An end-of-year revelation of photos, rainbows and glitter

Like a lot of folks, I spent several weeks this winter wanting to put 2020 in the rearview mirror as fast as I could. That changed recently.

I began to really look at the photos around me in my home – of my parents and other favored family and friends who are no longer physically with us. At my husband’s and my age, the photos of dead people – including contemporaries – is vying with those of alive ones populating our walls, shelves, bookcases and dresser tops. We read the ADN’s obituaries like we used to read The Ear, commenting on names we recognize, remaining silent on how many entries are our age or younger.

It was looking at the photos of loved ones who have passed on and out of this world, remembering their lives and liveliness, that altered my thinking about this year. With them in mind, the gift of another day and all it brings — a morning snuzzle, coffee and the newspaper with my beloved; a hike with the dog; a changing sky and birds at the feeder outside my office window; time to write; an afternoon cardio or strength workout in the living room fending off the dog; a home cooked dinner with my beloved (who has inexplicably started doing all the kitchen cleanup during our increased time at home together), evening reading, a fire in the fireplace – fills me with wonder and gratitude. And so, I am in no rush to have the year or even a moment pass.

Something else lit a change in my attitude – a card by wickedly funny collage artist, Erin Smith, who often combines old black-and-white images of people with creative, colorful backgrounds and pithy text. This one shows an unsmiling, serious, little girl dressed in a white, blousy top, a dark vest with rick-rack around its edges, a straw hat with pompoms, and knee-length puffy pantaloons. She is barefoot and standing on stilts, her hands grasping the wooden poles. She is looking straight out into a daunting world. The background is a lively, green, blue, pink and yellow foliage pattern. But it’s the caption that flipped my outlook.

“we can’t all puke rainbows and spit glitter… but we can try dammit.

we.

can.

try.”

So, here’s to trying, you people. As for me, I actually can puke rainbows and spit glitter. And I’m not holding back.

Val Van Brocklin is a former state and federal prosecutor in Alaska who lives in Anchorage. The pandemic retired her from a training career, but not her writing, leaving her more time for rainbows and glitter.

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