The ground is her opportunity. The sky her vision; and the trade off of her open-toed sandals for flat boots shows the wisdom of change in this Granny who comes from a different world.
One of water and hurricanes; traffic and poorly run cities. She lived in a complex reality of televsion and the Sunday Daily News for information and education, that she would swear was the truth. Transplanted by her family to a simpler life, this designer of clothes, knitter, lover of Van Gogh, and a salesperson in Bloomingdales in New York City, now wonders where the stores are.
She’s in awe of the stars that remind her of paint dotted from a thick brush. The sun shows up early in the day while the coyotes run backward to their clan, and then as the day slips away into soft blue and blackness the illuminated planets spark into her eyes. She jumps outside of her own vanity and stares at what is endlessly before her. The view is free and is showing up on her unfinished deck at night after leaving its first bang of fire from thousands of years ago. The concept is science and not the easiest idea for her to absorb.
The chaos of rocks smattered around the land calls for her attention. Her fingers are sometimes in too much pain to sew, it’s hard for her to wring water out of clothes; and the stars can’t be moved to checker board around her path, but she can pick up rocks. And she can make a path.