Around the center

Abstract Painting, 1995, by Gerhard Richter

The wind arrives today.  To be precise, just after the midnight hour, tipping into the early morning darkness.  Expectations are billed high on this one, everything aligned and pointing to this being one to remember.  There’s been many, some serious, others nothing more sprinklings of leaves, a few errant branches being shaken from the trees, long having been dried out and dead for years.  Yes, this is to be one to pay attention to, to acknowledge.

Sitting on the cusp, gives one time for pause, for consideration of what waits just beyond the horizon.  In the past, the wind represented a thing to enjoy and play within, to have it wash over ones skin and hair, free of thought.  Nights were spent out in the hot air driving high into the mountains, or climbing fire escapes to the tops of tall buildings to bask in its rush.  Madness seemed to rain all about, palm fronds crashing to ground, complete strangers taking on a surreal giddiness to be out in the chaos.  Static charges building up due to the dry nature of the ether, discharging on door handles, coins, and within handshakes.  The damage that occurred during each escapade, was thoughtfully observed while trekking off for the morning espresso, a bagel with brie to the side.   Without skin in the game, it’s easy to notice events devoid of worry.

Then life gradually demands more, as the mantle of the parent is passed onto the child, themselves becoming the adult.  The seasonal winds change from being something that is to be played within, to something to be viewed with weariness and caution.  Safety for ones children, protection of a home, a leery eye looking upward at the trees overhead, noting news reports and weather forecasts the same way one watches their cholesterol levels and blood pressure.   As the dry hurricane creeps closer, a noted uptick in tension and anxiety grip ones mind, refusing to relax or ease.

Yet within the turmoil, the memories push in to remind, to inform the present self that all is not to dread.  In a land that is marked and known for the ground shifting under ones feet at any moment with out notice, it’s the thing that can be seen and expected that is most vexing.   Slowly, each event is smiled over from the past, a recognition that whatever may happen, has happened many times before.  A resignation, acceptance, of that which is beyond ones control, can be fretted and mulled about, but when it comes right down to it, what ever can happen, will happen without regard.   Eyes open, a lightness of heart, the wind begins to gently stir the leaves creating crisscrosses of shadows in the late morning light.  In the coming darkness, childhood and the adult will meet again, within the crackle of static electricity, persistent gusts of memories and waves of wind, debris.



About Sarah Seager

I am an artist that works and lives in the wilds of Los Angeles.
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