Homesick

I find myself at New Morning Cafe again, hoping that something-to-write-about will occur; something worthy of sharing, something miraculous, or mood-shifting. I scan the room as I sit down with my tea and notice half a dozen faces that remind me of people I knew in Woodstock, and I think to myself, ah, I’m homesick. Of course I am.

It’s been a week since my mother died, so I’ve been thinking about home, about her, my dad, my siblings, the house we all grew up in and where Mom was able to live her last days. She lived in that house for sixty-three years. When I asked my nephew how he was doing with it all, he said, I’m sad, not sad-sad, but I’m going to miss her. My feelings exactly.

Hours before I got the news about Mom, I got snagged by a Facebook ad. Watched the whole thing, then bought what the young woman was selling: a watercolor course for beginners. I’ve never painted anything but walls and window frames, but my new teacher (Laura McKendry) talks about painting the way I like to think about songwriting, photo-taking, and collage-making, all of which I’ve felt a little bored with lately: enjoy yourself, learn the basics, break the rules, let your mistakes take you where you might not have gone otherwise, holy cow, have fun! This was the message I needed.

So, I bought the course. Free for thirty days unless fully satisfied, but already worth the hundred-and-twenty-nine bucks that will show up on my credit card in a few weeks. Learning something new that, frankly, I’m already ok at because of all those walls and window frames I’ve painted, has been the perfect distraction. It’s given me quiet, productive time and I’ve needed that. I’m grateful to my dad for not scheduling Mom’s funeral during Christmas week. Traveling through airports with millions of others wasn’t what I needed. Holding a brush, moving colors around in a new sketch book was.

I’ve tried to come up with words to describe my mom but it’s difficult. Novelists take entire chapters to develop a character, and I’m no good at that. All I can say is that she was human and fully alive. She welcomed all visitors and new-comers to her home no matter where they came from. She taught physics at Bryn Mawr, solved calculus problems on paper napkins while making breakfast, and did the New York Times’ crossword until ten days ago. She water-skied and played field hockey into her fifties, and she read to under-served children at her church in Philadelphia for years. She loved her piano, her garden, my father, her children, her grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Her heart was immense. So, I’m sad, but not sad-sad. And for sure, I already miss her.

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If you’re interested, you can find Laura McKendry’s watercolor class at Domestika.

Here’s one of the exercises: cover a page with random strokes in a single color. Walk away, let the paint dry, then come back and see what you see.