The famed trip to Chicago to spend time with my daughter after a long time apart while she pursues a dream.
Am I pursuing mine in the meantime?
Yesterday, on Day One, we spent the day at the Art Institute of Chicago, where she is reading for a masters degree in Critical and Visual Studies. She carries a notebook now when she looks at art in a museum. I stand before it and let it wash over me. I stood before "American Gothic" in awe. The painting is iconic in American culture and the experience was akin to standing before the Mona Lisa in the Louvre for the first time, except it was much more intimate. There were so many such iconic art works that I was able to experience close-up. It's one thing to see these great works in a book or on a post card or as a print reproduction, but there's something different about being in its presence, being able to notice brush stroke detail, the energy of the piece.
It's not unlike the difference between phoning, texting, face-timing, and being together.
We spent some time in her studio. It is a brilliant experience to be in Alyson's studio, where she creates worlds that surround you and draw you in to what they have to show you. I took a few photos I am not able to share here, as much as I'd like to. Her studio is a private world. A birthplace of stars. Where the mystery of becoming is palpable.
An evening outside on the Riverwalk enjoying the outstanding Chicago summer weather. We stop at a small table where a man advertises "Poet for Hire." It's not a gimmick, it's my life, he says. My daughter asks me if I'll buy her a poem. Of course, it is so much more than that. We're creating an experience there by the river, and something more. After several minutes, literally three-five minutes, he pulls the small page from his mid-century typewriter, selects a lavender envelope and hands us a masterpiece.
We stand there, suspended in something timeless, and share this poetry that speaks so much to both our hearts.
She's sleeping in the other room as I write. And I wait for water to boil on the stove for tea. We had a slumber party last night and have another day, evening, and morning together. I don't know how I'll be able to go home tomorrow afternoon. It's not really home, of course. I am not sure what home is these days. It's my existential crisis.
This last day, and the night in a hotel in a strange city, has felt more like home than I've felt in years.
The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice created to harness three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.
I'm writing from the road, using the tiny Raydem keyboard my son gave me for just such occasions. There are some unusual limitations, most of them my own, since I am just learning how to use this and there is no booklet of directions. It is possible that I may go into this post later to make some corrections or updates, or to add art if I'm unable to do it here.
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