Wildflower Me

I want to be...
I want to be allowed to be
a wildflower standing 
among the damp green ferns.
I want to be 
symplicity.

Yesterday I was interviewed by a very nice man for a magazine called Gulf Coast Woman. He is one of those members of the Walter Anderson museum board who visited my home a couple of weeks ago. A lovely occasion. I was in wildflower mode, unthreatened by passersby. They slipped through my studio like the wind, departing with the taste of fresh baked cookies on their tongues. But then came the very nice man's request, which I accepted with some trepidation. (It could help book sales?) 

He came, and I was not in wildflower mode. I was as human as one can be: heavy and tired, and reluctant to open my door. I was as nervous as my shy child self has ever been: inept and frightened and tongue-tied and miserable. He had a computer in his lap as he faced me on the couch. He typed away as I painfully struggled to respond. My mind sought to release the familiar information about childhood, my father, my experience of dance and art, the loneliness and the ecstatic moments. All this while my body labored under the effects of a continual hot flash... He was a nice man. He called me dear. Why was I so afraid? Why was my body so desperate to escape?

Finally I left him to go upstairs for something. (I have forgotten what.) When I started to descend the stairs, all strength and control seemed to leave my body. I grabbed the railing and felt the faintness almost take over. Instead, I was able to be with my body, acknowledge the over-stimulation and the resulting anxiety. I knew I was being urged by my body to flee from a situation that I couldn't handle.

But I didn't know how. I tried to breathe, and to resume, to speak as honestly as possible, to trust the human compassion that must be present in the man. He suggested we walk around the studio and he get some photographs of my art and of me. My hand flew up to my face, and he asked me why I was crying. I wasn't. But deep down inside I was. And still am...

We finished the interview. I dread what the photos may show of my angst and sorrow. He will send my the words to review before submitting. 

I send you my words because I must send them somewhere. I am hopeful that feeling/writing/releasing my experience will help me to return to wildflower mode. 

Thank you...