Studio Time

He came back today.
The artist with an edge of mystery that I met in college.
The one who went to see Howard's End, our first movie together, just so he could capture the blue bell scene for me on canvas.
This boy who smuggled flowers out of Glacier National Park so that their tiny heads would kiss plated glass and hang immortally above my bedside.
The crazy one who declared, one lazy afternoon, that in Salt Lake City, sundays from here on out, would be dedicated to "Studio Time," a time to get creative, to seduce clay between our fingers, to paint like Jackson Pollock, to write like Fitzgerald, to experiement with Einstein ideas.
And so began our work together.
On our porch, as the sun turned the Wasatch mountains a deep mahogany, we sipped wine and moved clay till it became a set of sushi plates for a wedding we would attend. For my nude collection. He sculpted my right leg, capturing every sinew and curve and I by his side made a functioning water fountain that once fired and painted lulled us into a peaceful slumber every evening.
Other days we intertwined on the couch as he sketched out science ideas and I wrote. Then we moved our creativity into the kitchen, opening cookbooks we dare not open, spending hours chopping, mincing and preparing our greatest culinary feats or so we thought: Beef Wellington, Pad Thai, Crab Cakes, Ahi ceviche swimming in blood oranges.
I savored every moment and the boy who came out to play.
The wind changed as it always does bringing us to a new city, bringing us a baby boy.
Studio time closed shop without notice.
The pottery tools we roughened and put to work nearly every Sunday stayed packed somewhere, in some box in the abyss of our basement.
Until today.
It took me by surprise because there was nothing significant about this particular Sunday only that I had gone on a run with friend and when I came back....
Studio time. The rennaissance of creativity that had laid stagnant between us, among us, inside us.
A Buddha for our garden.
Something I'd been looking for in shops all around the city he had imagined through his own fingers.
The boy had come back to play.



I do not believe in a fate that falls upon men however they act; but I do believe in a fate that falls on them unless they act. Buddha

Staycation

Dear friends,
We are enjoying our staycation in Seattle on a day coupled with bright sun and crisp winter air. First on the itinerary: Volunteer Park. We were craving an open space a place to spin and roll around in the fresh green grass. The beauty of being a tourist in your own town is that you can pack lightly. We filled up a carry-on bag with only the essentials, pesto and goat cheese sandwiches, ice cold grapes and a handful of ripe satsumas. The picnic spot G picked on the grassy knoll overlooked a reservoir that reflected views of the space needle and the city sky line. We watched the ducks land and take off, the rippling water distorting the image of the needle till it became stretchy, like pulled taffy.
"This hill is a ski jump" the little man observed as he licked the sticky satsuma juice running between his fingers. It was clear he was getting the wiggles and the sharp angle of this montecito was inviting the G to begin a series of "rolly pollies" down the hill. Over and over he would go like a crank turing out of control. It made me nauseous watching him and I laughed as it reminded me so much of myself, how i loved to feel dizzy twirling down the dunes of Lake Michigan.
The Seattle Asian Art Museum was our next stop. I couldn't stop taking photographs at this point so many art noveau windows and their shadows. The two camels guarding the entrance became the G's playgym. Strangely I felt connected to them the idea of carrying this load, this hump on your body made me appreciate this awkward looking beast. The G enjoyed the museum especially since the Chinese incorporate so many animals into their pottery and art work. We played i-spy to keep him busy..I spy tigers, I spy vipers and then went balmy when we spied a "real" griffin's head. As I walked through the silent hallways talking about art with the G, I relished the moment. We had him all to ourselves this boy bursting with questions. On this day there would be no baby distractions no screaming younger sibling. Just the G and his mama. Just the G and his dada.
Before heading to the car we decided to hike up the 100 stairs to the top of the water observatory. What an amazing sight to see Mt. Rainier against a blue cloudless sky to see the space needle, the city windows refracting light, a redwood 60 feet high.
The G didn't want to leave. He loved the perspective from this height. This tiny boy floating above the world like a bird, a cloud, the wind.

I've always pined to be in other places throughout my life...booking flights and making reservations to cities and towns all over the world. But in 2009 I've made a resolution to plan many staycations making travels in my hometown, becoming a tourist of the mind so that I might better focus on the beauty of the present moment.

What I've Learned: Mi Padre

Little Bambinos,
I want to teach you to wonder about the world to let your eyes fall off the confines of road maps and coloring books. I hope I can give you the sense of curiosity that my father shared with me as a child. I think those lessons really started on the long road trips we used to take. My dad in the driver's seat and I his "navigator" learning to read the road map, deciphering the arteries and veins of concrete highways from Michigan to Mexico. To pass the time, my dad would teach my brother and I the state capitals until we could say them by heart and belt them out at record's pace.
"Delaware," he'd say.
"Dover" we'd chime in unison.
As the miles flashed before us, I wondered about the places we'd shouted out. I remember thinking: Do they play flashlight tag in Carson City? Are there Tamarack trees in Tallahassee?

It was never necessary to ask dad "are we there yet?" because he had empowered us long ago to figure this out for ourselves. I loved looking up our destination cities on the mileage chart on the last page of our tattered and frayed road atlas.
"We have 246 miles to go" I would announce to the car.
"What's the next highway I have to take kid, figure that out would you?"
Back to the map I'd go, running my finger along the tiny blue lines until I had an answer. Of course he always knew the way but since he never checked my work, it felt good to know that my answer was respected, my suggestion heeded.

Just a few years ago on a trip to Rome with my family, I stood in line behind my dad, like a little kid, waiting for him to pay for the books I had just picked out about Caravaggio and Michelangelo. We had just wandered the halls of this spectacular museum, our conversation a simple a stream of questions and wonderment.
"Pick out some books kid" he told me at the shop.
"Go on..." he urged and gave me a nudge as if to say "find those answers to those questions kid." The greatest gift I can give you Griffin and little bambino on the way is the present my father continues to share with me, which is to wonder about the world, to be curious about even the smallest of things.