I love the period rooms at the St. Louis Art Museum. Something about them makes me feel a part of something else, something greater. Maybe I can feel life in here. I can imagine myself living in these rooms, thriving here. The chairs know stories I don’t. They have secrets woven into the upholstery.
Something about the St. Louis Art Museum draws me in. When I’m here, I know things. Not things everyone else knows. Secret things. I know things about the sky and the grass and the hands that can touch both.
I’m now sitting on Art Hill. It is rather frigid, but I dressed semi-appropriately. Art Hill is a large, basin-like region in front of the museum. The hill seems to descend forever, melting into the large pond. Eight fountains accessorize the water. The hum of their overflow seduces me. But the cold brings me back. The cold always brings me back.
Earlier, when I first spread my blue snowman blanket on the grass, a circus of kids played at the top of the hill. I listened to their carefree repartee, and I remembered being that young. While eating my strawberry cream cheese smeared bagel, I noticed a little boy - - rolling down Art Hill. He rolled for days, it seemed. Nothing stopped him. No one reprimanded him. He just rolled without consequence. For a split second, I thought about joining him, forsaking pretense, and just rolling. Me. A 21 year old. Rolling down Art Hill. I didn’t succumb to this urge, though. As usual, I caved to pretense. I eventually shrugged it off. I had more bagel to eat anyway.
Still looking around at the gorgeous architecture bordering the water, my eyes traveled across the bridge to find a wedding party. I was immediately jealous of the love oozing from these ant-sized people. I suppose they were getting pictures taken. I saw a synchronized jump and knew a cheesy photo was on its way to being framed. But I also noticed the joy. Two people were getting married, and in a very small way, I was part of their story. I was the girl lounging on a blue snowman blanket on the top of Art Hill, creepily staring at them. Even in all this introspection, however, I could not help but wonder how the bride didn’t freeze to death. Coats don’t usually accompany gorgeous gowns.
It’s getting darker. It’s getting colder. My museum latte is no longer keeping me warm. The gloves I slipped onto my hands make me feel like I’ve never held a pen before. I no longer need my sunglasses, but reaching to take them off means making my frozen, creaky bones move.
Sitting here, freezing, makes me feel alive. The cold knows me. The clouds wave at me like we’ve just met for coffee. They seem like the type to order Vanilla Lattes with foam.
Four people are standing in front of me taking pictures - - not of me, although that would be cool. They are capturing the moment, preserving Art Hill. They speak to each other in a language I can’t understand, and, yet, I do understand. I know what they mean, what they’re talking about. They know the same thing I know. They just know it in another language.
***
I had to leave Art Hill. It was getting dark, and it isn’t the best place to be after dark. Part of the culture, beauty, and grace of the hill must sleep with the sun. Reality has to set in sometime.
So, now I’m at Starbucks. It’s not my retreat of choice, but it’s the only other place I could go to keep writing without too much distraction. Plus, it’s warm in here, and that’s a definite plus right now.
I love what Rilke says: “I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.” I wonder if people know what I know. I want to meet the ones who can see what I see, can feel what I feel. I want to share with those who taste the magic, those who know it’s real. I live in a shaken reality peppered with the realization that magic does exist. And I think it exists more in the winter.
It gets dark very early now. For those who come alive at night, this is not a problem. Personally, I’d prefer 4:30 pm to look more like 4:30 and less like midnight. It makes the day feel very short, and, yet, the day never seems to end. Midnight lasts for hours.
This makes me think about time and how “they” say it’s of the essence and how no one really knows what this means. We’re all too busy to really know. And even if we did have a good idea about it, we wouldn’t really pay attention. We don’t leave enough room for doing anything other than paying attention. People think time being of the essence means you can’t spend it doing nothing. But the times I do nothing and am silent are the times I feel like I’m actually doing something worthwhile.
Being alone doesn’t scare me. Being empty doesn’t scare me. Being too occupied does. Being too caught up in things that don’t matter scares me. I can’t imagine a worse fate - - busying myself for no reason, forgetting the things that give me oxygen, freedom. I need the freedom to be completely myself, to be wrong, and I need the time to realize this. Otherwise, I drown in my own illusion.
I know most of the patrons and employees at this Starbucks. I grew up with most of them. It makes this Chai Tea Latte seem more familiar and flavorful. I can taste my memories, and I drink them in.
My heart keeps going back to the children on the hill. They were so young and ethereal and honest. They were part of the hill, inseparable. Their skin was grass. The dirt, their scent. For a moment, there was no difference between heart and hill. And this seemed right. I imagine this is how the hill grew - - by children laying down, surrendering, allowing the land to heave and celebrate and grow with each roll. And I imagine this is why it knows so much. This is why it feels like home. It is everyone who ever rolled down its body, and it is everyone who ever thought about it. Even though I picked up my belongings and headed back to the car, I never really left. I shared too many secrets with the hill. I watched it grow. I helped it grow. I supported one small corner for a short moment, and you could not see me except as part of the hill and the trees and the people all around me.
