Barbara- (unfinished ) A early times
It was just two years ago. Dizzy with grief I stared at the bottom of my swimming pool.
I looked at the sky and knew the lupine were about to bloom. Sprouts round and tiny would become huge purple bushes in just a few months. I felt impatient to be sitting but knew by the big bright white clouds and crisp cold air, there was nothing do but the dishes. My ficus trees with their beautiful roots and shady cover a question made me think when I looked on them “ could I leave?” What a dream to swim in the creative space of air. Freedom was before me if I knew how to tactfully believe that it was. Dishes, make pots, wear Hanes t shirts and blue jeans, exsist, mother, make the cinnamon rolls. Creative freedom is worth everything to me over money, freedom to contemplate, freedom to be. In the early winter sunlight came through the kitchen on Barbra’s face, it was a different sunlight unlike the yellow warm sunlight of my childhood in encino with crystals hanging from her windows making rainbows.
Barbara told me I was like a Tiger pacing in the outline of her old cage.
I could stay in this bubble of creative wealth forever just watching my farm grow, in the green hills outside of LA before winter El Niño ends and green turns to yellow. Santa Ana wind toss my lupine seeds away by February. Moving them in ways I can’t control. My home was covered in the artichoke plants I once thought would never grow. I was strong and I stated….I will never need a man again.
Barbara knew the speak or how to have “the eye”
She is a poet and we would talk just like my mother was in the room. Hi Nedra!
We’d whistfully talk about hummingbird vine and the sweetness my home had there was a glow. I wondered if this glow came from me living there or the trees.My spirit had filled the space with yellow lamps and quartz crystals. I had no stamina and could barely hold my head up without a cup of assam black tea, (what I drank in my first apartment in Pasadena) I was in the comfort bubble that kept me alive after Chris. As a writer, as an artist drafts and emotions flow through me constantly. They are raw, vulnerable succinct to a flow…work flows.
Art comes out of this flow and I don’t hold back at writing or creating physically my spirit into art. I believe there is no such thing as taking anything for granted when inspiration strikes.
She sang to ray the lullaby she sang to me “Oh brother how precious is peace”
During the first 4-6 months after I split from Chris writing poured and poured. Pots were flying from the palms of my hands.
The home and land where I lived became an Angel that held me.
Barbra was the first person who raised me.
My mother was the first person who raised me.
Parts of them live as me. But they are both gone now.
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