The messages were clearly mixed. Every day in school we were reminded not to act the fool, but then were dared to be one, simply by heading to the chalkboard. It seemed to me always a fine line between misbehaving and risking failure. It was harder to see then, but maybe it all came down to intent. Was the goal to shock, or to try? Both got laughs, giggles behind hands. I found out early on, the audience was in their own control. It was about how I felt. How did my behavior affect my heart? For me, I always felt better trying.
“Better to go down swinging.” That’s what I heard on the ball field behind the Dairy Queen on summer afternoons. I took that advice through autumn as I tiptoed to the blackboard (heels were never a place for courage.) Sometimes I would get it right, and return to my desk all smiles. Sometimes, I would be covered in chalk’s dust, as if wiping the mistakes on my pants would erase it all. But I was swinging, wasn’t I?!!! And I was happy.
I heard it on the transistor radio in my grandma’s kitchen — “Only fools fall in love.” Is grandpa a fool? I asked her. The biggest, she said. I smiled. I was too. I loved them both.
I guess I’m still swinging. Every time I open my mouth in France, I am covered in the mistakes of dust, but look at me, I’m here! If you want to be at the front of the class, you have to risk the chalkboard. So I risk, daily. Do I look the tourist? Maybe. But who cares? It’s Paris! You should put a baguette under wing and marvel at the Eiffel Tower. I have, and will continue to risk it all for love, for the joy of living! My pants I can change. This is the only heart I get — I’m going to use it!
I suppose we all gravitate toward the accessible… which makes me think, are we paying enough attention to being that. Being welcoming. A gentle place to land.
I mention it, sitting it beside my pocket series book of Lunch Poems, by Frank O’Hara. What could be less threatening than lunch?
My grandma used the term all the time. It could be 10am, or noon, 2pm or 4, and though she framed it as a question, she was never really asking when she said, “Should we have a little lunch?” That could mean anything from a root beer float, to a sandwich, to a bag of toasted marshmallows while shopping at Jerry’s Jack and Jill. (How could it be shoplifting if we were just having a little lunch?)
Who doesn’t love a soft place to land? A welcoming of kindness. That was my Grandma Elsie. Nothing, no one was shooed away. Even before dishes were cleared from noontime’s feeding, a neighbor would stop by and be offered a plate of coloches or, as luck would have it, lunch sticks. She was, and is still, my swinging door.
My mother’s table was filled less with food, and more with books. She opened me to pages and poetry. She made them “lunch poems” decades before I had even heard the term.
How different they were in their offerings, my mother and grandmother. But how similar they were in letting you in. Each, with the best of what they had said, “Come in, you and your heart sit down.”
These words I offer daily. These paintings. For you, the lunch I was taught to share.
I suppose we set ourselves up for it, the scrutiny, wearing berets and earth shoes in the high school band in Minnesota. I mean, I’m sure we would have heard the snickers just for being in the band alone, but somehow, we found ourselves immune to the mockery. Maybe we were off balance in those backwards leaning shoes, but we embraced it. Even the complicated unmemorized sheet music was no match for our confidence. When all else failed, clarinet in hand, I would simply trill (the rapid alteration between two notes). The music sang from my feet through my beret. And I guess it came from our leader, Christy, (no mister needed). After all, he said, it was music, it was supposed to be fun!
I never dreamed then, in the stale smell of gymnasium sweat, feet sticking to bleacher floor, that I would one day find myself living in France. And, just like then, I suppose, I set myself up daily for the scrutiny, simply by opening my mouth. Some days are harder than others, but I lean back into my shoes and feel the music. You can make fun of my accent, or my height, or my country of origin, but I won’t hear you over the trill!
People have asked me throughout the years, which comes first, the image or the words. Mostly the words, I answered. Because that was true for my heart. Every beat came out in poemed stanza since I was five, with the images close behind, only needing to travel an arm’s length.
Reading the poem again yesterday, I saw her image. I started with the eyes. Still moist from what she had survived, she could see ahead with hope, instead of fear. And I knew her. So perhaps in this case the words hadn’t come first. Because I had seen the look, not in the portraiture of the day, but on my mother’s face. Every morning at 7:20, ripe with loss, she and her prepared face made their way down Jefferson Street, to face another day of work — from her front desk in the Superintendent’s office and the depths of her bruised heart. And I was the bird she carried, until we both were ready to fly.
It’s good to remember. To keep in mind that we are all barely more than air. That even with, or perhaps especially because of, eyes still dampened, we can lift each other. Find our way. Together. We soar.
I never know when they’ll show up, the people within the words, the art, like someone peeking through a door ajar, friendly enough to show their face, gentle enough to not barge through — knowing, surely, they will be waved into the heart.
It was my mother who showed up the most (in real life and my work). Her face and thoughts on cards and prints and books. And the joy was as much mine as hers, standing there, watching and listening to the customer say, “Oh, this is so me,” and my mother replying knowingly, coyly, joyfully, “Well, actually…”
And through the years, I have been blessed with a constant flow of those who have visited my heart and traveled through my hands. Each one a gift. So it wasn’t a huge surprise when she arrived yesterday. Even in her new French attire, I knew exactly who she was. I could feel it. And on this rainy afternoon, a country away, she arrived right on time.
What a privilege it is to know people. To be vulnerable enough to open the door. To go beyond face value and let them inside. The worthy ones will show up, again and again. And your heart and hands will never be empty.
