Entering a labyrinth of stone this past fall on Block Island, required posing a question. Tradition stated that it would be resolved- at least this is what I recall- if one repeated it while walking the  entire circular path.

My question came to me immediately: Where is home?

The labyrinth provided me with no definitive answer.

I have just left what I called home definitively to travel. Yet I do not feel homeless.

It is as if my home is everywhere.

I’m not one to be superstitious as a rule, but I favor even years.  And so I welcome 2016.

This past year brought particular sadness, yet laughter, accomplishments, and joy too.

Each year, each day, despite the inevitable cliché, offers an opportunity for greater knowledge, growth, happiness, and peace.

It is that promise that encourages us to strive on and take the best moments as the gift they are.

HAPPY NEW YEAR

The enticements to purchase Christmas gifts begin early. The day after Thanksgiving, tree sellers are filling sidewalks with their prized wares, shop window decorations are beckoning passersby and it seems that everywhere the familiar tunes of the holiday are playing. Those observing other holidays or choosing not to celebrate at all are mostly ignored.

Regardless, the pressure to find that perfect gift begins.

And so, I think of the gifts I have been offered over the years. Some are treasured, many are forgotten, but the greatest gifts imparted to me were from those I hold dear. The gifts of love, knowledge, and courage.

Although I was too young to attend Woodstock, I was influenced by the radical change of mores prevelant at that time. Nudity was becoming more acceptable. Modesty still existed, but many of us were shedding our clothes and provincial skins. When I went to college in Upstate New York, skinny dipping in the mountains’ rivers or natural pools was commonplace. We would sun ourselves on large, smooth rocks, chat, snack, and walk about, unashamed, by the water’s edge.

Ten or so years later, I was invited to stay with a friend of a friend while visiting the Boston area. We had met a few times. He was a gracious host, offering to show me the town. We engaged in lively conversation at dinner. When I came from my room the following morning to join him for breakfast, he was seated at the table, greeted me warmly, and invited me to partake in the meal he had prepared. He was at all times polite, cordial, respectful, and pleasant.

My attention to the quality of the jam, bread, and lovely fare diminished however when I noticed that beyond his bare chest, every other part of his body was also bare.

I hadn’t shed my provincial skin after all.

Unlike most people, I prefer the beach in winter, spring, and fall when there are few visitors and often the only sounds I hear are the waves, wind, and seabirds. But the 25th annual sand-sculpting contest was too enticing to pass up.

The sun was blazing, music blared, people were dancing, men carried boas seeking tips for photos, there was an endless parade of beachgoers. Coolers, umbrellas, towels, beach chairs, an array of bodies young, old, and in between, sitting, lying, walking, eating, and sculpting, left little empty space to roam.  This was Coney Island on a Saturday afternoon in August.

It has been decades since I’ve been immersed in such a scene. It was initially overwhelming. But it quickly brought back treasured memories of the hours I spent here as a child: learning to swim, tumbling in the waves, eating knishes and hot dogs, drinking fresh juices, playing in the sand.

When did I lose my taste for the summer crowds?  As I listened to the laughter, waded in the  cool flow of gentle waves, and watched people having a ball, I realized I could not recall.

Watching great actors of the 30’s and 40’s in films decades later, I would hear someone of that era say, “Look how young they are.” We’d see Laurence Olivier, Katharine Hepburn, and others in their prime.  But their aging seemed like some distant affair. I did not know them in their younger years.

I was reminded of this the other day, while seeing some films I had watched in the 70’s. There was Paul Newman, Faye Dunaway and others in their prime.

I thought, “Look how young they are.”

I love paper and have numerous small pads, large pads, notebooks in various places throughout my home. I have used and saved them throughout the years. Nary a one is full. I start a book maybe almost fill it, or not, write a few thoughts, or many, and move on.

This is true of my sketchbooks too.

I am not sure why or how I developed this habit, but it is not a good one. I suspect it has something to do with the promise and joy of the new.

But my tendency to write down a phone number with no name next to it–none– on any one of the above mentioned is worse still. I have a collection of numbers accumulated over the years. I have no idea who they belong to and I dare not call any of them to find out.

I am in the process of amending my ways. I am not sure how long it will take me to fill all my unfilled pads, etc., but I did take down a phone number last night and wrote the name of who it belonged to right away.

I usually draw at a brisk pace, but I’ve learned that slowing down to look-really look- is a crucial part of the artistic process.

My formal training in art is limited, but a printmaking class, while I studied in Italy decades ago, stands out. I can recall the professore saying  to me again and again and again, “piano, piano” which I came quickly to understand meant, “slowly, slowly.”

In his class I made my first and only lithograph, a rose,  by drawing painstakingly on a  smooth stone with a waxy crayon, and alchemy–transferring that image onto paper with a huge antiquated press. I also dabbled with linocuts (linoleum printing), something I recalled doing and enjoying while in elementary school.

But I bristled during his old-school-instruction: demonstrating what I should be doing directly on my pieces.  Watching my efforts increasingly transformed by the teacher’s hand was becoming unbearable. I felt the work was no longer something I could claim as my own. I dropped out of the class.

I suspect if I had stayed, the professore would have taught me many things.

These days I find myself saying, “piano, piano,” and think of him.

I enjoy doing KenKen. Like Suduko, it is a logic puzzle using numbers. The harder the puzzle, the more possible combinations there are to complete it. In KenKen there are boxes with only one possible choice, others may have two or three, and so on. A common strategy is to fill in as many knowns as possible, but their number is limited. At some point I have to take ” a leap into the void.” Just take a chance. I’m hoping the choice I make is a good one. If not, I will need to try again and perhaps again, but ultimately, I will have the gratification of a completed puzzle.

I think of this game as a bit like life. I base my daily decisions on the information I have, however, there is often the point where I will have to “leap into the void” and take my chances.

In between my college studies I waitressed.

The job was generally quick paced and it was great to leave work with cash in my pocket. I particularly loved finishing my shift with no need to think of or do anything work-related, until I returned.

My coworkers were often middle aged women who had made waitressing their career. I learned about sciatica from one of them, and heard of bad backs, corns on the feet, and other hazards of the trade. There were few young waitresses and I was the only student. Even though it was clear that I would be moving on, they never held it against me.

I took pride in doing my job well. I spoke the parlance of the kitchen: whiskey down was rye toast, eighty-six meant we were out of something. I learned to carry six coffee cups with their saucers in one trip, but one mishap where I burned my hand, made me adjust my technique to something less impressive. Ditto for carrying two full armfuls of plates-no burns just a mess.

The wait staff was exclusively women and the bosses were always men. Like elsewhere some were kind and others less so.

One evening, I asked my not-so-nice boss if I could leave directly at the end of my shift. My coworkers were all fine with it and I would do all the necessary preparation beforehand. He grudgingly agreed. That evening was very slow and I had no problem finishing all my duties. But he said I had to wait until the others were done too. “If you don’t like it you can leave and not come back.” It was not the first time I had witnessed his bullying attitude. I briefly considered the circumstances. I had never quit a job before, but school was starting again soon and I had some savings. If need be, I could find another job elsewhere.

I walked out the door.

I’ve always been grateful that I could.