I woke up at 6am this morning with a joyful sense of urgency to continue reading the book I’m in the middle of. To return to the colorful lives of these people I’ve come to know in such a short time. And I smile, knowing I can. And I smile, because I’m suddenly 5 years old, waking up at 6am on a Saturday morning to return the colors of the cartoons. To return to the blues of the Jetsons and the oranges of the Flintstones, the whites of the Roman Holidays. It was a magical time. To be carried away in the stories of Underdog and Rocky and Bullwinkle and all of the living colors.
I wanted to get closer and closer.
I could feel the colors dance inside my heart and mind.
I heard, “Don’t get too close, back up from the screen,” and so I did—right into a box of crayons! There was that magic again. First the box of 18, then 36, then 64—the possibilities multiplied. I colored and mixed and tore back the paper and colored some more.
What a beautiful gift, these colors! I heard, “Stay inside the lines.” That would be impossible, I thought. You can’t contain magic. I added words to colors and colors to words.
The certainty of youth is bright, but living can dim almost anyone. I was determined not to become one of them. I was determined to live in color.
I was determined to get too close, to see too much, to peel back the boundaries and run outside the lines and live—to live in all the beautiful colors.
Color does not separate, it connects. We are all offered the brilliant yellows of 6 am, the comforting blues of midnight, and the ever-changing greens that grow in between. All of our possibilities lie in these colors. They allow us to take chances, to be open, to be creative, and to be accepting of all.
It’s 6am decades later and I am not missing sleep, I am joyful for the journey. I read and feel the colors of these new friends and wonder and wander.
Today, this Saturday morning, is as bright and as youthful as I, you, make it! It is, right now, a magical time.
Perhaps the most useless thing I almost learned in junior high was square dancing. At Central Junior High, 6th – 9th grade, the girls took physical education, not in the gym, but in the girls’ gym. To get to the girls’ gym, you had to take the back staircase, down a small tunnel-like hallway (which they painted pink, as if the point hadn’t already been made), through the final doorway into a windowless box.
Once a year, we were invited into the center of the school, gleaming wood floors, bleachers, windows, two entrances, and a stage — the boys’ gym — for square dancing with the boys. It was almost shocking at first, the glow of it all, but reality unpacked its bags as we were dosie-doed for one week, then returned to the pink of the back stairwell.
I loved sports in both junior and senior high, but it wasn’t until after college that I found my place. I began to run and bike, by myself. The open roads. The wind in my hair. The thoughts. The music in headphones. The books on tape. This was my world. This for me, was winning.
On my morning walk, I listened to a podcast about Choreographer Twyla Tharp, the legendary choreographer and dancer, who got her start performing on subway platforms and rooftops in the 1960s. She knew she did not have the perfect body for ballet, the perfect technique, but she was strong, smart, and she loved dance. She knew her path was to be made, not followed. And she did. She combined modern moves, with classical moves, she introduced new music, and she created a world of dance that no one had ever seen, or felt. And they followed her, men and women alike.
Today the sun is shining. My legs are strong. And I am happy. You can take what they give you. You can envy what the others have. Or you can find your own way, and really dance!
The radio in our kitchen plays beautiful music, when you turn it off. It took a minute to understand that it wasn’t broken, just different. If the light is shining on the small screen, that means it is off. I suppose in the time it took us to figure out this unique quality of our radio, we could have just thrown it away, bought a new one. But it was not disposable. It was a gift from someone we love, and it deserved our attention. Each morning, I put the coffee on the stove, plate the croissants, and turn off the radio. We begin, weird and wonderful, and filled with music.
If each radio is wired differently, just imagine us humans. We learn, live and love in so many diverse and sometimes challenging ways. We respond so differently. But we are not disposable. We can’t just throw people away. We need to take the time to understand what others are hearing, saying, living. With this understanding, this empathy — not sympathy — (I don’t feel sorry for my radio – I think it’s cool!) — we can truly love, and be loved. And what glorious music that is! Listen.
I walked to school with wet hair and a permanent pink hall pass from a forgiving gym teacher. Yes, I walked across the street, not for miles in the snow, this isn’t one of those stories… but in order for it to make sense, I do have to tell you a little about my past. I was having surgery all the time, we lost our home, and our family split completely apart. School was a life raft. School was safe. School was constant. And then it became more… it wasn’t just shelter from the storm… it was where we were building a bigger boat. I say we, because I wasn’t alone. I had teachers, and friends, and cooks and janitors. And they all mattered. Truly. With them I was able to combine letters into phrases of hope that even I could believe. I could take paint and brighten any day. I mixed metaphors with metallics and music and mat ball. Yes, I went with wet hair and sometimes a dampened attitude… perhaps a bit afraid to show how much this place mattered. But oh, how it mattered. It still does.
