“The best tunes are played on the oldest fiddles!” – Ralph Waldo Emerson
Capturing the whole of life continues to evade me. I have been 70 for more than a few years. Yet, learning doesn’t stop. Life has too many complex parts.
When I stood waist-high to grownups, I thought gray hair and wrinkles belonged to creatures of a separate species. Children in the late 1940s and early 1950s lived in another realm.
We learned rules after we broke them. For example, building a campfire in the basement is not advisable. Even if the responsible individual planned to put it out after the Native American ceremony. I was probably about five at the time. And yes, I was the child who found fire in a box by the hot water heater.
Children sat separately from their elders during family events. We didn’t listen to any adult discussions. Some of our questions received a laugh and others found censure.
Why isn’t Grandma bald like Grandpa? The observation was innocent enough that a quick guffaw was the only answer. Asking why Mommy and Grandma were so fat was another matter.
Distance. A distinct memory of my early life. The higher and the lower class. Where they were to meet was vague.
Transitions take tangled curves. I wonder if an easy path would have left space to experiment and fail before succeeding.
Now, I speak to my grandchildren at eye level. We play. My three-year-old granddaughter has no understanding that my husband is my son’s daddy. There is no need to explain yet. Wisdom doesn’t come with a set of rules. It’s organic.
I earned the lines in my skin. I treasure a few more as long as each road offers new passageways.
The above painting is part of something new I am discovering.
terrypetersen 