I am brimming with excitement, like my 6 year-old before a long-awaited visit to the lake. I sit in front of a pile of magazines, a pair of scissors, glue, and an enormous poster board. Now it’s time for play! I page through the magazines, cutting out everything that looks intriguing, interesting, beautiful, everything that calls to me. I cut out two lawn chairs in front of a towering, thriving tree; a carrot growing orange and green out of the ground; an owl hovering, powerful, in a black sky; puppies, piled one on the other; a luscious orchid; the gilded statue of Strauss playing the violin in the Stadtpark.
Some of them bring me joyful memories. The statue stands two streets from the apartment I thrived in, in Vienna; the orchid is Colombia’s national flower. Others? I don’t know what they mean.
I notice this familiar, fierce urge to assign meaning to everything I lay eyes on, everything I experience.
But today I want to play, without layering any meanings. Like a child, trusting, because I am richly, vibrantly alive.