“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.” — Mahatma Gandhi.
My brush fills with blue watercolor and finds sky on the paper. “Keep moving,” my teacher tells me. Watercolor isn’t as forgiving as acrylics. Sure, there are tricks. Looks like I may learn a few. Now.
Dab the spot out with a magic eraser.
Or add white to another color and paint something over it.
This mountain can be a tad higher.Or this ocean needs waves. This pot needs another flower.
Watercolor painting is like living life to the fullest. Stay awake. Let the colors of the day lead and follow what is important. Not every effort is effective. However, it can be a learningplace.
Let the first coat dry before attacking it with another. I want results now. Real life tells me something else.
That I am a student. At the age of 78. May the learning continue.
There are two days in the year that we can not do anything, yesterday and tomorrow . Mahatma Gandhi
After the Bomb Blast Where is the cameraman’s face, as he zooms in on the hungry bleeding child? Is the small boy frightened of a creature carrying a camera? Does that person bring bread and bandages?
Then the camera moves to the next atrocity and delivers sensationalist stories for the 6 o’clock news?
On the other side of the screen viewers chew carryout pizza and wait for the next commercial to get more beer from the refrigerator.
Where is the cameraman’s face? A minute-long film can’t tell the full story. Somehow, may the captured moment ignite help and not more hunger and pain.
When my two sons were teenagers my husband’s brother owned a timeshare condo in Colorado. Occasionally, when my brother-in-law couldn’t get away from his medical practice, he let us use his space for his allotted time.
We pretended to be rich on our marked-down budget. The mountains didn’t care, and we had a blast celebrating their beauty. Of course, the souvenir shops offered limited possibilities.
Our boys checked out the cowboy hats. No way could they afford to purchase two. They pooled their cash and bought one.
The wearer of the hat called himself Tex. The young man who waited for his turn became Ass. Tex-as.
“Okay, Tex, I’m ready for a snack. Let’s check out the refrigerator,” my younger son announced.
“Children are the hands by which we take hold of heaven.” –Henry Ward Beecher
I ask my granddaughter to take my hand as we cross the busier section of Sharon Woods parking lot, so I don’t get hit by a car. She’s my helper until the space opens into a park-anywhere zone. We have been watching her older brother play baseball. Her attention span doesn’t last two hours yet.
“Run, Grandma!”
No thanks. I’m old,” I answer knowing that keeping up with her is as likely as flying without wings.
“You’re four today,” she states running toward the playground. “I see a friend.”
She hugs someone. An older girl, tall and thin, ebony dark. Then she joins the other children on the playground equipment.
As the children play, I talk to the thin girl’s mother. It appears unlikely that my sweet grandchild saw any more than a fresh spirit when we entered the playground.
“Let’s go back and watch your brother play ball,” the mother calls to her daughter and siblings.
The girls hug again.
Today is my birthday. I didn’t need to unwrap this gift. It came open on a sunny May Saturday. I am blessed. I am blessed. I am blessed.
“One of the hardest jobs in this world is to be able to preserve the innocent face of our childhood in our adulthood as well!” ― Mehmet Murat ildan
“Let’s play in my room,” my four-year-old granddaughter says.
I’m accepted as another kid. A genuine compliment. My daughter-in-law smiles. Very few preschoolers have a playmate named Grandma.
I take the observation seat on the floor as our granddaughter begins a run with various dolls through the girls’ dollhouse. She includes a monster at least twice the size of several Barbies. Monster is given the part because her hair is twice her size. Something like a fuzzy hot-air balloon the color of a faded blue dishcloth.
“Ahhhhhhh!” our little girl yells. I suspect the drama is for my benefit.
I watch as each doll slides through the window. Enthusiasm complete.
I grab one of the team from the stack. It is wearing a short, semi-existent top. No pants.
“Uh, I think this Barbie needs some pants.”
“Oh, it’s okay she just wears a butt.” My playmate’s voice sounds matter-of-fact as she finds a fresh antagonist for her play. A rabbit taking on the role of a skunk. Is the show for me or is this a standard activity?
I face fairy tales with a twist.
“What’s wrong with your hands, Grandma?” my playmate asks as she studies the smooth back of her hands.
“Not a thing, sweetheart. It’s a thing called age.”
Oh, well! I guess I didn’t escape reality as thoroughly as I thought.
All creative people want to do the unexpected. Hedy Lamarr.
Bailey, an elderly leprechaun, found a magical four-leaf clover wedged under a pot of gold that belonged to his family.
“Hmmn,” he said to his wife Ginger. “Where did this come from? What should we do with it?”
“Let’s check out the rainbow on the other side of the house. See what we can find when we follow it. Go someplace new and different. This may be some real fun.”
“Okay. As long as we don’t need to go to a Walmart in Ohio, I’m with you.”
Magic works in strange ways. The trip took minutes.
“We are at a Walmart outside Cincinnati! Ohio, my dear, Bailey. How in tune can you be? Whether you want to be or not.”
They landed invisibly and a man with a HELP sign found the magical clover. He tried to pull off a leaf. Instead, it mysteriously shaved his beard. He tried again and he was instantly bathed. One more pull, and his clothes were changed and clean. By the fourth try his heart was healed and he remembered who he was, how he had lost his job and gradually everything he owned.
“I’m going to wake up any minute,” he said, trembling.
Bailey approached him and magically calmed the man long enough for him to put aside his sign and step to the other side of the building. However, the man was still convinced he was dreaming.
“Jack! Jack Harris, is that you?” Another man called as he approached the store. “I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. You won’t believe this, but I need an accountant. Yesterday. Got a moment?”
The man held out his hand. Jack took it.
Bailey smiled. Ginger linked her arm to his. “Our job is almost completed,” she said. “Well, we’re going to need to explain magic to our Jack first. Then do another resuscitation. It’s a good thing CPR is included in our training. It doesn’t begin and end on St. Patrick’s Day. Do we need any ordinary fare at Walmart before returning to Ireland?”
“It`s not how old you are, it`s how you are old.” ― Jules Renard Old People
Old People, Look at the present and savor it because each Day may not be Perfect, but if it’s not Enveloped in pain, it’s okay. Old folk, celebrate the Persons in your lives who Love because it alone makes Existence worthwhile. Love back~
Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better. –Albert Einstein
The Sun Rose Again Today
The sun rose again today. In its light I watch as birds arrive and share our feeder. Three sparrows and a blue jay. Later, a cardinal settles on the right. He takes a bite then brings his color to other streets and zones. There is enough seed and light for all.
A goldfinch, his spring color hidden in February, appears. More birds land as the week continues. They join the blended beauty of my integrated neighborhood.
The sun rose again today. May the earth it touches warm hearts and open sleepy eyes to see the ways of the earth. May there be light, color, and seed for all nature’s humans as well.
terrypetersen 