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Carefully, I sat the bomb on a table beside the front door. A servant started to dust it with a feather duster, but I stopped
him with a shake of my head. Late September sunshine glistened off the mirrors that covered the entire exterior of the
house. From the edge of the roof to the marble floor of the entry, mirrors trimmed in gold gleamed in the sun. I thought my
reflection showed on the mirrored door. As I walked closer, I saw it was an image of a woman just like me when I was
young. She admired her face in the mirrors. She smiled as the sun rays danced around her. Slowly, I backed off the
porch, never taking my eyes off the beautiful reflections of the young woman in the mirrors. The bomb exploded shattering
the mirrors into a million bits that rocketed into the sky. Simultaneously, pieces of glass were embedded into everything
nearby as a blazing fire consumed the house. The force of the explosion knocked me to the ground. I watched in horror as
the beautiful young woman burned to ashes.
My heart was racing so fast that I feared it would accelerate out of my chest. I opened my eyes and realized I was lying on
the ground in a sleeping bag in the Alaska wilderness. I was cold, mentally confused. As my eyes focused, I could see the
sides of a yellow tent. My whole body began to tremble as I struggled to find reality. Sleep had taken my mind into another
dimension; I had experienced that terrible nightmare again. Grabbing my coat, I opened the tent flap and entered the cool
morning air. A flock of birds, flying over Lake Skilak in the misty morning, greeted me as their reflections fluttered along
with them over the still waters. Orange, red, and gold leaves crackled beneath my feet, while damp, multi-colored leaves
drifted past me in the air. My easel and paints were still under the old birch tree where I left them last night after another
long painting session. September in the Alaskan forest compelled this painter to work with brilliant colors. I found it difficult
to discover any grays amongst the vivid values of nature’s pallet the last few days.
The Bull Moose I painted as my focal point was still sleeping in the tall grass nearby. Aged, he was very thin and seemed
senile. It was obvious his days were coming to an end. I threw some dry logs on the camp fire, and soon hot flames were
dancing around the cast iron pot. Caressing a big mug of the strong brew, I continued to survey the area. Several finished
paintings, the fruits of my labor from the past few days, lay around the camp. One painting had the lake and surrounding
snow-capped mountains in the morning haze. Another showed the old moose walking through leaves that floated in the
water as the early moon broke through the evening mist. The largest captured a flock of geese as they flew across the
canvas above the sleeping moose. Old and alone, the Bull Moose seemed too tired to be interested in me. I fought the
desire to approach him, reminding myself that under the moose’s placid exterior the remains of a wild animal lurked. It
would not be wise of me to endanger my life by igniting his untamed urges into motion.
When I had consumed enough coffee to sufficiently renew my mental capabilities, I pondered my violent dream. I had
bombed the image of my younger self in those mirrors. Accumulated anger from years of frustration had built inside me
while I fought to retain the youthful image commercial society demanded of successful women. I was using anti-aging
cream when I was twenty. Cucumber facials, perfect hair styles, daily muscle toning workouts at the gym, salad or diet drink
meals: all were necessary to keep my family and employer proud of me. Upon reaching the age of fifty, I gave up starving,
heavy face paint, curlers, mirrors, and became a self-employed artist. Occasionally, a desire to be neat compels me to
take a quick look and I am shocked at my mature reflection. It can’t be me! All the desires, ambitions and hungers of a
young girl are swelling inside my worn physical being. My brain hasn’t matured that much, for I still joke and play like a
child. I have become more cautious. It’s a caution learned from pain. I deny accusations that I have slowed down, but now
my infrequent, gregarious excursions result from a need to replenish my monetary stash, not my emotions. I seek solitude
because I have discovered that only in solitude can I fully concentrate on my creative project, and also because I am not
influenced by others. I work with a total passionate commitment to interpreting my art in my own original style.
I never thought about time or the calendar when I was out painting in the wilderness alone. I knew I had until the first
snowfall to return to my studio near Palmer, Alaska. One day gently transcended into another. In the evenings the sun
began to dim, but it never entirely went down. Between day and night there was a haze, a brief gray atmospheric alteration
with a dip in the temperature. I never could really see a sunrise or sunset. While I was camped on this lake there was no
real rain, only occasional drizzle, no thunder, no lightning, no wind, just silent mist and the soft sound of my brush strokes.
Water is a challenge to paint. Its transparency, reflective qualities, and movement must be interpreted on the flat surface of
the canvas with accuracy and looseness simultaneously. Fortunate indeed is the artist who paints alone in the wilderness,
with the earth and the water as models; no partner or neighbors interrupt, no clock pressures her with the passing hours or
days. Only my body’s need to rest and replenish itself interrupted the passion of my brush strokes. I painted until it rained
again; then I slept.
I ended each day with simple pleasure of watching water boil, inhaling its warm steam, adding just a touch of chocolate and
watching the chocolate slowly melt. Adding milk to its sharp sweetness made a happy ending to my day. I held the
steaming mug with both hands and paused to let its warmth spread over my skin while anticipating my first taste. I indulged
in this solitary ritual during late evenings while I critiqued the progress of my paintings. Before satisfying my hunger, I gave
thanks for my freedom. Although that freedom was a result of many unanswered prayers, my answered prayers greatly
exceeded my request. Tonight my heart was filled with abundant joy.
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