Looking out my Backdoor - Aging exponentially

A couple weeks ago I wrote Kathy, “I have aged 10 years since I had surgery in January.” Today Kathy wrote me, “I’ve aged 20 years since this coronavirus pandemic.” Since Kathy is close to 10 years younger, that makes us about even.

Fears, worries, lack of solutions, illnesses, deaths, feelings of isolation and helplessness — all take their toll, on our bodies, minds and spirits.

It was March before most of us realized the dangers which surround us. March when we began to hunker down and discover the benefits of solitude. Here it is the end of October and it looks like we are in for the long haul. No wonder visible aging accelerates day by day.

It helps neither my peace of mind nor the image I see in my mirror that my baby, my youngest, my son, had his 43rd birthday this week. I just felt 43 more wrinkles latch onto my face.

Meanwhile, over at my little dining table, surrounded with children’s art supplies, I make a wind-back-the-clock discovery. I have two projects going, one a collage and the other a … uh … a creation, sorta, using crayons and water colors.

One thing that is liberating about using simple crayons and scrap paper is that I’m not wasting expensive oils and canvases in practice sessions destined for the trash can.

A more important liberation — no rules. I don’t have to color in the lines and if a fish appears in the treetops, who is to tell me it is wrong! After all, if the fish wants to be in the tree, who am I to tell it, “Shoo, go away.”

Last wintertime when I was bed-bound, another friend gave me a coloring book for adults and a set of colored pencils. I thumbed through the elaborate designs. Some deep instinct held me back. I couldn’t do it.

Sure, the pages were pretty and required a good sense of color combinations but also required one to stay within pre-set lines. I gave the book and pencils back, with awkward thanks.

As a meditative practice, I know the coloring book has value. It’s simply not mine, not for now.

When I am coloring with a grandchild, I might color a hippopotamus purple and my small companion thinks nothing of it. And if I add wings and boots to the hippo, we both giggle with glee.

Grandchildren are long ago and far away though I have three little great-grandchildren who would more than suffice if only visiting was safe. So I content myself with playing with my own little girl, an inside job.

I dabble at my “art.” It’s not a job. There is no deadline. The table stays littered with scissors, paper scraps, crayons. Nobody is coming to dinner.

My snips and scribbles gave me an “ah ha” moment through a buried memory. Back in Mrs. Brown’s first grade class I reigned the undisputed best with scissors, paste and crayons. While coloring a picture for a contest, the sky was blue, the grass green, tree trunks brown, none of my colors dared wriggle outside the lines.

I don’t recall every detail in the picture except a seemingly vast expanse of grass, which I filled in with horizontal care. Until the final three square inches, which I made strongly vertical.

I remember Mrs. Brown’s expression of horror, “Why did you do that?”

What could I have answered? I remained mute. Adults ask the vilest of unanswerable questions to 6-year old children.

If I could time travel I would fill the sky with fishes, and plant a purple hippo with red mud boots and a flowered straw hat in that final plot of green grass. Just for fun.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].