Last week we had another snowstorm here and there was a snow day. From the safe, warm inside the house, I took these first thing in the morning.
I thought of my grandmother, Luba (z”l), who had a gorgeous glass collection in her home by the sea.
I was four when she died way too young, and my memories of her are fuzzy, contained in pictures and in stories from others, but I remember her soft touch on my skin and her closet, dressing up, and being happy with her; the way she brushed my hair. I remember that the bottles and glass pieces were lined up on little shelves built into the window that looked out on the little bay. I could never possibly recreate that, such a dream spot, peaceful, with the water always there, the grasses waving and shells I gathered. The pink rose bushes and monarch butterflies and the paved walk way and that breeze coming off the water on a warm day.
I have spent my life trying to capture color in my own bottles, hanging things, in art, in scarves and clothing and shoes. In the light. Always searching for and finding color and marveling at the way the light hits glass, even in a snowstorm, even when it is cold, even when all is swirling, such as snow or wars outside, or ideas in my head, or good or bad things that happen. And how one responds–to the good or the bad.
I choose color and sometimes black and white. Always, always, searching for the way the light hits. Waiting for the sparkle and shine. Letting tears fall and then laughing.