancelled as my teacher has hurt her back.  I didn't want to comfort her by letting her know that Queen Elizabeth has also sprained her back, so actually she is in illustrious company. This unexpected reprieve led me to my favorite activity - cleaning, tidying, condensing.

I went through a box of last year's paintings - autumn fruits, Austen roses, Spring daffodils, panels upon panels.  I laid them out on the concrete outside my back door - and wham, obliterated the lot.  I applied a layer of thick white oil ground.  They look like snow has fallen and covered them all, and there they will lie in hibernation, ready to be rebirthed on future courses.

For me it is a feeling of joy - like Navajo Sand paintings and intricate Tibetan Sand Mandalas that vanish, the impermanence of everything.

Obliteration and liberation!

New

 Well, two really exciting things have happened over the past two days - 

At last I have a date for my second cataract surgery - November 22nd.  Ever since the first surgery in April I have known that my second eye will be operated on - but there has been a backlog of people needing eye operations of all sorts.  Everything has been backlogged - from the availability of trekking poles to eye surgeries.  When my doctor told me she first had to operate on those people in danger of losing their sight, I graciously nodded.   So I am thankful the wait is over.  This must mean that sight has been restored to many and now my eye will be operated on.

The other thing that is really exciting is that the 8th season of Seaside Hotel is now available for streaming.  I am delightedly watching.

I also had a revelation of sorts - I believe I blogged last year about my reduced vocabulary. - In 2020 my wise comments and observations had been reduced to two words - unbelievable and horrendous.  Over the last month or so I noticed that my vast vocabulary has changed.  This year my trove of words and accumulated knowledge is now down to "whatever" and "I don't know."

Ah - such is the value of age and wisdom.

Refreshed

 I have been feeling somewhat blah - best description I can come up with it.  Not depressed, I go through  the motions of yoga, spanish, art, seeing friends, walking, reading - but just blah. 

Yesterday dawned no different, but sometime during the morning when pondering on which walk to take I decided to get in the car and drive to the Bay Trail - Pt. Isabel.   In recent months it has been unusually windy along the trail. A strong wind blows in from the bay whipping my hair all around and causing havoc to my eyes. To such an extent that it is downright unpleasant and I wear a 'covid' shield to protect my eyes, but the shield by now is cloudy so I don't really look anywhere but down on my feet.

Yesterday proved to be a Goldilocks day - a gentle breeze, fresh smelling clean (green light) air, not too hot, not too cold, conditions were just right.  I even found a parking space in the Rydin Street lot. I preceded down the trail along the shorefront.  The egrets stood sentinel in the marshes.  Just occasional hikers, hardly any bikers.  The tide was out, the mudflats displaying the reason for their name.  Shorebirds pecked around the edges and downtown Oakland and the Bay Bridge stood silhouetted against the sun - a lovely frame for the bay.  The sun glinted, sparkled, twinkled, reflected, mirrored, on the furrowed waves - lighting one, then another, as the water of the bay undulated. An occasional pelican flew and swooped, an egret raised its magnificent span and flew just over the lagoon.  The reeds and the grasses rustled drily.  Indeed all is dry - even the air. 

Further along as the path curves around the houses of the Marina Bay I saw the Golden Gate Bridge stretching from San Francisco to the gentle slopes of the Marin Headlands.  Mt. Tam lounging in the sun. A gentle lap of water breaking along the shore, a few sailboats, just one windsurfer, and the path turns again to the Richmond Marina.  

A picture perfect, gentle day.  The pause that refreshes.  

Thanks to the beauty which surrounds us.

 

A Memorial

 This morning I drove a formerly well traveled route.  I attended a memorial at Fuller Funeral Home on Cutting Boulevard in Richmond. This time the memorial was for the grandmother of one of the micro-premie girls I worked with. Her mother dropped her off at her mother's home in San Pablo before she went to work.  Those were the good days before the draconian cuts began, so I would see the girl at her grandmom three times a week.  The girl was a micro premie - born just on the edge of being viable. Her first two months were in the NICU and she was referred to me with a page full of all the complications of extreme prematurity. In addition to everything else, while in the NICU she had ripped out the tubes from her nose and mouth and so had two scars down either side of her tiny face.  She was born a fighter - which is why she survived. African American girls are the strongest survivors of premature birth.  I think this is genetic - they come from generations of survivors.  it was quite obvious her grandmother was such a woman. When I met her she was retired from her 40 years of work as a social worker.  She was a big woman - very big, both in stature and her bearing.  As big as she was, her heart was just as big; open and welcoming. Which is why I attended her memorial today - I have remained in touch with this family every since I began to work with them.  I was there to pay my respects, to her family, and of course to her.

I called the funeral home beforehand to ask about Covid precautions. They told me everyone had to wear masks and we would be seated appropriately socially distanced. At this time the delta mutation is raging, and I know that not everyone there has been vaccinated. Nevertheless, I decided to attend, and I am very pleased I did.  I suppose I will know soon enough whether I have been infected. It is hard to keep on a mask while sobbing, which most people were doing - especially the men, it seemed.  

This woman had 4 children, 16 children, 18 great grandchildren and a host of relatives both on her side and her husband's side. I met many of them over the years - at funerals, weddings, graduations, and family get togethers. Today was a gathering of people on walkers, robust and healthy people, children - a bustle of braids and barrettes and eyelashes and red and black clothing.  The pastor, a family member, spoke of the love,  the need for family to help each other - he preached, he sang, he spoke, he berated the congregation, and they murmured and answered in assent, and raised their hands, and swayed to the music. 

Then came the viewing and the final farewells. Thank goodness I have seen this before, because the first time I attended a Baptist funeral I almost fainted. I was ushered up to the casket and I sort of looked sideways at this doll that didn't resemble the woman, and put my hands to my heart, and left. 

This was the second time this week of being together with congregations, mourning, and celebrating life.