January in August

I know this is a longer entry.  I know I'm going to almost need to think of this as a chapter in a much longer piece, because to put the whole of the weekend I'm writing about down is too much bigness  for the parameters of a blog.  And so this is the introduction.  The beginning of a weekend that helped me to rediscover and remember who I am at my core- not the mom, sister, teacher, CEO, wife, coach, etc., but the person beneath all of that.  

Sometimes when I look outside/I can see myself, looking in
And if it's dark out there where you are/I hate to think how long it's been  

I let the words flow out of my mouth, working on the inflection, the tone, and the meaning behind a lost love you haven't seen in a million years.  My higher voice blends with the rough one on the recording, and I remember that Nate wrote this song for some girl in Alaska, and the winter days with no sun.  

I'm keeping my eyes on the road as it curves with the hills, and at the final bend, Millsite Lake is visible through the trees.  They bow down, as in awe of the expanse of blue as the drivers who race over the flattened frogs and through the splatter of bugs on their windshields, cruising their way to Better Farm.

Whenever I hit the bend, I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding in.  It's the end of a long journey north, away from the go-go-go of schedules and the constant barrage of sensory onslaught by machines.  

It's the way the wind licks your lips in January/and it's all the songs we used to know

It's the way the sun breaks out from behind the clouds/melts my angel in the snow.

For the first time in my life, I'm alone as I do this.  I've done it as a passenger in my dad's brown Chevy Tahoe, sitting next to my sister, while my parents talked about how the lake was used for baths in the 70's, before they had functioning plumbing at the house.  I've done it as a wife, telling my husband about the first time I went cliff jumping for the umpteenth time, and how some local kid jumped from the top of a tree (a 45 foot drop, easily).  I've done it with my own children in the back seat, babbling away while we excitedly tell them we'll be at "Auntie Coley's farm" in just a few minutes.

This time, I'm solo, listening to January, a song by Crow's Landing that I'm going to be singing tomorrow, while piles of photos and frames line the trunk of my Suburu Forrester.  The pieces, wrapped in towels and linens I'm donating to the farm, are part of an exhibit I'm putting up in the barn-turned-gallery for a solo show.

I had spent the previous several weeks asking my sister to let me add artwork to the weekend's repetoire, and convincing my husband to let me sing backup for his band that hasn't existed since its hayday back in Los Angeles.  His lead singer and guitarist, Nate, was coming in from Michigan, where he's working for NASA and earning a PhD, a far cry from writing lyrics and music that make my nostalgic heart hurt when I'm singing along with them.  

You say looking back is the hardest part

And now I know that it's the truth

Maybe you don't think about us now

But I do

The house looms on the right, large and weather beaten.  There are people milling about, and a cacophony of chickens clucking as I turn into the driveway.  I open the door, and stretch my suntanned legs, happy that even years removed from playing, the shape is still there from the endless cycle of high school and college soccer.  At the same time, I'm quick to recognize that my body is angry at this sudden movement after hours of stagnating in the driver's seat.  It's the beginning of an epic weekend, Better Arts's annual Summer Festival of music, art, a pirate invasion, a bonfire, and a group of people that could only be assembled in the middle of nowhere in upstate New York.

"You're here!"

My sister, Nicole, struts out of the house, cutoff shorts betraying the massive number of mosquito bites on her legs.  Gangly arms embrace, laughter begins.  It's the start of a madcap of bonding exercises and personal responsibility.  We spend much of the afternoon racing off to her island on the lake before she heads out to dinner with friends.  As much as I love catching up with Nicole, listening to her regale me with tales of hatching chickens, and boats being towed by swimming interns, I relish my alone time.

It's the first I've had since I gave birth three years ago to my oldest daughter.  

There's a comfort to knowing that my family is having fun without me.  I love them, despite the fact that I'm  marveling at how awake my senses are with nothing to focus on but the sky (bright blue with perfect white clouds), the camera in my hands, and the sound of the wind in the tall grass.  I mentally check off how many frames I brought with me, how many old windows I can use from the "salvage" pile in the shed, and how many more photos I can print for the art projects to be displayed in the gallery later.   I whisper lyrics under my breath, my mind wandering to younger years, when I was on my own on a more regular basis.  I squint in the waning light.

Autumn brings such simple things/Summer always makes it right
Springtime thaws out all of the memories/frozen phantoms in the night

Flashes of fall as a teen, summers as a college kid fly through my mind.  I can see the shadows of the frozen phantoms- snow falling in my hair, Pink Floyd lyrics, warbled guitar notes.  I hum the melody as I pick up a paintbrush, and dip it into the creamy black tempera.  I pull a drop of paint down the pane of glass, thinking about the little instances in our lives, those moments that seem so inconsequential, yet alter the course of our history.  The decision to walk up to the boy playing lacrosse against a wall, the play you try out for, the city you move to, the friend you listen to instead of trusting yourself. Is there an existence out there where I made different choices, or someone else did, and I'm by myself, or waiting for a different person to arrive, have different kids at home?  Am I an artist, a writer, or something so completely different, I wouldn't recognize myself on the street?

I glance out the window, at the arms of the setting sun as they reach out to the trees and round bales of hay, lighting them on fire before turning them black in her wake.  Placing the paintbrush down, I reach for my phone, tapping the music note and scrolling for "January".

I guess everything is timing/And I know timing's everything.

I pick up a hammer, and pound the nails into the walls for my artwork, each stroke splitting the wood as I try to pound away the thoughts running rampant through my head as my brain chants remember...remember...reMEMber... and my voice belts with enough resonence to shake the beams over my head, jerking me between the present and the past, the real and the imaginary as the sun goes down, and the darkness takes over.

But I've been wasting all these hours.  
Wondering if- wondering if you remember me.  
Remember me...

(photo from http://betterfarm.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-skinny-on-last-saturdays-summerfest.html)