Spring Soak

The high-mounded, extraordinary froth of bubbles created by the Jacuzzi pulsing into the bubble bath was just how she liked it.  She sunk, hidden under the white froth. It was quiet enough on an early Saturday afternoon to hear the tiny hiss and pop as the bubbles subsided after the Jacuzzi turned off.

She stared at the painting that hung at the end of the large tub; her favorite, always.  When she’d brought her old friend up here last summer, who’d been visiting from Florida and had never seen the house before, she’d commented, “that’s my favorite”.  Open mouthed, her friend had turned to her saying “and that’s why you hang it up here behind a plant where no one can see it?”  Defensively she’d said lightly – well, the plant wasn’t that big when I hung it in here.  The plant in question, an over productive, root bound spider plant, heavy with fifty or more ‘babies’ hung far down into the tub and now, as she watched, was buried in bubbles as well. 
She remembered well the inspiration for “Winter Walk”, and how it felt so deeply personal she never wanted anyone to critique it, or, god forbid, say nothing about it.  People could be unwittingly cruel in their attempts to say something, anything, about art.  If it wasn’t Monet’s water lilies, or Van Gogh’s sunflowers, or some ghastly seascape (god, she hated seascapes) or a pop art poster or any other recognizable art, they usually chose to go one of three ways: “you did that?’” It’s...interesting” or “wow” (her friends did that) or, the worst – look at it, then look away and talk about something else (her sister did that).

She painted Winter Walk in 1995. So very long ago.  The brief snowfall in the morning of that late winter was over by early afternoon, the sun breaking through in spectacular glory, almost apologizing for the unexpected snow drop, just when everyone was shedding their down coats and heavy boots. When the sun came out, it seemed possible to believe that spring would arrive very soon and not disappoint them again. She’d wandered down a familiar lane, free of cars, fresh, snowsoft and still. She’d turned up a smaller, private road, drawn by the evergreens with their snow coverings like lace shawls, the promise of spring in the faint earthy smell of the woods, mantles of snow clumped in misshapen circles amongst the brown leaf ground cover. 

The sky was breaking blue, the yellow sun peeking out, the short and curvy road glistened black amongst it all.   It made her smile now to think of it, though her afternoon bubble bath was more therapeutic than lazy.  She thought of how pain changes lives and attitudes, how injuries and setbacks in your forties and fifties accomplish little more than strengthen your resolve to excel and succeed and accomplish as soon as the pain is gone.  She thought about these other pains that come about with age and the gene pool and lifestyle choices and old habits and bad habits.  And the surprise when the pains stay with you and you long for a day to be painless, you wonder at the future, the goals not yet achieved, the limitations that might lie ahead.  Yet she was grateful for the Jacuzzi, the painting, even the all –encompassing spider plant; grateful for the lazy Saturday afternoon, grateful for the memories.