Rambling Madwoman

I once had a dream I turned into a house. To be clear, I didn’t morph into wood and plaster, those dead things which houses are made out of. No, I was organic, red, and still breathing. I would move with each inhale. The start of the dream isn’t terribly important or comprehensible. There was a man who owned a store; I was scared of him, with this impending sense of terror when I knew he was getting closer. There was a knock, then a door opening, and he stepped inside. I didn’t see it, but I knew it. Then he found me, cowering, and extended his arm out. Absurdly, I took it in hand. He started to lead me the way a gentleman would lead a woman to a ballroom. I don’t know why, but suddenly I wasn’t frightened. That’s when I began to change. I shrunk into an ugly, hobbling child, then gradually grew up into a hobbled, curled over woman. All the while he looked down at me with a smile, and I felt like it was the smile of a father. There were steps, maybe three, and he lifted his arm as I, alone, walked up them. Once I fell out of sight, only then did I let go. This is when I became a house.

I’m ashamed to say I haven’t painted for a… long time. Somewhere I found the motivation to paint again, and this is what I’m working on. If you have any suggestions to add or refine it while I’m still in the working stage, please let me know.

A sketch who needs a name. If you have any ideas, tell me them :}

— Market Scene on a Quay by Frans Snyders and workshop

“A big ol’ goose.” — My mother in the background.

Clover. The pretty purple-pink ones my mother taught me to eat the nectar from. Bright memories of hiking with my siblings, and crouching down suddenly to pluck it into my hands, pick its petals, and bring those petals to my lips. Its very name draws up a smile. Then I only sucked on the petals, now I use the leaves in salads and soups. The petals steep in my tea and garnish my food. My mother was told about clover by her own mother. How glad I am that my mother told me about clover.

Buckhorn Plantain. I didn’t know its name for the longest time. Because when my father showed me how to wrap the stem and send the bud flying, he didn’t tell me its name. Moreover, it didn’t need a name, I just needed to use this new-found knowledge to attack my family members with my father by my side. We’d laugh together after a particularly good shot, and he’d give me advice to improve. I still use this. I’ll get into mini battles with friends or aimlessly shoot a bud on a while walk. I love my father for it, for showing me how to do shoot buckhorn plantain buds.

Lemon Clover. I collect it on mass when I can, to munch on. It was my sister who illuminated me to the fact that some random grass, to my little view, was so tasty. Back then, she was my partner in collection when we got peckish from playing. Of course, being older, she would get more (I can laugh at this now, but oh how it irritated me then). She learned about lemon clover from her friend’s mother (that friend is now my sister-in-law, married to my brother). We can disagree on the fundamentals in life, but we will always agree that lemon clover is delicious. Sometimes I want to make her a little bouquet of it, in a way to say “see this? You showed me this, and I’m thankful”.

Pass things down. With any luck it will continue to be passed down. Grand gestures are fine, but offhand displays—where you’d merely like to share something—dwell so much deeper in the heart. Even in any disagreements, I can’t help but look at these things (clover, buckhorn plantain, lemon clover) and feel gut wrenchingly fond.