LYING IN BED

SNOWFALL

Bus-Ride

BUS-RIDE
while going home to London from Cambridge I watched as the dark lines of trees against a subtly colored sky whirred past. From my vantage point in the way back of our bus, there was nothing else for me to do. An almost two hours' drive with a bus full, I have opted for this seat to allow longer legs more room. It is dark already at 5 o’clock on this Winter’s solstice. The silhouettes of pine and deciduous are breathtaking against the ever-changing backdrop of a dimly glowing sky. I keep wishing it wouldn’t go by so fast. Each dart of my eyes is trying to snap a picture of the beauty within the small aperture of the back window. One after the other, gorgeous silhouettes flying by in the frame. Please stop! I want to take it all in, savor it, remember it!
But no. We must move on to our next destination. We must arrive on time. Can’t slow down. Can’t stop. Must. Go. On.
As I was held captive by space and beauty, I couldn’t help but feel sorry. SO much beauty flying by all around me and I scarce can take it in!.....
This is the ache I carry with me always. I feel it keen at the busiest times. These are the times it just feels wrong to be so busy. Yet it is precisely because of all the busy that so much beauty is flying around me.....

I reach for my pen, sketchbook and journal. I write my thoughts. I draw a picture. This is stopping. This is remembering. This is savoring some of the beauty that has whirred by. If only for a few minutes or half an hour, I can stop the van, get out, take a pic or two. Then get back in.
This will do. Though the ache will continue on, it is abated in the sketchbook and the journal. 'Drawcumenting' the fleeting moments soothes the ache to go slow. Writing it down reminds me that I’m still here, a vessel to hold all these beautiful moments.
I will draw and write to slow down time just a little bit. Won’t you hop out of the bus with me, and we will take a pic or two together!
-Portia Burton

In That Sudden Rain

I am a dreamer....

 I'm a dreamer. My mind has always preoccupied itself with dreams and daydreams, the small ones and tall ones. As a little girl, I dreamed via my dolls and their house, much of which was handmade. I dreamed of driving a small car one day and so made  a cardboard version.  Today, I still want to drive a small car, crimson red would be fun.  While dreaming about such car I visualize the girl who drives it . She is artsy and fun, if a bit eccentric. She goes on picnics and drives it around the French countryside. She pulls her art materials out of it to draw in a field.  She writes poems and illustrates them. She has tea in the afternoon with whomever will join her. This same girl drives her small car up to a small cottage in the Lake District where she lives with her family and has a few chickens also. Her cottage is painted cheery colors and it's always just a cozy disheveled looking. There are artifacts here and there, furniture with stories, and handcrafted items everywhere. Her art is on the walls. Her car is perfect for getting around the small, quaint town in which she lives. Everywhere she looks, she sees thing to draw and paint, colors to knit or crochet. And when she can't see something beautiful, she draws it anyway, and in-so-doing she finds the beauty she wasn't able to see before....

It was all there in that dollhouse I spent hours and hours making years ago. Dolls I had made, with clothes for them to wear, knitted blankets on their beds, pillows I had sewn. I didn't actually set out to make my life that of the doll house.

There are some dreams still "out there". I still want a small car. I'm still waiting to explore France. I do not have any chickens or goats or sheep and won't ever have any.
There have been times, however, between the doll house and now, when I have pined for a life other than the one I was living.  But when I began to draw and paint, I started to see that the life I was living was the one I loved. Through creating drawings and paintings of the flowers in my yard, of my children growing up-- playing on playgrounds, licking a lollipop-- I could see the sparkling beauty of the life I was living. I didn't need a small car or a trip to France to make my life beautiful or worth living. That beauty was there all along. I just needed a lens through which to see it and celebrate it.

Of course, I would still love to explore France.I have a strong obsession about France and its countryside. Yes, it is still good for me to dream about that and make plans toward it. But to pine for what one does not have and can not have at the moment is a way of living I no longer want. I want to enjoy where I am right now, who I'm with, and what I'm doing at the moment. Drawing and writing poems are two ways that allow and foster this love for the life I have.

I will still dream. Dreams are delicious. But I want to spend my days living out the dreams that are happening right under my feet. I want to savor the life I have, drink it to the dregs, leaving few stones unturned.
-Portia Burton.

Good Bye and all that...

Good Bye and all that....

I thought I'd be okay,
Thought I could just stop by,
Pick up the last of my stuff,
From our hostel-room,
Wave goodbye and leave
With a smile on my face.
Thought I had come to accept
My new life without you in it.
Then you opened the door
And I felt this happiness veneer
I had created, crack wide open
And for a split second I wanted
To beg you, to let me stay.
I didn't, though,
Just plastered on a fake smile
And feigned indifference, or tried.
I thought I could brag about
How great my life was going,
How good were the old couple
with whom I stay and their house,
My new college, new friends, etc...
Make you regret pushing me away.
But when you asked how I was,
All I could say was 'Fine. Just Fine.'
Funny, how that lie
Just tripped off my tongue.
I wanted to say I missed you,
That I feel lost,  scared
And uncertain .
Things I didn't realize I felt
Until I saw you again.
I could tell
You felt as awkward as I.
I hate that the most,
Loosing the comraderie between us,
Turning into strangers, again.
Months of a life shared, now over.
I know, we're lucky,
No ugly scenes, no screaming matches
No trashing each other, ripping each other up.
Just the click of a door closing,
And nothing left to say.

-Portia Burton

(about the painting: 'Two Girls' - by Tamara Lempicka)

Only You Know...