When I saw the face of the little girl, Malala, just trying to get an education… fighting for her rights to learn, to laugh, to dance, to set sail… I had to join her. I had to paint her face. I had to listen to her heart.
I feel so lucky. I could just walk across the street. I had the freedom to learn, to escape, to grow. I was given a chance. We are all so lucky.
That doesn’t mean we are free from difficult times, sadness, anger, hurt, or hard work. We wake up in a land of chance. For those who don’t, we have a responsibility. So please, let us embrace it!
If you are a student, go learn something. Take every opportunity you can.
Fill yourself with possibility.
If you are a teacher, know, even behind the eye rolls and distracted minds, you are so important. You are leaders and you are builders. And you matter. Build something today… build up someone.
If you are a parent, walk hand in hand through all of it.
If you are a politician, please keep our education a priority.
If you have resources, share them.
If you have a heart and a mind, stretch them…open them.
Everyone deserves a chance. Give one to your neighbor. Give one to yourself.
Malala is teaching us so many things. Today I learn gratitude…again, and for the very first time. Thank you.
Nina came to visit my studio. I showed her my two newest seascapes, one of Marseille, one of Brittany. The Marseille image is the sunniest blue. It is bright, and warm. You can feel the sun as it easily dances off of the sea. The reflection of Brittany is cooler in its colors, but contains a completely different warmth. Brittany’s charm comes not with the ease, but the struggle. Here the beauty runs deeper. It is the beloved actor who doesn’t rely on the face, but the soul.
Nina was drawn immediately to the painting of Brittany. This is not a surprise. She comes from the French/German border. She has lived in the comfort of these colors, the greens and browns and beiges. These are the colors of home. And it’s not just about seeing the colors of home, it is perhaps about being seen. If she see herself in this painting, and knows that I think it, too, is beautiful, then I am seeing her. I am seeing her beauty. And isn’t this what we all want? Need. To be seen.
This is not just the job of the artists. This is for all humans. The law makers, the officers, the clergy, the bankers, the teachers, the neighbors, the families… those living and breathing, every day, in your world, in the whole world.
We all want to be seen…we all need to be acknowledged for that moment in time…that time to look into someone’s face and know it’s more than ok to be you…we’re all asking for a few precious moments, and looking for someone to say, “I’m not too busy.
Harmony.Jan was always first chair of the clarinet section. From the fifth grade, through senior high, I don’t remember a time when she didn’t sit proudly in the first row, right in front of the conductor. I don’t know if she felt the competition. I’m sure she practiced. A lot more than the rest of us. For some reason, I never saw band as a sport. For me, it was about the collective music. As individuals, (but for the exceptions like Jan) we really didn’t sound that good. But there is a phenomenon in music when people perform together, even if not everyone is in tune, or in sync, collectively it just sounds better. And that sound carried us. Held us. Gathered us in. I didn’t think of myself in the second row, I was part of the band. I belonged.
Yesterday, at our Easter table, we gathered. American, French, German. Through the years, we have navigated to our respective chairs. My husband at the head, me just next to him. Grown children – their children, in-laws, all around. It is not lost on me that when I jump from my chair to gather something from the kitchen, more bread, more water, a bigger spoon, I pass by my clarinet that rests in the corner of the library. The music here is sung in many languages, (it doesn’t matter that my French is not that good, their English, not much better). In my own rhythm, I have found my place in the band. It is not a competition. We gather around, we gather in. Conversation and laughter play in tune, and the music gives us a place, a place at the table. The band plays on…
Having a birthday close to the Easter holiday, I was often given presents with an Easter theme. This particular year, in the seventh grade, I received a stuffed chick, who I named Selma, and a wind-up rabbit, who I named Peter Cotton-fuzz. (My mother’s interpretation of the song Peter Cotton-tail included the line, “Here comes Peter Cotton-fuzz, best little bunny that ever was…)
I opened the gifts during our lunch hour and the excitement was carried into our next class, Choir, with Mr. Dehlin. Before the bell rang, we passed around my new friends in the alto section.
We were learning the song America the Beautiful. Stoked with lunch hour enthusiasm, and possibly sugar, it was difficult to focus seriously on the anthem at hand. Mr. Dehlin tapped the music stand with his baton. We forcefully suppressed our laughter to smiles and began to sing. Then came the line, “Oh, beautiful, for pilgrim feet…” and we lost it. Pilgrim feet. Tap, tap, tap. Stronger this time. We began again. Our volcanic laughter sputtered inside, and when we reached the pilgrim feet, it burst through each section, flowing from the altos to the sopranos, and soon the whole choir was laughing.
