It wasn’t obvious. Nor was I looking. And I wasn’t supposed to. I only saw what a child needs to see. A root beer float.
There were no visible sharp edges to Grandma Elsie. She was round and approachable. She was the scoop (or two) of Schwan’s vanilla ice cream in her frequent afternoon root beer float. I can see it now — that it could have been more than just a sugar craving. It was simple. An easy decision with a consistent result. There were no maybes or what ifs to it. And didn’t she need that? In her world of uncertainty — all those kids (because even old they were) and grandkids tugging, and the farm, would it rain, would it sell, would he ever make the walk from field to kitchen — all umbrellaed under the certainty of a root beer float.
I never liked the combination. I always no-thank-you-ed out of it. Grabbing a pack of Sugar Babies, or a Black Cow from the Lazy Susan — a whole corner cupboard of my own certainty.
Without my knowlede or permission, I adopted the habit of giving myself an easy decision. Some days I can tackle a whole portrait, others, simply a tomato. Both victories. There is comfort in that. In a world of how could this possibly be, to simply hold something plump and round and sure is a gift. It is the soft edge of an afternoon scoop, the embrace of a grandmother’s plump and generous love that ever holds. Of this I’m certain.
It’s a myth that time is a healer. More of a revealer, I’d say. Like a sculptor. It works daily. Sometimes minute by minute. To show what’s inside — what we’re really made of. And when I can think of it that way, it’s all manageable, even exciting, but sometimes though, that heavy tick of the chisel…
My mother often worried that she wasn’t brave. I suppose it’s easier to see it in someone else. (An artist always has to stand back to get the full picture.) When I’d worry, or be afraid of something, she didn’t negate it. Didn’t even say don’t. I’d relay the situation and tell her that I was scared. “That’s just good common sense,” she’d say. We’d laugh out loud, dulling the swing of the chisel.
It was Georgia O’Keeffe who said, “I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life — and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing that I wanted to do.”
There was a push for a while for everyone to be fearless. I never bought in. Of course we’re going to be afraid. We’re going to be scared and we’re going to be happy. We’re going to feel it all. And it will shape us into something beautiful. And then with the words that my grandma passed on to my mother, who passed them on to me, I will say to myself and the world, “Isn’t that something!!!!”
I missed it the first time checking the mailbox. I went back and read the email. The carrier said it was “delivered to a secure location.” I went back down the driveway. Oh, there it is… I guess for some, delivered to a secure location is simply thrown out of a moving vehicle over the gate and into the bush.
We all have our own definitions.
I don’t know why I called it a bean. Maybe I couldn’t say blanket yet, and certainly not security. It wasn’t big. I’m sure it came with one of my dolls. It had the same smell of their heads, somewhere between plastic and baby powder, and while clutching to my chest, the scent directly went from nose to heart, and I was saved.
There was always a frantic search before leaving the house. I had to have my bean before entering the car that would traverse the gravel of Van Dyke Road. I’m not sure we gave a thought to seat belts, but my mom and I knew that that mini blanket, this would save me.
I suppose it happened naturally. One day it got left behind and I made the journey without it. Maybe it was at the bottom of the laundry. Possibly even in the driveway. Somehow, the security remained. Enough to get me past the railroad tracks, the freeway, the airport.
L’Occitane makes a hand cream with the exact scent. I buy it here in France. It’s funny, with just a smoothing on my hands, I smile. Oh, Bean. I am delivered to my secure location, and I am home.
I could tell she was so excited to be surrounded by all the birds. Standing in my studio she said, (in French) “You know what my last name means…” To be honest, I didn’t even know what her last name was. “C’est Mésange.” (As if that helped.) She pointed to one of the birds on canvas, and looked up on her phone. “Chickadee?” I said. She looked at her phone, Yes, yes, yes. She beamed. Her name meant Chickadee.
I never have any idea what will connect us. But I do know this. People will find themselves, and in turn, you will find them.
It was always the blouse for my mother. Yesterday, the purse in the painting for my friend Sheila. And with each reveal, I learn a little bit more about those around me, just by seeing what they see.
I suppose we’ve been saying it forever. A mile in someone else’s shoes. But I wonder if we’re still doing it…making the journey from Mésange to Chickadee.
It was Halloween. I had just entered my trick-or-treating age. I could hear some of the Van Dyke Road kids already stomping a path. Explaining who they were in front of porch lights in exchange for candy. Standing in our entryway, no costume, I could feel all of the good candy slipping away. Tired from a day’s work, maybe my mother simply forgot. But then she saw me. Desperate in the entry. She grabbed the nearest solution. Down by the shoes. Under the coats. A stack of paper sacks from Red Owl. She poked two holes for eyes and one for mouth. I stood motionless. Unimpressed. How would I look in a sea of store-bought costumes? Seeing my hesitation, she pulled another sack. Poked the same holes. Her always red rouged lips mouthed the words, “Look, we’re owls.” Maybe it was how her lips matched the logo of the sack, or seeing them move independently, as if floating in space, I couldn’t help but giggle. Both of our sacks began to wrinkle with the uncontrolled laughter. That was one of the countless times I saw my mother become directly before my eyes. She transformed from mom to someone extraordinary, my super hero, as she pulled the sack from her face.
