I want to always have a bouquet of flowers in my hands or in the background of my earnest gaze, filling my world with color. I just paused for a moment, maybe to listen to a sweetly singing bird, while I gather fresh vegetables and fresh flowers at the Saturday morning outdoor market. In Guatemala.
My clothes are all embroidered. Not in a kitschy way, but in a swingy, carefree Boho jumble of flowers — on my jeans, my shirts, my belts, and yes, on my shoes. I have just the right amount of bangles and baubles. Not too many, but always enough to make you think that I’m never seen without a perfect accessory. Turqoise is my fave, but basically anything with a piece of leather attached to it will do.
Welcome to my home, where even the easy chair has a touch of colorful embroidery. The quilt on my bed is hand-stitched, makes no difference who made it or where. Don’t envy my iron accessories or rough-hewn wood furniture. It all just flew in through the mountainous/desert/woodsy scene out the window where it was created naturally by the forces of nature, and simply appeared on the weathered Uzbekistan rug.
It’s time for me to grab my jaunty, fringed, leather bag and head out to meet my friend in the mountains. He’s a lumberjack, with one day’s worth of beard. He and his friends are busy chopping logs in front of the cabin where we all gather to wander in the snow wearing textured sweaters, bulky cabled hats and scarves and heavily embellished fingerless gloves.
I must enjoy the moment. Before long, I’ll be off to the beach, taking my melancholy barefoot stroll, sandals in hand, gauzey, fluttery sundress and waves rolling in behind me.
I want to live in a sundance catalog.
Where everything and everyone is aesthetically beautiful. And no one is grieving or devastated or angry.
And the biggest question of the day is whether to put my hands in my pocket or lean against the warm stone wall with the sun shining down and the bougainvillea framing my view.