While drinking my morning coffee, I noticed a perfect reflection of Portland in a water-glass on the window sill. The glass is holding a start of a cactus I’m hoping will root. My imagination lit up to the concept of a city, held in a drinking glass.
I have a dear friend, living in Nebraska, where there is a recording-breaking snow storm. The drifts of snow in her front yard stand up to 10 feet high. She’s snowed in with her animals, waiting for snowplows to remove the snow. Her Christmas cards wait on a table for mailing. A woman and her pets, held in a home on a prairie, surrounded by snow.
Here in Oregon, I have the flu. (Those of you following this blog know I had the H1N1 vaccination). An artist held in the soft blankets of her bed, or sometimes the sofa. My Christmas cards remain unwritten this year. Figuratively speaking, I’m a little snowed in myself.
My friend in Nebraska is also an artist, and in an email to her, I wrote:
I’m itching to get back to the studio. The balance between family and creativity is always tilted one way or another. But it’s family that makes us human, and art should serve humanity, not the other way around.
A life can be snow bound for many reasons. It’s not an accident that the western New Year falls on the heels of Christmas, giving us an opportunity to start over, following a holiday season that sometimes leaves us feeling depleted, or bloated, for a variety of reasons. The snow will melt, the flu will pass.
And sunlight shines on Portland in a water-glass.