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Donna Flood
Going Home

Who said, “You can't go home.” Like millions of others  I am dedicated to the tedious things. All that requires one to care for job, family, home, health and so much more creates a  kind of vacuum which can squeeze any creative desire totally out of a person. One can only makes untold numbers of beds, use the sweeper so many times, cook how many meals until the repetition begins to feel like a kind of twilight zone existence. I'm almost too busy to go home.

On the other hand it is true my husband is retired from a job but somehow life just goes on for us. Once in a while we eat at Kentucky Fried Chicken and I see all the elders together at a table. They have no grandchildren with them. This makes me know they are retired too. I watched my father and mother-in-law live that same life. They were happy to be a part and total of their friends life. I wonder how my husband feels about their complacent,  cushy,  retirement. His swagger as he walks past their table answers my question.

There were artists down through the ages who used different things and ways to continually renew a push for impetus to work.  There was Picasso who was continually falling in love. For that matter this seemed to rather a common thing among artists. I once had a sixty-five-year-old friend who was an artist. Her son kidded her, “Oh Mom, everyone knows all artists are a bit risque'.

Those I admire the most were dedicated to their art much as one is dedicated to a higher being. Rembrandt had a benefactor hand him some money because he was old and broke. He took the money, out of sight of the friend, he bought a paintbrush. I'm thinking, “Way to go.”  In that moment as I watched his life on modern day television  the old sage's spirit became my mentor. This is the spirit who calls to me as I, sometimes am about to enter  that twilight zone of mediocrity and daily hum-drum existence. Rather than try to escape into a euphoria of falling in love in order to see beauty why not just accept the beauty as it is without trying to reach for some crutch.

This was what I found myself doing as we drove over the Osage Hills to the old family ranch house. Here I was seeing calves bounding about on new stiff legs.A great expanse looked as if one could actually see the sphere of the earth enfold us as in a giant hug. In the midst of that great space was a pool of water all sparkling, clear, and true blue.  It was if a lady had decked herself in  modest colors of tan and brown pastures only to wear something like the Hope diamond on her shoulder. She now appeared to me to be a sleeping lady who was just awakening to something. To what? We will only know from observation and from the music they will be playing  for her dance.

The wide streets of Shidler even looked to be stretching their arms. For sale signs were up on old buildings;  we can see a couple of new businesses as well. Could there be something  rushing through on the gales of prairie winds?  For whoever said, “You can't go home,” I am here to dispute the validity of that statement. I did go home and today all that was gray and twilight  around me is now  sharp, clear, and desirable.

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