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”
"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.
