Late winter 2014 will
ultimately be defined in my mind by the unexpected care taking of a rooster. I won’t forget trying to hand feed a moody
chicken; carrying him to the warm garage each night during the sub freezing
temperatures and then, watching curiously as he regained his health, slowly,
over the course of a couple months until it was spring.
I think, in retrospect, it
was an attachment to the process of saving the rooster that added distinct
meaning to those winter days. And, in
fact, by the time spring arrived and I walked out to the coop each day, the
rooster had established itself in the correct order of things-the king of the
coop. He became ravenous, growing larger
by the day, the only remnants of his story being his occasional shaky
legs. So when the fox came and took the
rooster, thus completing the natural order of the nature, it became an end to
our tale.
Elevating a single rooster to
something worth caring for and about reminded me, simply, of art. It reminded me of the time I was visiting a
friend and, in her house for the first time, I sat down on her couch waiting
for her to finish up in the kitchen.
There was a little side table next to me and on it was a bowl of elegant,
beautiful rocks. She later told me they were just random stones
found, cleaned and collected over time by her and her kids; but now, they were not just
rocks, they, too, had been transformed by care- to meaning-to art.
It can be the same with
food. I’ve been in a sprout growing
phase-- which is as easy as rinsing some seeds, setting the jar on the
countertop and covering it with a dishtowel.
The only caveat is remembering to
take care to do this each day. Over
the course of the week the seeds evolve continuously, like some slow moving English
love story where nothing happens at once but a lot is happening over time. My kids like sprouts on their sandwiches,
which, not surprisingly, caused some suspicion at the middle school lunch table. Someone asked Andy what was on his sandwich. When he replied, “sprouts,” the next question
further gave him pause.
“Where do you get
sprouts?” his friend asked.
At which point, Andy realized
the interest in his sandwich was about to take a further complicated turn. In the context of sandwiches, this one had
some meaning.
And, finally, I found myself
meeting a knitting student in the back of my car yesterday at the baseball field. It was a “knitting emergency”—my eight year
old student was trying to finish up a mother’s day gift and knitting class was
unexpectedly canceled. She only needed
a yarn needle and some brief sewing instruction. So there we were, sewing things up so she
would have it ready for Sunday. I
looked out from the back of my car while she sewed it together, and thought
about how she had transformed some pieces of wool into flowers for her
mom. It took about a month, an eternity
for a girl of her age eager to get it done. But I think, she too, will remember the process
of making it; of sitting in a trunk of a car learning to sew; of eagerly
awaiting the surprise of giving this little piece of art to her mom. It turns out most anything can have a story,
can have meaning, can be art--it just needs the opportunity.
