It was a bustling morning at the Art Gallery. Several people stopped in for the Photography Show. Children exclaimed over painted scenes of bridges they had traversed in the park. One woman purchased a magnet, and when the oversized Casio calculator displayed “1” three times when checking what 10% off $6 would be, I finally decided it was broken and used paper (for those who say this is easy math–this is true; but when I am faced with a cash register and a paying customer, my mind forgets everything I learned in fifth grade, and mental gymnastics to properly operate the cash register ensue).
In the relative quiet of the afternoon (the “oldies” radio station still plays), I am writing. They say bloggers aren’t supposed to pull attention toward how long it’s been since they last wrote something, but I’m going to break that rule for today.
There’s been a lot that’s happened, but I’ve felt rather private about it. This feeling provides some cognitive dissonance for a blogger and memoirist. I’ve decided I must be channeling my grandmother. She was a private person, feeling self-conscious about recording her numerous, mischievous tales on audio or emailing me to say she enjoyed one of my pictures on Facebook rather than pressing the “Like” button.
She passed away on Memorial Day, and her accomplishments were shared by all who knew her via the World Wide Web. Grandmother was a Scottish national champion fencer, country dancer, teacher, musician, and home decorator. She loved birds, old houses, books, symphonies, and us. She dressed in purple for weddings and wore multicolored scarves that, after outings, she draped across the back of a wooden chair sitting against the kitchen wall.
As at any time of celebrating a life, there is so much more I could say. But I’m still at the point where I haven’t sorted through everything there is to say. That’s the kind of processing I work through in my own private writings.
But I can say this: Grandmother was a Master Artist. She painted pictures and played piano chords and wrote encouraging notes, weaving color all around us.
So I think, sitting in a 145-year-old building, that if I am channeling my grandmother in feeling private about some things, I can still take pictures and sing and write. It may take some time, but all Great Art does. Grandmother took time with hers. She took time for all of us, creating and loving.
I am thankful for that. And, though the saying may be cliche, if my art is only half as wonderful as my grandmother’s, I will be happy.