T.V. and Turkey...What Dreams May Come

Last night I dreamt of a turkey sandwich. Not even a sandwich really, but a turkey loaf sitting on a piece of tin foil with a knife held midair waiting to be cut. Did I just personify a turkey loaf? Is this my version of “Hell’s Kitchen” meets “Games of Thrones”? Then a loud noise occurred, waking me up at 8:40. I think it was a garbage truck or a direwolf on steroids. It was then that I realized, I need to upgrade my subconscious, or get out of bed and eat lean meats.

I put on my usual winter stay-at-home outfit; leggings, wool sweater, and white, or let’s say grayish-white, socks. Let’s pretend that my hair flopped every which way on top of my head and tangled into a knot in back is sexy and not brush it. I did brush my teeth while looking in the mirror thinking, Yes, Emma Stone will look exactly like this in the morning… 30 years from now.

If I were going out into the 0 degree, -30 below windchill, I would’ve put on at least one more pair of pants and two more sweaters, my fashion statement being, “I AM WARM!” and don’t care if I look ten pounds heavier by wearing ten extra pounds of clothing on my body in the winter in an effort to not freeze to death. As a courtesy I would also brush my hair then put a hat on so that when I take said hat off, my hair looks exactly like it did before I brushed it…with static. Better to stay in, with coffee.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Florida lately; ocean beaches, white sand, pale blue horizon that stretches out forever. That kind of thing. My first day of teaching classes this semester, I reached into my backpack pocket for a pen and pulled out a seashell instead. It was quite a lovely surprise though I’m sure I put it there myself. It may have been there for as long as four years, as the last time I was on a beach was in Jekyll Island, Georgia on a chilly January morning. Greg was out taking pictures. Or maybe it was the beach in St. Augustine, a distant memory that I choose to rekindle, every time I reach for a pen.

This is part of my “make a plan” to not be in Buffalo next winter and I know everyone in the Northeast is trying to come up with the same plan. Fondling a seashell seems like a good start. I’ve also watched all four seasons of “Game of Thrones” in an effort to plot my escape from guarding the wall next year. My life is exactly like “Game of Thrones” without the stabbings, beheadings, or lust for power. It’s just like me in my kitchen trying to open a can of soup last night, only the soup is a, a … dead animal and the stove is a, a…what? Okay, I guess it’s not really that much like my life. I don’t even have a brother to commit incest with or wise dwarf to tell me what to do. Ah well, back to the harsh reality of indoor heating and plumbing, a car instead of a horse, a T.V. that tells you over and over how damn cold it is outside and offers programming that distracts and dismembers and asks you to be a member if you watch PBS. Do I sound exactly like Daenrys Targaryen? I thought so.

CHOOSE YOUR FREEDOM!

I also have a paycheck that allows me to save up and actually do something next winter. That’s where the Internet comes in. So many hours to look on Craigslist and VRBO at the endless possibilities of where I’ll wind up.  I’m thinking something sleepy, maybe an Island. They have such lovely names; Anastasia, Amelia, Gasparilla, Santa Rosa, turkey sandwich. I must be dreaming again.

And where will you all be going? Listen to the seashell. It will tell you where to go.

The Shadows of Streetlamps

I am not a fan of winter. I’ve probably made this clear in other blog posts, but I think it bears repeating. Every winter morning I wake up in Buffalo to a snow covered lawn that resembles a graveyard of tree limbs, I ask myself, why am I still here? And when I get off a plane from some warm place in mid-January, (say California, or Austin, Texas recently) I’m stunned and saddened by the knowledge that I have once again failed to figure out how to make a living, just for a few months, in a place that doesn’t force me to go out when the temperature dips below freezing. Way, way, below. Like 2 the other morning.

But aside from the weather, I am feeling pretty fortunate to be turning 58 and starting a new job doing something I love as an Artist in Residence at Women and Children’s Hospital. I am employed by the Arts in Healthcare Program sponsored through UB’s Center for the Arts which means I get to spend a few hours a week engaging patient-artists and their families in the creative process. By patient-artists, I mean anyone who’s willing and feels up to doing something that engages the imagination and that includes a lot of people. I’ve worked in arts education for years, but never in a hospital and I must admit I wondered at first if this was the right place for me to be working.

In all likelihood, you and almost everyone else, hate being in hospitals. Visiting one meant that someone was ill, or you were ill and in crisis and needed to enter an institution that would take away all your rights, expose you to life-threatening super-viruses and not let you leave until you’d wracked up a bill so big that it would swallow your entire life savings, your house, your car, and any stray cans of soup you had stored in the basement for emergencies. But that’s not how I feel anymore. Being in a hospital to serve others is an absolute privilege and as soon as I walk through those doors, frozen or not, I want to be able to let go of any hateful thoughts about the weather or other baggage that may be sticking to my boots or lining my coat pockets so I can give to those I’m working with, who may be feeling a lot of anxiety about where they are and what’s happening in their lives, my absolute best. Relaxed and comfortable me, which after a 45 minute drive through ugly, annoying city traffic is not always easy.

Yes, I hate winter and I hate my ride to the hospital which includes driving on the expressway in heavy traffic, piles of lumpy snow black with exhaust, cars caked with salt so thick you can barely guess their color, and motorists in every direction making decisions I don’t quite understand. Stopping, starting, pulling in front of me, speeding around me, making me feel like a befuddled and very old person who shouldn’t be driving herself anywhere.

So I decided I would try and find things along the way that were…how do I say this? Beautiful. Yes, I think that describes it. And it all came together quite naturally when I approached the Deerfield Street overpass and saw on this ugly morning the shadow of streetlamps across the concrete above me, their curved silhouettes mirroring the arch of the bridge both unassuming and elegant. It made me want to pause and take a picture or at least write it down but I was speeding along and just needed to remember. Then I saw the billboard that I’d noticed many times before. The one for United Men’s Store which shows large headshots of two black men smiling, one in a fedora and the other in a newsboy cap with the caption above them, “Number 1 in Hats.” I smiled too, thinking, I really like that sign!” Then when I exited the Kensington and went on to Delaware Ave, I noticed the word, “kiss” in the Kissling LLC sign, the shape of a heart on the Cardiology Building and bam, I was there at the hospital, filled with positive images, and feeling quite lucky to have seen these things along the way.

It’s not hard to find beauty once I’m in the hospital and see the gorgeous faces of the children I work with and the nurses and other healthcare providers who are absolutely radiant in their roles as caregivers. I’ve never had the pleasure of cooperating with such lovely women (mostly) who share a common goal with the other artists and me of making the children receiving various treatments as comfortable as they possibly can be under the circumstances. And in the artists’ case, we also get to make them feel creative and empowered because they can choose to make something; a story, poem, painting, whatever, that screams loudly and clearly of their individuality beyond their label of illness.

I hate that I can’t make all the children well, or make the winter go away, or even better, fly over the city on a mythical dragon that breathes down warmth and eradicates disease. But at 58 there are still some things that I am very capable of doing and as long as that’s the case, I will drive to wherever I need to be, noticing the subtle and profound beauty that if I choose to see it, is always there to transport me.