Bluebeard

Bluebeard |ˈblo͞oˌbi(ə)rd|

a character in a tale by Charles Perrault, who killed several wives in turn for disobeying his order to avoid a locked room, which contained the bodies of his previous wives. Local tradition in Brittany identifies him with Gilles de Rais (c.1400–40), a perpetrator of atrocities, although he had only one wife (who left him).

For over twenty years I entertained for Thanksgiving, waking early, putting the yeast roll dough together, stuffing turkey, and carving tiny pumpkins filled with puree for each person at the table.

This Thanksgiving, we spent in Rutherford in the Napa Valley, the Fall of 2007. Nestled in the shallow clefts of oak-studded hills, Auberge du Soleil looked out onto sweeping ribbons of vineyards as far as the eye could see. A carnival of hot-air balloons drifted on the edges of the horizon. And the air carried scents of earth and grapes, heated up by day and chilled down at night.

My husband and I were cosseted in luxury in the company of only each other far away from family or friends. We were often away from family and friends. The finest room, the finest food, exquisite wines. He retired after dinner to the master suite, suffering from a bad cold. We slept in separate rooms at home, so it was not unusual to say good night and retire alone.

“Cavett, man, you gotta three-room snore!” a neurosurgeon from Texas announced at breakfast aboard a houseboat on Dal Lake twenty years earlier. Across the globe on a medical junket touring India and Kashmir. With one other couple staying on the boat, my husband’s nightly nasal symphony was witnessed by all. We had learned over the years that with nightly Trauma call, babies to raise, and sleep to be had, the best solution was to have separate rooms.

I made up a bed on the hotel’s living room divan in front of the fireplace, the last orange embers gently burning. My hand reached for my daughter’s copy of The Alchemist, by Paulo Cohelo. I picked it up the day before to bring on the trip, and now sat quietly with a small reading lamp on and opened it up. Its pages filled me with longing. Longing for a life I did not have. “What you want with all of your heart is a part of the Soul of the World.” Mr. Cohelo’s words poured into my consciousness, stirring parts of me down deep.

I began to believe it was possible. Not possible because of developing a grand scheme with all of the steps laid out; but, possible because of the intrinsic value and power of individual desire and need residing in the center of who I was. I began to believe in myself. Or, rather, not in myself, yet, but in the flickering desire within me.

The day after Thanksgiving, I flew from San Francisco to Miami, where I boarded a ship. I was on a shoot for Princess Cruise Lines in the Caribbean. It was at the end of a long day, and I was showered and clean, sitting on my bed in my windowless stateroom relaxing with a cocktail. I packed my own bottle of Scotch in my suitcase, thinking that the ship's prices would be astronomical, which proved to be the truth. A full bucket of ice was delivered to each room every afternoon and I had a can of mixed Planter's nuts purchased on shore the day before at a scruffy beach shack on Saint John Island. The one and only day the models, stylists and photographers were given as a free day in a thirteen day trip. The History channel was on TV showcasing Egyptian tombs. And I had some time until the dinner bell. As I sat there, sipping Black Label and watching the cameras panning over hieroglyphs, I did something I usually do: grabbed my sketch pad (in this case the tiny bedside notepad) and a pencil and began doodling. Normally, I would begin laying down ideas for my garden, new plants, pots, or even a few thoughts about paintings I hoped to work on. Part of my process being to allow an unedited flow of ideas to take shape on paper, assessing later what felt strong and worth following or what may be weak and not worth pursuing. But away from home, the machine of routine, family demands and voices in my life, other images came into my mind and took such immediate shape on the page that I was at first bemused, and then, well, kind of afraid. Like tiny strings that keep a package trussed up and held together, not so strong, each one, but all together hold it tight, began to loosen, freeing what had been bundled up for a long, long time.

My heart and mind came through that pencil, and what materialized was my life as I wanted it to be. Quite simple, really; but, very different from what was going on. My house. My land. My dogs and food and flowers and people that I wanted in the picture of my life who would gather around a long table out of doors on a warm evening. Life drawings. Life drawings of the most inner kind. My unconscious knew, before I did, that change was on the horizon.

As thoughts of what was wrong with my life surfaced, I went through the gymnastics of tamping down my impulses. Wanting what I wanted scared me. Voices of conditioning tried to make themselves known, but the quiet the stateroom afforded me became a safe place without the fixtures of fear usually present to shape my feelings. And being stuck on that ship for nearly two weeks gave me time to think deeply about my life and allow feelings in I would have felt uncomfortable opening the door to back home.

As I penciled my heart's desire onto the page, a visual of that table and the people around it materialized. I saw my youngest daughter there, sitting, laughing, relaxed, a part of my life. It had been six years since she had been allowed in our home. She had been surgically cut out of the family. I was not allowed to spend my husband's money to see her.

I owned a diamond necklace, but a diamond necklace is not a daughter. I lived in a castle, but the castle had a mote around it. I could not go into the next five, ten, twenty years without her. Without so many things. I worried that once she married some day and had children my life would become even more sad and displaced without the ability to see them as I would my oldest daughter's children. The hallway of the future seemed to stretch out before me wallpapered in loss.

Once I allowed the truth to rise, a specter of fear in equal degrees began to show itself in contrast. I had walked up the cold stone steps, looked at the forbidden door in Bluebeard's Castle, and put my hand on the knob. Once turned, once opened, I saw the death and destruction in that room in the house of my life, and I could never not see it again.