Yesterday, in the throws of a new painting, I was nearing the end of the day. Paint was still being placed, but the energy was dwindling. And then, a shadow under the eye. A change of hairline. Just a few strokes, and I could feel it, her becoming. There she is! I exclaimed to no one, as if I were standing in the entryway of our green house on Van Dyke Road.
Of course our neighbors knew who we were that Halloween evening. Still they asked politely as I reached out my sack. “We’re owls,” I said, not with the pride of costume, but the joy of my mother.
It took a while to enter my palette. I grew up in a different shade of blue. The 10,000 lakes of Minnesota, while even different from each other, are not the same as the blue specific to Provence. And maybe it’s more a reflection of me, these blues… There was a wet-flung wildness to my lakes of youth. A daring. A “get past the buoys” kind of test. All part of the building of this confidence, I suppose, that it would take to embrace another blue, an unfamiliar, and call it my own.
I stuck to painting Americana when first arriving here in France. Oh, I snuck in a Sainte Victoire, or two, but I was careful, cautious. Would I, could I, be so bold as to say, not just that I see it too, but declare with heart and brush, this is how I see it.
And this blue, that powders between sky and sea, is in my heart now. No longer asking for knowledge or permission. It simply lives within and travels through to brush and canvas. With a heart as open as morning shutters, I greet the day, and call myself home.
When you find your purpose, you won’t need to search for motivation.
I suppose I saw it first hand. The walking out to field in summer’s dark. I thought the sun followed him, my grandfather. And didn’t he let it rest at the end of the day, with a wave to say goodnight and a promise of leading tomorrow’s way.
No one used words like inspiration at the time. And if they had, it would have been the day itself to read the book with a picture of Grandpa Reuben on the cover. He was a farmer. His purpose called from both sides of the screen door.
I am not motivated to write this blog every morning. Nor to race to the studio and begin a new canvas. I want to. I really want to. These are my fields. They aren’t calling me. I’m asking each day if I can join them. What a privilege to wake up before the light. To feel joy’s weary by end of day.
My grandfather’s portrait is one of the first things I see in the morning. The screen door swings, and I am on my way.
It’s a variety of the beignet, but distinctive to the south of France. More importantly, they are simply delicious! As luck would have it, the best I’ve ever tasted come from the boulangerie nearest our home. I suppose I’ve eaten my share, knowing that when I enter the door, either of the two women working there shout out, “Des oriellettes!” And I must say, it only makes them more delicious!
It’s the equivalent of the coffee shop knowing your order. The butcher your cut of meat. The librarian knowing your last read. The person on the walking path waving with an “it’s great to see you again this morning.” We all want to be seen. And what a simple and glorious gift it is! Names and numbers, status and rank, not required. A little eye contact. A smile. It goes a long way.
Sure, the oriellettes are sweet. What keeps me coming back, what tells them to fill up that sachet, is a little glimpse that they see me, maybe even enjoy it, and I enjoy it too — nothing much sweeter than that! My heart begins to dance.
I gained balance pretty quickly on my two wheeler bike. It was the stability that I had to work on. Not the staying upright, but the finding my way home. Luckily, I had all the tools (maybe we always do). I had a wicker basket on the handlebars and enough possessions to fill it. A stuffed animal. A doll. A baseball glove. An oversized coloring book. Anything to leave a trail as I set out on my journey. The neighbors were used to the abandonings in empty lots and ditches, so I’m not sure they paid it any mind, this careful placement of goods — my direction home.
I moved the large painting of the girl with the bird in her hand. She’s the first thing I see when I enter the studio, telling me, I already have everything that I need, and just enough to wish for. She is the calm. She is the hope. She is the place from where I venture, and the place that welcomes me back. And isn’t that, I suppose, what home has always been, will always be. Still, it’s good to be reminded.
My heart basket is full. Today’s adventure begins.
Maybe it’s because of the gerbil that races in my heart, constantly trying to catch the one spinning in my head, that I gravitate toward a clean surface. White space. A place for your eyes to rest. Herein lies the slow certainty created from all that clamber. A place for love. For gratitude. For hope. Their zones, I think, should remain clutter free.
I suppose I’ve always been trying to create that space. For myself. For others. A place that calls to you, in studio or on page, “Come in, you and your heart sit down.”
I mention it because yesterday my gerbil was really working overtime. That wheel was spinning between, why wasn’t the package being delivered and why was the elliptical machine so noisy, and and and…then I opened the door. Exhaled the whys and let in the white space. And I was saved.