The top of Mr. Dehlin’s head was turning a bright red and he beat the baton on the music stand. He loved music, and this was something to be taken seriously. We loved music too, but the pressure was just too much. He slapped his hand on the piano, and the room was silent. Silent, but for the click of my windup bunny that came to life and was hopping across the second aisle. No one breathed. Then he began to laugh. Mr. Dehlin began to laugh. There was joy in this room and he couldn’t deny it. We all felt it. And soon we sang, with all certainty, that it was indeed Beautiful!
Happy Easter, everyone. Celebrate this day with love and laughter and the volcanic, contagious joy of a child! For it is beautiful! Today, and every day!
Limping on the freeway.Yesterday we went to the big Casino, a large grocery store near our house. After a somewhat quick trip on the freeway, the tangled exit (which the city calls an improvement, but really almost makes it impossible to find the store), we picked the goods, put them in the cart, thought about the Easter menu, priced the items through the self-checkout, (with three calls to the assistant to reset the machine), pushed the items to the car, loaded them in the back, put the cart back, navigated the “improved” exit and got back on the freeway. We were mostly quiet. The radio wasn’t even on. The cars in the multi-lane freeway began to slow. Maybe an accident ahead. No worries really. We crawled along with the traffic. There was no honking, which is unusual for our country. The car in front of us made a quick lane change and our hearts stopped. In front of us, a one-legged man (with a prosthesis), walking down the middle of the freeway. My husband turned quickly, I imagine before we both started to breathe. We didn’t speak for a minute. What had we just seen? It was real? But it was more than strange. It was terrifying. Truly terrifying. Soul shaking. What was happening? What would happen to him? What were we all witnessing?
We put the groceries away, as if we could just get on with our day, and forget about it. But could we? Could we drive down this freeway and ever feel the same?
Our usual routine is to watch a small feed of the American news before lunch. The George Floyd trial was on. They showed the videos again and again. I can’t describe them in detail, for it too, is unimaginable. What are we witnessing here? How can this be real? How can this possibly have happened. The same soul- shaking feeling gripped my insides, and I knew, what we are watching is our collective humanity dangerously limp down the middle of the freeway.
Our pure, but broken, humanity is in grave danger. But just as sure, it is alive. It is living.
They have done studies in France to calculate the estimated time one has to remain alive on the side of the road, say, if your car has broken down. The time is surprisingly short. There are no studies estimating your chances in the middle.
We don’t have the luxury of time here. We have to save our humanity. This minute. This very second. I don’t have the answers, so I can only work on myself. In this springtime air, this moment of rebirth, we have the chance to begin. We have the chance to make a change, make a difference, to say, “Let it be me.” Let it be me.
I was eight years old when I took my first leap of faith…bouncing head first off the diving tower into the wave-rocked waters of Lake Latoka.
I lived in the land of 10,000 lakes. To be honest, I really only knew three by name – Lake LeHommeDieu, Lake Agnes and Lake Latoka.
Lake LeHommeDieu was nice and clean, with a soft sandy bottom. It was right near my friend Barbie’s house. We went their for her birthday. We ate ice cream sandwiches that melted really quickly in the sun and all over our arms, but we just washed off in the lake, and I’m pretty sure we didn’t wait an hour after eating.
But Lake LeHommeDieu, with its inviting, sandy bottom, wasn’t very close to my house. Lake Agnes was…Lake Agnes…it didn’t even sound like a cool lake…and it wasn’t. It was dirty and green…I think it was even thick. One of the neighbor boys, who was mean and wild, and got kicked off of our school bus for an entire school year…one time he stuck his foot in Lake Agnes on a dare and pulled it out with seventeen leaches on it. So even though Lake Agnes was right across the gravel road that I lived on, I never went in it. Which brings me to my favorite of the 10,000, or three, Lake Latoka.
I could ride my flowered banana seat bike to Lake Latoka in about 20 minutes. If the wind wasn’t against me, I could ride in about 19. Once, I think I did it faster…but I can’t be sure, because it was on the day that my watch – that I ordered from the Bazooka bubble gum wrappers – stopped working. That watch only lasted three days…but they were three good days, especially the day it came in the mailbox.
Anyway, it felt really fast this one day when I was riding…almost as if I was going to fly. I picked up speed on the hill right before the left turn to the lake. The wind was at my back, pushing me and pushing me. My hair was dancing behind my neck, the handlebar streamers were like rockets, and my banana seat cut through the air like a knife. My hands held their grips like never before and I knew that if I stuck my feet out at just the right moment, the wind would pick me up and this would be the day that I would fly…this would be the day that my feet would touch the sky. But it wasn’t…it was actually the day, I lost one of my bumper tennis shoes. I knew I should have double knotted them before I tried to fly. It still may have been the fastest I ever rode to Lake Latoka. And I knew on that day, that it must feel very good to fly.
