Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
The sun is shining, and a sweet breeze blows through the half-opened window. And I close my eyes, breathing it all in and hoping it will warm the cool ache inside me.
“Are we there yet?” Dale calls out from the back, and Maggie and I both laugh.
“Soon, baby. Soon,” she says softly.
The gallery is small, but it contains a treasure trove of works that I find totally fascinating. Maggie and Dale walk hand in hand, and when he sees something that he likes, she sits cross-legged with him and takes out a sketch pad and crayons so that he can draw. I walk on, entering a small room with a series of black and white ink prints. The backgrounds are frenetic and busy, as though the artist has used an old-fashioned ink pen to scratch line after line. In the center are nude female figures. One has her hands over her ears, another has them over her eyes, and another over her mouth. I walk to the side where a plaque hangs explaining the artist’s concept.
The artist explains in her own words how she was inspired by the stoic philosophy that we cannot control what happens outside of ourselves, only what happens internally. She turns the hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil saying on its head by inviting the viewer to consider not only the preservation of self from the darkness of the outside world but also how, in controlling ourselves, we can make for a better world.
There is a small bench set in the perfect place to sit and contemplate the pieces, so that’s what I do. For a moment, I consider going back to ask Dale if I can borrow his paper and crayons so that I can try and sketch something myself.
Art is something personal. What touches one person can fly over the head of another. What inspires joy in one can cultivate anger in another. These pen-and-ink drawings touch a raw part of me. A part that is constantly looking at the world and blaming others for the way that I feel. In doing that, I think I’m preserving myself, but really, it’s the opposite. The reality is that placing so much of my emotional energy on things that I can’t control only makes me feel worse.
Maybe the artist is right. Maybe the Stoics are right. We can only control ourselves, and in accepting that, we can find freedom. What’s the point of stressing over things people might do to hurt me at some point in the future? What’s the point of not living to avoid what might be, rather than living to discover what could be?
We’re so motivated to find happiness, but maybe I need to focus on enjoying life’s journey rather than using my wounds as a weapon to keep people away from me. It just isn’t fair.
I don’t know how long I sit there, but eventually Maggie comes to find me with little Dale trailing behind. He’s clutching a brightly colored drawing of what looks like a turtle. Rather than following the actual colors of the amphibian, he’s chosen to make it look like it’s been made of a patchwork of different colored materials. It’s really beautiful.
“Dale, it’s so lovely. Well done.”
“He’s done really well,” Maggie says. “Your daddies are going to be so proud.” She turns to me, glancing around at the room that I’ve been mesmerized by. “You ready to go?” she asks.
“Yeah, I think I am,” I say.
Maggie studies me, hearing more in my words than simply being ready to leave the gallery.
“Is it time to go back?” she asks.
“I think it is,” I say, rising and squaring my shoulders. “I think it is.”
29
DANNY
The arrival of Randolph and Adelaide is unexpected.
We’re gathered in the kitchen, looking at printouts of apartment details that the Realtor has sent Alden and eating a noodle concoction that Tobias has put together when Dad appears at the door.
“I see you haven’t moved out yet?” he says, nodding at us and eyeing the property details on the counter – a nice way of saying hello to his sons, who he hasn’t seen for months.
“Not yet,” Alden says. “But it won’t take us long.” I admire my brother’s ability to reply without anger or resentment. He’s a better man than me, but I’m trying.
Dad nods but rolls his eyes subtly, as though he has no intention of believing us. It’s not the first time I’ve wanted to knock the smugness out of my dad, but rather than responding with bitter words, I take a deep breath and try to push down my anger.
After writing the letter to Cora, I’ve made a vow to try and better moderate my bubbling rage. It’s not easy, but I’m trying my hardest.
“Why are you here?” River asks, narrowing his eyes.