EKPHRASIS : Art Describing Art : 2015
California Writers Club, Mendocino Branch : A Collaboration : Artists Co-Op of Mendocino
Writers Responding to Visual Artworks
Zelda Zuniga “A Child Dreams of Peace”
Responded to visual artwork by
Ellen Boulanger “Farm Along the River”
![Picture](/uploads/1/0/4/8/10489195/8962981.png?437)
"A Child Dreams of Peace" by Zelda Zuniga
Ever since I was a little kid my drawings were of sunny blue skies, a thatched hut next to a forest of trees, a stream and meadow nearby. This was my safe harbor, my quiet place of dreams, where one day I'd live in peace. I held this dream close and went there in my head where it resided when I needed to.
With all life’s twists and turns I found myself there every three to five years. Perhaps this was the time frame to shake things up in life: often it was when things were shaken up.
After high school I left the smoggy skies of southern California for blue ones north. After college I left the city to be closer to the forest. Dreams of living with another soon invaded my thoughts and I let many convince me they were the one, at least until the light of day. Every tumultuous time I experienced I'd doodle my place of peace. After the alcoholic of five years, I hit the road again. I found the water of my dreams. I needed alone time to mend my broken heart.
I fell into the arms of a handsome cheater, soon to leave me for the younger version of his dreams. I sat and drew. Always a rendering of the house with a thatched roof, the meadow next to the forest, the clear blue sky. Sometimes, a dog companion. It equaled peace, calm, and it always worked.
When I fell for the non-committal man, four years passed before I wrangled myself away. I still drew. The angry man who revealed his secret after moving in with his children was a tough one to wrestle out of, children a deciding factor. Five years later, I escaped bruised and battered, worn out and distraught. I used colors in my drawings as vibrant as possible. I needed more to heal me. It was hard work. I was no artist. I was fragile and frightened. I decided alone was good and hit the road, so he wouldn't try to follow me or knock on my door. I packed my belongings in storage and started visiting friends and family, moving every two weeks. He couldn't, wouldn't find me. My blood pressure rose and my exercise routine suffered. I was worn down. Life was kicking my ass, and I was running. I sketched my peace.
After three years, it was safe to settle down. I was driving the foothills looking for a place to lay my weary head when I turned the corner and saw it. It was the place of my dreams, my home. The meadow beside an old homestead, the forest framed the scene and the sky a brillaint blue. It was no thatched roof, yet it was the picture I held onto all these years. It wasn't exactly as drawn but it was exactly as felt.
Ever since I was a little kid my drawings were of sunny blue skies, a thatched hut next to a forest of trees, a stream and meadow nearby. This was my safe harbor, my quiet place of dreams, where one day I'd live in peace. I held this dream close and went there in my head where it resided when I needed to.
With all life’s twists and turns I found myself there every three to five years. Perhaps this was the time frame to shake things up in life: often it was when things were shaken up.
After high school I left the smoggy skies of southern California for blue ones north. After college I left the city to be closer to the forest. Dreams of living with another soon invaded my thoughts and I let many convince me they were the one, at least until the light of day. Every tumultuous time I experienced I'd doodle my place of peace. After the alcoholic of five years, I hit the road again. I found the water of my dreams. I needed alone time to mend my broken heart.
I fell into the arms of a handsome cheater, soon to leave me for the younger version of his dreams. I sat and drew. Always a rendering of the house with a thatched roof, the meadow next to the forest, the clear blue sky. Sometimes, a dog companion. It equaled peace, calm, and it always worked.
When I fell for the non-committal man, four years passed before I wrangled myself away. I still drew. The angry man who revealed his secret after moving in with his children was a tough one to wrestle out of, children a deciding factor. Five years later, I escaped bruised and battered, worn out and distraught. I used colors in my drawings as vibrant as possible. I needed more to heal me. It was hard work. I was no artist. I was fragile and frightened. I decided alone was good and hit the road, so he wouldn't try to follow me or knock on my door. I packed my belongings in storage and started visiting friends and family, moving every two weeks. He couldn't, wouldn't find me. My blood pressure rose and my exercise routine suffered. I was worn down. Life was kicking my ass, and I was running. I sketched my peace.
After three years, it was safe to settle down. I was driving the foothills looking for a place to lay my weary head when I turned the corner and saw it. It was the place of my dreams, my home. The meadow beside an old homestead, the forest framed the scene and the sky a brillaint blue. It was no thatched roof, yet it was the picture I held onto all these years. It wasn't exactly as drawn but it was exactly as felt.