Lately, I've been bewildered, you know, about the way life works sometimes. Sure, on the surface I've said things in moments that were negative and I've had a couple of whiney rants. (Wishing they'd involved a cup or two of wine and a table of good friends.) But deep down I know what it is to wait. I'm not naive. In fact, I'm very smart. College degree. Honors in English. Real world experiences that take me to above average using any type of measurement to determine "too wise for my own age." (Plus, I watch "The Big Bang Theory" and I use large words.) I knew it wasn't going to be easy to find a job when I first got out of school. The economy. Well, it is what it is right now, and it is not good or beautiful or brave. I don't believe I deserve a job more than any of the 13,967,000 reported persons unemployed for the month of my college graduation -- August 2011. I don't believe that the stack unpaid bills in my drawer is any bigger than that of the single parent trying to feed their child or those on the verge of losing their homes. I have a roof over my head, parents being supportive of my goals, and enough love to fill a well and spill, spill, spill over. I guess what I'm missing is a place to serve.
I want a job. I want to be writing more often. I want my health to improve. I want to move. I want a place to volunteer. I want to be advocating for the women that I love and the children that are hurting, to whom I can relate. But those are wants and though they are good wants, I am in the place of waiting, in between, and operating on a need-based level. I need to feed myself spiritually. I need to be thankful for what I do have. I need to be loving on my creativity and I need to be growing for what is next.
Back to the pillow (s). There have been several packages showing up on our doorstep without my name the past few days and birthdays coming up and Christmas -- so I do not open or touch too much, but today there was a package with my name. And his. I smiled big. I hugged the little box to me as I walked back to the house. As I sat down to open the package with my mailbox key I though of what reminded me of this man -- the mail-sender. I opened the taped box, removed, bubble wrap, and there it was -- a bronze pillow form.
I held it in my hands and glowed a bit. I felt the sun in Vermont as I sat at the picnic table and he in the chair. I saw the flowers and heard the noises flowing from the other studios as I chattered and distracted. I felt connected to the river that was breaths away and I felt the green, green Johnson grass under my feet. I knew. I knew what it looked like to close this pillow. All the different colors that went inside. I knew how long it took to make just one. How I'd offered to help without realizing that I wasn't the creator ... I thought of meals and laughing as I drank wine given to me from my favorite poet and learned football while he observed. Mornings in the kitchen. Open studios. Stowe. Movie nights with the fan club. Times when I was anything but silent about my passions, the creative atmosphere I loved, and the many different types of artists I learned from, loved there. I remembered community.
I thought about how I'd put out a request for art from this community I met two years ago to surround me with love, support and memories as I moved forward in my life. I thought of the calls that I've gotten. The mail from Australia. That special lady that sent it and what became of my life after I asked to sit with her at lunch and inherited a gorgeous fan club. I remembered sitting in an empty basket rolling around while she and my other friends did clothes and I well, tagged along. I though of another friend from that Fall. The trade she proposed last week and how special that offering was considering how long it has been since I've written -- anything. How she was giving me the chance to write about art and artists I love ... to do something for them. I remembered that community never ends. And even though I feel a bit listless these days, when they give, when they create, when they are fulfilling their purpose as artists, writers, human beings -- so am I in a miraculous way. We are forever connected.
What a gift a pillow can be and how holding it brought light into my whole day.
