New Painting--With Gratitude

I Remember the Past with Gratitude

This mixed media painting reminds me of my grandmother, Doris, who was a good amateur painter in Glendale, California. As a child, I attended art classes with her. I still remember the smell of her paints, pigments mixed with linseed oil kept in a wooden box containing tubes, bottles, spatulas and brushes.

People often associate food with their childhood. Your might remember a table laid out with bowls of mashed potatoes and peas, a platter with sliced turkey, pumpkin pies and hot rolls. I vaguely remember food.

Yet, when I open my box of pencils, pastel sticks and paint tubes, I feel my heart open and race a little faster. The sight of rich, vivid colors, the feel of soft pastel beneath my thumb and the smell of earth feed me as if I feasted on a Thanksgiving meal.

I remember the past with gratitude as I remember Doris, who became more beautiful as she aged. Once robust and feisty with a judgment quick to leave her lips, she softened with age. Some people harden and become brittle as their bones. Doris softened as her body shrank and her hair whitened.

At 94, Doris still loved to walk. She loved to move. Finally, in the end, she moved with grace from my sight in a way that will inspire me always. She moved from one plane of existence to another without fight or regret for all the things she might have done.

I saw the peace on her radiant face. I saw the acceptance of her life. She seemed to anticipate what was coming.

Doris kept moving even when her legs gave way. She fell on the bus one Saturday and got back up. No bones were broken. She fell again at home. The last time she lay on the floor of the living room all night before my mother found her the next day. She couldn’t remember how she got there or what happened.

With or without working legs, Doris kept moving. Her heart kept her moving and gave her the direction of home. When we cleaned out her apartment, we found notes stuffed in corners, under lamps and in drawers. They were affirmations like maps tucked away to remind her of her destination. One read: “You are God’s child, made in His perfect image, eternally loved and cared for.”

I still have the notes. The writing is full of vibration with no straight lines or hard edges. Her hand, too, was full of movement.

That’s how I remember Doris. She was full of movement and grace as she made her way back home. In the end, she held her caregiver’s hand as he read to her. She smiled, leaned her head back and shut her eyes. She was home!

Doris, 9 months of age,

 in a chair that sits in my living room 

Mixed media on 12” x 12” hardwood panel. Includes collage of original mono prints on rice paper.

©Claudia Rose, Ph.D.