Banff Bound! On the brink of a girlfriends' getaway!
Hey, I’m outta here.
Going out to see big, glorious, magnificent Banff and its spectacular scenery.
Going with not just one or two girlfriends, but four. Each powerhouse, kick-butt, take-no-prisoners girl bosses who so completely rock that once we group-decided Banff was the destination (breathtaking nature, long-weekend distant (not too close, not too far) and grins galore . . . well, I relaxed. We are each planners and when one or two stepped up, I could step back with peace of mind.
(So much so that when a friend asked me last week what city we were flying through, I wasn’t sure? . . it’s Calgary).
You see I have a forever-fond memory of another girls’ trip. Another long weekend getaway that contained one singular moment that stands still in time for me. It was the moment a seed of an idea delicately burrowed itself deeply into my consciousness. It would make itself known when the time was right.
It would change the direction of my life.
I believe these moments happen to every single one of us. Moments that are explicitly planted for future guidance. Almost as though our future selves are leaning back to say, “Hey, I’m soooo distracted. I’m gonna need a little nudge. Let me plant this idea deep.”
My future self has had my work cut out for me.
Here’s what happened.
Where It All Began
So, we’re in Amsterdam. It’s 2016. Dodging wildly speeding bicycles along roadways, clutching iPhone GPS directions that abruptly redirect every time we walk over a canal. There’s four of us friends. We’d split up planning duties ahead of time: restaurant reservations, side trips, museum tickets. Shopping is a given :)
Today the morning’s reserved for Amsterdam’s Museum Square, an expansive lawn bordered on three sides by worldclass art museums: the Rijksmuseum (Rembrandt, Vermeer among many others), the Stedelijk (celebration of contemporary art) and the Van Gogh Museum.
The Van Gogh is our first stop.
Once inside, with just two hours to spend here, we decide to go our separate ways and rendezvous back at the gift shop. I want an audio tour, so first slip on headphones before riding the escalator up to begin.
I feel happy, anticipating learning something new. Curious about a master artist who has terrific name recognition, but honestly, I don’t know that much about Van Gogh’s story.
Something about him cutting his ear off?
Up on the first floor, I obediently step to the first painting. It’s not a Van Gogh, but rather a scene of what life looked like as Vincent was growing up. Rural. Hardworking farms. Small towns. Pretty hills within bucolic countryside spots. Laborers who spend sunrise to sunset working to put food on their tables.
With the disembodied voice of the audio in my ears, gradually, I slip back in time.
At first learning bits of Vincent’s life is simply interesting, but as I follow the audio’s instructions, pausing in front of painting after painting, Vincent’s story starts to flesh out.
For instance, I learn about the terrible fights he had with his dad who was a pastor. When I come across Van Gogh’s Still Life with Bible, I wonder what Vincent’s message was to his dad. Remorse? Regret? An olive branch?
In another, Still Life of Shoes, a painting of worn work shoes, I stand for a while studying it. The soles are worn thin, the leather’s exhausted and limp. Were they Vincent’s shoes? Did he think of the hardworking neighbors he knew growing up? Later the painting is lauded as an example of Van Gogh’s ability to infuse emotional depth out of the everyday and mundane.
But me, I’m wondering did he paint shoes because he couldn’t get his hands on fresh flowers? Vincent was really poor.
The audio tour takes me past several of Van Gogh’s Self Portraits and I learn he painted 35 - 40 of them. But it wasn’t self-obsession that caused Vincent to paint himself so much, but rather lack of money. He didn’t have the funds to hire models. I gaze into his eyes in each one. Some blue, others black. If he was alive, his eyes staring back at me, what would I feel? His intensity? His delusion?
Other paintings inspire my imagination: Granules of sand are embedded in oil paintings from Saintes-Maries-de-la Mer in the south of France. I could feel the grit of sand striking Vincent’s face on a windswept beach overlooking the Mediterranean.
In front of Field with Poppies, I step closer to examine the dabs of red before a museum security guard shoos me back. I was stepping backward anyway to see how my eyes blend the brush strokes into a shimmering field of flowers from a distance.
So, by the time I get to the end on the topmost floor, with the two hours nearly up, I notice my chest feels odd. A strange fullness. I am melancholy. I am sad. I am inspired. I am full. It is profound, this brief walk through Van Gogh’s life with his creative expression somehow connecting with me. I struggle a little to process.
Now I get it, I think.
I check my watch. Ten minutes before the meetup.
Sighing, I turn to read Van Gogh’s family tree mounted on a display wall. Little black-and-white photos and captions of family members. Starting with Vincent’s father and mother, I recall their troubled worry over their erratic son. Next I note that their firstborn, also named Vincent, died as an infant. Vincent’s photo follows, his sister Anna and then I pause at Theo.
Four years younger, Theo was a lifeline for Vincent. He was an art dealer and for ten years supported his brother financially, emotionally and attempted to sell his art. When Vincent died as an unknown artist, only three of his paintings had been sold. With a sense of gratitude, I examine Theo’s kind face. My eyes drop to the caption with the dates of his life. Pause, read it again.
Something’s weird. I compare his to Vincent’s.
Vincent’s caption reads: March 30, 1853 - July 31, 1890.
Theo’s caption reads: May 1, 1857 - January 25, 1891.
I am stunned. Theo died six months after his brother?
My eyes track right and there, with a little dotted line indicating marriage to Theo, is a postage-stamp black-and-white photo of a serious young woman, Johanna or “Jo” for short. Briefly the caption notes that she inherited Van Gogh’s art and spent her life elevating his work and saving him from obscurity.
Huh.
(that’s the seed of an idea pressing into my subconscious)
I glance at my watch and abruptly hurry to the escalator. Time to meetup.
It wouldn’t be until a few years later that Jo’s story would pop back into thought. Perhaps I could write Jo’s story?
And so, I did.
On to Banff!
So, on this Banff girlfriend trip I’ve got a little more savvy up my sleeve. I know now that story seeds can burrow into thought, poised to grow and develop quietly until the time’s right to sprout up in the future.
Who knows? I’m on the alert! Paying attention.
I’ll report back.
Tell me about a time when a seed of a future idea got planted for you. Perhaps in a conversation? From a book? A trip?
Warmly,
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