I’ve started a new project. Each time I do, there are always things to be learned. Computer programs change so quickly. The paths to incorporate my artwork from page to printer are constantly changing course. And armed with my mother’s sense of direction, (she who thought the map at the mall should be on the ground so you could just step into it), I can’t say that I find my way quickly, but joyfully, I always find my way. I suppose it’s because I’m never traveling alone.
My first step was to get photos of all the new images. I was stumbling about. Turning pages. Checking lighting. It all felt so clunky. And then I got the tap on my brain’s shoulder that said, “get the sticky notes.” It was my friend Deb who gave me the little notebook of multi-colored tabs. We first used them to mark our favorite outfits in the Sundance catalog, sipping lattes, and reading the cover letter from Robert Redford, as if he had addressed it to us personally. We had colors to mark “maybe,” “yes,” and “why am I not wearing it right now.” Hours of entertainment with just a stick of a color.
Smiling, I used those notes to mark the pages of my artwork. It all began to make sense. I found my direction. Even using the new programs on my computer became easier.
I keep moving forward, but not without those who got me here.
There’s an expression that people use when someone dies that I’ve never liked — “She’s no longer with us.” It couldn’t be further from the truth. While the Sundance store has closed, my friend Deb sits right beside me. And I am saved.
I suppose the closest thing we had to an “influencer” when I was in college was the purchasing of a used book highlighted in bright yellow. Being on a tight budget, I was often subjected to what the previous student deemed important. Perhaps it was defiance, or simply making my own path, but armed with my own highlighter, pink, orange, anything other than yellow, I colored over and in my deepest connections to the word. By the time the next student, spending their last dime to earn an education, opened the textbook, it would have been completely highlighted. Just as it should be, I thought, because wasn’t it all important! Every word a path lit fluorescent.
And I think that’s our real responsibility, not to push or “influence,” but offer a light.
I’m reading a new book, This is Happiness, by Niall Williams. I’ve only just begun, but I am deep in the journey. This author demands that each word be walked carefully, like Hugo’s precious field behind our house on Van Dyke Road. No trampling through. Respectful of all that the ground had to yield, before and yet to come. With each paragraph, the golden crop brushes against my chubby thighs, leaving the safety of house toward the excitement of town. Tiptoeing out of youth, with its remains gathering in my shoes.
I suppose I am a highlighter of word, and memory, and heart. Because isn’t it all important? Isn’t it all important!! I walk the new morning. The gravel in my shoes answers a bright and glorious YES!
One of my first times driving in Marseille I experienced the wrath of an individual whose only damage was enduring the audacity of my wanting to make a left turn. It being summer, my window was open. She was near enough, as I waited at the light, that I could feel the spray of certain consonants, like p’s and t’s. And had I chosen to raise the window, it would have hit her nose. The oncoming traffic continued, so I waited. She, on foot, could have simply kept walking. My route had no contingency to her plans. Yet her fury escalated into a language that I’m not sure was even French, or European, but simply rage. But I learned something quite powerful in this moment. It didn’t hurt me. (It was almost a little comical.) She wasn’t hurting me. Because I didn’t understand the words, I couldn’t give them any meaning. And more importantly, I couldn’t give them any power. I suppose I had heard it a million times before, in a million ways, that people can’t hurt you unless you let them, but here was direct proof coming right through my open window.
I mention it only because I have to keep learning it. To not give the power away. When the language thrown in my direction is all too familiar — to stop “understanding” so much, when really I, we, understand so little. And control even less. And even more so on the days when my own brain yells at the open window of my heart..
To remind myself, I painted her portrait. An embodiment of this feeling. Under the gentle gaze of this woman, I make the morning breakfast. She reflects the look I want to give to heart and mirror. She is the breeze of spring. The grace that lifts. The beat within that keeps driving me. And I am saved.
She wrote her first order in Chicago. My mom was always there for moral support. Cheering me on as I sold my goods. But she was yet to pick up the pad and pen. She looked beautiful standing beside me — as if she just stepped off Michigan Avenue. She visited with the customers. Told the various stories behind the art. (Most of them included her.) She made them laugh with their hearts. As they say, nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd, and soon my booth was overflowing. I looked up at her (as I always did). I think she knew I wanted her to grab an order form. I saw the “oh, no” rising in her face. But just as she had done with me since birth, I could see her capabilities first. I nodded my belief in her and she picked up the clipboard. I more than loved her. I was so proud of her. And she of herself. I could see the “oh, yes” fluttering!
Our roles are always changing. Sometimes you’re the little girl. Sometimes the bird. If you’re lucky you will be surrounded with those who welcome both. And if you’re wise, you’ll allow them the same.
When I first understood that my Grandma had a name other than Grandma, I thought it was O’Elsie. Because that’s what I always heard. From my Grandpa’s mouth, the ladies at the kitchen table, or the faceless voices on the party line. What I came to learn was that they were all saying, “Oh, Elsie…” And always as a term of endearment. When she would make them laugh out loud. When she touched them with her kindness. When she surprised them (especially my grandpa) with a rootbeer float or a basement full of chinchillas. And it came to be my measurement for living, this need combine with the heart’s emission of simply – Oh!
I don’t want to live timidly. And I’m not talking about shock. To shock is simple. To wow is devine. Oh, and wasn’t she so! My Grandma Elsie.
I hear the birds singing from the morning window and I think, “Oh, it’s going to be a lovely day.” And my heart smiles.
