Chapter 8.2 - The Obscure Self

Weather soured quickly, eager to catch up with the calendar. The sudden chill drained all the color from the golden landscape and left behind an austere structure of bare branches, the bones of the garden. Their slender limbs the shade of fresh cement melted in the cold rain and dripped on the ground, living breathing watercolor paintings. 

The landscape turned an intense kind of beauty, sparse and poignant like art photography, highlighting contrast, hard edges and constructed views. During the night its naked limbs looked unreal, half hidden in the mists, gleaming with a metallic sheen where the moonlight touched them.

A cold wind blew the drizzle in Claire’s face and the icy blast sharpened her senses. She could see nothing under that dark moonless sky, she couldn’t even make out the contours of the branches the wind was angrily twisting and thrashing about. She could only hear their wailing in the distance, muffled by the whirl of the wind.

Claire approached the oak tree in the dark to caress its rugged bark and the bark felt warm and dry under her fingers like the skin of a warm blooded creature, despite the icy rain. She felt comforted by the presence of her old friend and by the inky darkness which surrounded her and kept the world of hurt away like the inside of a womb. 

In the realm of things there is a limit to how dark a shadow can get; in the realm of the soul there is none. The soul has no bottom and it reaches depths we aren’t even aware of, and in those depths we hide our shame and our fears and sometimes we hide our treasures too, to save them from destruction. There is no safer fortress in the soul than an emotional place so dark no thought dares ever enter.

For some reason Claire had decided to make this Mariana Trench of her psyche the repository of her creativity and had to fish out her art piece by piece from its dark bottomless pit sight unseen and without thinking. Her hands did all the work for her, mixing paint and brush strokes as they poked at places in her soul she didn’t want to see or didn’t know existed. There they found her fears, her disappointments, her secret wishes, but most importantly underneath it all they found the real Claire, the one too valuable to wear out, safely tucked away from sight like a precious gem wrapped in black velvet. 

“Good Lord, child, you’ll catch your death! What in places are you doing out on a night like this? It’s freezing! Come back inside, your grandfather is going to be so mad when he sees you, look at you, you’re all wet!”

“I’m not wet,” Claire tried to protest, but Grandmother had already grabbed her by the sleeve and was dragging her back into the house.

“I’ll start a fire, you sit right there by the fireplace and I’ll bring you some tea. What were you thinking!”

Claire thought for a moment and realized she had absolutely no idea. She couldn’t remember going outside, she just found herself out there alone with the wind and the rain. 

“Are you trying to get sick so you don’t have to show up for the opening?” Grandfather asked with a crease between his eyebrows. 

“Of course not!” Claire protested in earnest. She was quite adamant about it too, after all what rational adult would sabotage their own work? 

“You’re terrified,” a thought rose from the bottomless pit to the surface of her consciousness. 

Claire thought about all the times things didn’t work out for her and she had to start over, an exhausting thankless struggle that had brought her back here where she started, no better for the experience, just older and really versed in the art of turning a new leaf. She didn’t want to turn a new leaf anymore, she wanted to stay and enjoy the leaf she was on and actually live for a change. Why doesn’t anybody realize that after so many new beginnings life becomes nothing more than a way station where they’re constantly waiting for the next train?

What if she was successful? What if she had to leave here and move to New Orleans, or Denver, or wherever her commissions took her? Always in a strange place, always alone. Always looking for a place to rent, always trying to pretend she was on top of things, always meeting new people, always wearing the mask. She had learned what it felt like to live her life instead of managing it and she did what held meaning for her, even if it looked strange and abnormal to other people; in a dark and twisted way failure protected her from losing that. 

“Why don’t you cross that bridge when you get to it, granddaughter?” Grandfather stared at her intently. “Let’s be successful first and worry about it after. Here comes the tea!” 

Grandmother showed up with a tray of cups and saucers.

“What does success mean to you, papa?” Claire reopened the subject.

“I’m pretty sure everybody knows what success means,” Grandfather skirted the issue. “Besides, if you end up in la-la land one day ‘cause your evil kin messed up your brains, at least leave something behind that is worth mentioning.”

“Joseph!” Grandmother protested.

“You know I’m right,” he relented.

Claire was tired and the warmth of the fireplace made her doze off in the chair. When the strong scent of the tea woke her up she remembered she had dreamed about that familiar place again, the one with the large linden tree. 

“Why isn’t just being happy ever enough?” she thought.

She was very sure there was another presence in the room, sitting in the chair next to hers, watching her sip her tea. Just like the dark night outside it gave her comfort and kept the worries of the world at bay.