On Christmas night, in the afterglow of discovering Santa’s generosity, we’d take our annual drive down Christmas Tree Lane. I would bring my favorite new toy (my Betsy McCall doll was especially dear) and we’d join the line of cars, making our way down the street with the windows down to catch any Christmas music projected from the decorated homes.

After Christmas Tree Lane, we would then venture to the houses on the block beyond ours: the section of “rich houses where doctors lived.” This is where I would see them: pink Christmas trees. Gigantic picture windows framed the alluring sugarplum spectacles which drew me in and allowed a glimpse into what I imagined must be perfect lives. Of course, we would never dare to have a pink, metallic tree. Metallic trees, we reasoned, were for rich people who didn’t understand the true feeling of Christmas. Those trees weren’t natural and were pronounced as gaudy by the entire family. But in my little girl heart, I secretly thought the pink trees were beautiful. So enticing, so beautiful, so magical that I still dream about them today

Though I’m far away from my childhood, and from my California neighborhood, I’m seeing for the first time that maybe pink evergreens actually are real. All it takes is a stunning Washington sunrise for them to appear. Magically. Just like when I was a child.

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I’ve often thought that I wouldn’t mind living far away from the coastline.  However, except for a short stay in Sacramento, CA, I’ve always lived within 45 minutes of the ocean. Even during my brief time away from the ocean I found myself trying to substitute its compelling force by navigating (small, fun) river rapids whenever I could. And now, in 2020, we’re building a home which is….. 2 minutes from the local shoreline. So maybe I’m kidding myself by thinking the ocean isn’t important to me. Seems like it’s in my DNA! And unless something crazy happens, I probably won’t need to find out. Even if I managed my dream of living in Paris, I hear it’s not that far to the beach. I think, in that circumstance, 2 hours would be close enough.😉

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I’m not sure what I was expecting. I guess because Vancouver, BC is right across the border from the state in which I live, I was expecting a typical big-city-USA vibe. Nope! (And, duh!) My surprise at the international feel was evidence of my need to get out more.

First impressions are lasting impressions and I knew immediately that this intriguing metropolis would have a new name. You see, Vancouver radiated the same vibe as odd tech, quirky Champion City: the setting of the 1999 superhero comedy (and family favorite), Mystery Men. Crossing the Granville Bridge we beheld our first view and found our thoughts bouncing back and forth: was this futuristic or just run down? The odd assemblage of architecture coupled with density made for a remarkable introduction.

The rest of our day was spent in an exploration of the usual tourist spots and definitely left us wanting to return. Even if we don’t  run into The Shoveler or Blue Raja (you gotta see the movie), there’s more than enough mystery to draw us back.

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Had I been a tree

I would not have made any mistakes,

or known the dreadfulness of guilt

or the relentless pang of regret.

I would have known my purpose

and lived it.

I would have followed all the logical rules

resulting in a life of quiet dignity.

If

I had been a tree.

© Resa Dance 2020

]]> 820 https://www.resadance.com/sunset-on-the-oregon-coast/ Fri, 31 Jan 2020 07:32:24 +0000 https://www.resadance.com/?p=799 “Sunset at the Oregon Coast”     5″ x 5″ Acrylic on Canvas Board

Resa Dance, Artist

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Ocean,

You leave me cold.

You try to entice me with your glowing sunset.

But even my well-constructed campfire

Cannot add enough warmth to make you inviting.

Only tempting.

Lure me playfully into your surf

And I’ll be dragged away into oblivion,

Every trace of me stolen.  Forgotten.

Contemplate your rhythmic, tranquilizing presence

And I’ll be faced with my soul’s darkest imaginings.

Or tricked by false inspiration.

Either way, you are a deceiver.

How could I ever trust you?

Ocean,

You’ve long had a place in my story.

But as with most everyone else in my life,

I’ve learned to keep you at a distance.

Resa Dance | January 2020

16″ x 20″ Acrylic on Canvas       Resa Dance, Artist

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Sometimes dreams should remain just that:  fanciful thoughts that don’t actually come to fruition. That’s how I felt about Paris. Although my heart soars at the mention of anything French, I never really planned to go there. With all of my carrying-on, French lessons, and images of Paris around the house, you’d think I was ready at any moment to catch the next flight to Europe. But secretly, I was afraid. I wouldn’t dare speak it, but I thought it was best to experience Paris from afar. Why? Well, I’m really not much of a traveler. And what if my beloved France didn’t live up to my expectations?

However, one Christmas morning, my family unwittingly called my bluff. After frivolously commenting that all I wanted for Christmas was a trip to Paris, that’s just what I got!

And so, the following spring I flew to Europe:  Germany first, taking in Berlin’s unique vitality with my oldest son who lives there, then we flew to France together. Ah Paris! Not a bit of disappointment to be found, beautifully living up to its reputation as “the city of light.”

On a Sunday morning, with coffee and real French pastries in hand, my son and I sat in the blissful sunshine of the Jardin des Tuileries.  Despite many people sauntering through the grounds, the atmosphere was remarkably quiet. Serene.

A friendly pigeon enjoyed our crumbs as we prepared to view the incredible impressionist and post-impressionist art at Musee d’Orsay. It was…..like a dream. But a dangerous dream, as it turns out. Because now I’m no longer content with the images of Paris decorating my house. Now I want to BE there. ALL the time.

Perhaps, deep down, that was my fear all along.

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It’s funny how the mind works.  At home in the US, if I see graffiti on buildings or overpasses or trains I am annoyed.  But arriving in Berlin – where there is more graffiti than I’ve ever seen in my life! – I am suddenly entranced.  Why?

I suspect it’s partially a reflection of my wide open mood and mode:  Free from any responsibilities and spending a whole week with my oldest son, who lives in Berlin, what’s not to love?  To see all types of graffiti and street art wherever I look is amusing. Captivating.

Delighting in “vandalized” buildings? I’m smiling and just can’t get over it!  My American mindset steps aside and this surprising affinity for graffiti awakens several strands of thought:  thoughts that question my definitions of previously settled issues. What is freedom?  What is art and what is its role?  Does propriety hold more value than freedom of expression?  Does private property deserve more respect than public property?  Last year, I would have had fast answers for these questions.  Today, not so much.

Not that I would applaud – or even tolerate – my house or car being tagged with spray paint. That my own walls are safely tucked away on the other side of the world surely plays a part in my unrestrained attitude. (Also, the fact that I can’t understand any of words that might be scary or threatening.)  But seeing so much spirited expression painted literally everywhere, I notice that somewhere inside me, a latent spark of generous acceptance has fluttered into flame.  Free from the rules I normally live by, I can receive and appreciate – without offense – the artistic attempts of those who hope passersby will notice…think… care.

But I do wonder: as I leave this place of curious vibrancy and return to my usual surroundings, will this unanticipated sense of openness survive?  Or will this fledgling awareness be overcome by sensibility, returning obediently to its protected (should I say useless?) state?