Of Sun, Roses, and Inspiration
Permission to use Gestation's Child given by Alan Budney. If you love this photo and want to use it in some way, please contact Mr. Budney.
One Saturday morning as snow whorled in crazy patterns a quiet, reflective atomsphere permeated through the home I share with my grandson and daughter. The house became divided into territories of each person’s own making. The farmhouse table became a place to ponder the past with each turn of the page; a battle of epic proportions between chivalrous champions and malevolent villains played out on the coffee table, while I read the November issue of The Sun.
The Sun, a literary magazine, compels readers to dig for inspiration, compassion and a grain of sun-lit truth in its articles. After reading an issue from cover to cover I ponder my own story ideas and a submission possibility.
I put the magazine down and jumped into a hot shower, one of the best places for inspiration. As I stood in the swirling fog of liquid heat a photograph taken by a friend, Alan Budney, entitled Gestation’s Grandchild came into focus. It suddenly came to me that Alan unwittingly captured a moment in my life. The clear pink of the photo reminded me of my ex-husband’s aunt. She grew a rose along side the house with tender petals and tight buds that bloomed in the truest color of pink I’ve ever seen.
My daughter, the only granddaughter on my ex-husband’s side of the family was a cherished creature. Her birth brought something new, not just to her daddy and me, but also to his entire family. She was a bundle of pink perfection to my in-laws. Her every move and breath became a source of wonder to my mother-in-law and her sister, Aunt Helen. She was Princess Aurora with doting fairy godmothers peering over the edge of the cradle, each one fussing with the whisper-soft blanket, caressing the blonde fuzz that haloed her head, and lightly touching her hand in hopes that a finger might be grasped.
The pink perfection of an infant grew, maneuvering rites of passage with laughter and sometimes angst. She continues blossoming with a faint touch of pink still gracing her cheeks. Dear Aunt Helen faded into herself and passed from this world in November.
Every time I see Alan’s photograph I am reminded of that moment in time when the sun smiled often and a warm breeze softened days. Within one glorious photo lies life with the potential of a tight bud opening into an elegant blossom that eventually fades dropping petals to a waiting earth. And so goes the cycle.
I’ve yet to submit a story to The Sun, but I’m getting closer every day.
*Please take a moment to look at Alan’s photography. I’m sure you’ll find it hauntingly beautiful and visually sensual, as I do.
You can read more about Alan’s photography here.
