Just Nearly Asleep

Autumn Landscape, Vincent Van Gogh, November 1885

              I feigned sleep in the booth in the back of the restaurant on top of a pile of coats. My parents bantered with my aunts and uncles and their laughter filtered through a blanket of cigarette smoke and came to rest on my nose and ears and eyelids. When it was time to go home I fell into the warmth of Dad’s arms as he lifted me out into the sweet brisk November air that graces New England at the same time the frost paints landscapes on the windowpanes. On the ride home my brothers and I snuggled like puppies in the backseat of the minivan and by the time the tires rolled onto the gravel driveway my sleep was no longer artificial. We were thankful for each other that night and many nights after that.
              Now we are older, and many things have changed. Cigarettes aren’t allowed in the restaurant anymore and the booth was replaced a few years ago. We don’t all go home to the same place each evening and my little sister who was too young for this memory is old enough to live on her own with an ocean between us. Not everyone will be together for the holiday and I will miss them, but through change the important things remain constant. My parents’ arms are still warm and my family’s laughter is still comforting and the November air is still sweet and brisk, and today we are blessed and tonight we will fall asleep thankful for each other. I sit here and write, and write each word with thanksgiving, and my smiles remain as I remember a little girl just nearly asleep on a pile of coats.

"as summer into autumn slips"

          This is me when I was about 12.  It is autumn and I am at an apple orchard with my mom, my brother and my little sister.  (The orchard has closed since then, but I remember so many happy times there.)  The air smells like fallen leaves and ripe fruit and freshly baked cider doughnuts.  The summer sun breaks through the clouds and battles with the delicately encroaching winter air.  Mom scolds me for eating more apples than I put in my bag and Dillon and I throw rotten apples at each other.
          Sometimes I think I may be the luckiest girl in the world, because people come from all over the world to experience a New England autumn, and I've been able to experience one every year of my life.  The kids are going back to school today, and I saw the football team practicing on the track earlier this week.  I almost fell off my bike on the way to work because I was distracted by how perfect the air smelled.  Soon I will find a bright red maple leaf and press it in my journal and I will remember how Mom and I used to go for long walks down the dirt road, collecting orange, golden and crimson leaves to decorate the dining room table.

el sur grande

My laptop is on the fritz and has been sent to the doctor, so blogging is on a minor hold for the time being.  I did however, find a few film photographs from my trip to Big Sur back in the fall of 2006(?) and thought I'd share them.  The West Coast is beautiful, and I miss it.  That's why I'm more than a little excited to announce that I purchased my plane ticket to Los Angeles in July.  I want to feel the warm California sun on my face, I want to see my brother and sister-in-law and cousins and friends, and I want to eat at Umami Burger.

personal writings no.1

post-it art (+ my inspiration) by suzy krause

      
       I imagine climbing vines clinging to the walls of my living room, except the vines have stars growing on them.  Some of them are in full bloom, and others are still in that in-between stage where you can peak inside and see a hint of what's coming, but for the most part they are still keeping their beauty a secret.

        Did I mention this isn't my living room as you would see it now if you came over?  It's my "one day I will live here" living room.  It has one of those 70s couches with the spindly legs, the ones that come in funny colors like rust and pea green and sort of look like extra plushy benches.  It has three wood-paneled walls and one wall of exposed brick, which is where my planted galaxies latch on.

         The wood paneling reminds me of ski houses we rented when I was little.  We would spend the day skiing and then we would come home tired, with cold sweat sticking our hair up in different directions.  We'd come home to a big pot of chili on the stove, and I would eat two bowls worth and I hadn't even taken a bath yet- because when I was little it didn't matter so much if bathing waited until later.  There were cousins to play with, and Cinderella to watch, and there were two giant bowls of chili to enjoy.  

      My cousin Emily would want to play Animals, and I always felt a little funny pretending I was an animal, but I would choose a fox, and she would choose a beaver, and we would play.  Because even though I was young and uninformed, I had unlocked the secret that sometimes making someone happy by doing something you don't want to do, makes you a special kind of happy, and you look up, and three hours have gone by.

         One day I will plant galaxies in my living room and I will invite you over for a bowl of chili.

~ Michal S Benik, Spring 2011