My spunky, beautiful, vivacious, bull-headed, creative, eccentric and fiercely loving grandmother, Margaret, would have turned 86 today.
I spent the morning writing in the study of her old house, the room where she died eight years ago. It was a spring day like this one; the windows open and the sun shining after weeks of cold and rain.
This morning two other women were inhabiting rooms in that house as well: artists, working on creative projects and scheming about future ones. I can think of no better way to celebrate my grandmother's birthday than to witness those rooms of hers--those dearly beloved, pine-shod, two-hundred-year-old rooms--startle with the energy of young, creative, vivacious women, going after their own illusive artistic dreams.
What a thing to be: an artist. What a time to be born: spring.
Happy birthday, G'ma, Toodles, Margaret.
Your house lives on. Imagine that!
I am so deeply glad.