I carried my beach towel to the lake in my bike’s basket. The white whicker had flowers on it, just like the banana seat. I loved that bike. It was the greatest. All my friends loved it. But I didn’t even need a lock for it. Nobody ever stole bikes from the beach. It was kind of like our sacred ground…and we knew that in order to get to our sacred ground, you had to have a bike, and to take that away from someone, to take away their chance to fly on the way to that glorious one of 10,000 lakes, well that would just be a terrible crime, so we didn’t do it. I don’t think I realized how beautiful life without mistrust really was…How could I know? You can’t…until it is taken away – and only in those rare moments, when you let yourself remember innocence, can you feel the slip of beauty.
Lake Latoka had two diving towers. They were out maybe three miles from shore…ok, maybe just 50 yards or so, but it was really deep out there…maybe three miles deep…well, it was way over my head anyway. One tower had an actual diving board, the other was just a platform. The two towers were perched 10 feet above the water. Each tower was held up by four slimy poles – not Lake Agnes kind of slime, but more of a friendly, somewhat slippery kind. Both had a ladder, with twelve rights of passage steps, topped with a glorious, green carpeted platform.
I had watched the kids out on the towers for several years. They seemed so smart, and brave and old…after all, they were teenagers. The teen-tanned girls flirted with the boys in their denim cut-offs and they flirted back by pushing each other off. They did that on both towers, but they did something on the diving tower that intrigued me the most. They did bouncers – that’s what I called it anyway. It was like they were flying…one, two, three running steps, then a giant bounce at the end of the diving board…bending the board way down, then flinging them up through the clouds, and with arms in front of them they would cut through the water head first. It was beautiful. It was glorious. It lured me and scared me to death. I stood in safety of shallow waters and knew that I would do a bouncer, but I didn’t know how or when.
It was a cloudy day, near the end of June. I had been to the beach twice since I had made my vow to bounce…but I hadn’t yet made it past the buoys that marked the deeper water. Once, I went with my neighbor Kathy, but she didn’t seem really interested. And once I went with my neighbor David. David was kind of frail and pale, and stuck mostly to the shade. I’m not sure why he came. He never did again. But this was the cloudy day, near the end of June. The clouds had kept the crowd to a minimum. The towers were nearly empty. This was my chance, and I was going to take it. Armed with nothing but my baby fat and a child-like courage, I walked out to the buoys. I took three deep breaths and dove under them, came up for air, almost surprised that I had started my journey, and then began to swim…
Crawl stroke, crawl stroke, side to side, watch where you’re going, don’t forget to breathe, I’m doing it, I’m doing it, I’m really going to make it…
One of the big boys swam right past me, but I didn’t care…I was still going to make it…
Look at me, look at me Mister Lifeguard, I’m going out to the tower, don’t worry, crawl stroke, crawl stroke, I’m going to make it.
There it was, right in front of me, the ladder, I was going to make it. I reached out on my final stroke and grabbed the beautiful metal. I had made it. I clung to the bottom rung, all smiles, prideful, and out of breath.
“Well, are you goin up already?” asked the impatient teen behind me. I didn’t know…I hadn’t thought that far ahead…I was so happy to have made it this far…Was I going up? It was such a big tower…it looked bigger from below…a lot smaller from shore…Could I actually make it up the steps?
She pushed me aside and started climbing the ladder.
I’m ok…I’m ok, treading water, treading water… I can do this for three minutes…we had lessons in the pool…still ok…alright, she’s gone…grab the ladder, grab the ladder.
It was now or never. I had to climb the ladder. But I knew if I climbed the ladder, I would have to jump off, maybe not dive off, but at least jump off. There would be no climbing back down the ladder. Nothing was more shameful. I heard of one boy once who did, and I think they made him and his family move out of town.
Hand up, foot up, hand up, foot up, I was climbing the ladder.
I put one foot on the wet, green carpet and then the other foot. There I was frozen at the top of the tower. I had done it. I had climbed the
ladder. I could see for a thousand miles…or at least to shore…it was very far. It was beautiful. I could hear boats and kids screaming and splashing, and trees swaying and waves rustling, and fish blowing
bubbles…I could hear and see it all…everything was so clear from that glorious, wet, green carpeted throne. This was my moment. I was a foot shorter than the three other kids on the tower, but I was queen of the world. My one piece navy sailor swimsuit was my gown and I could rule all…I was….AAAAAAAAHHH…flung off the side like a peasant…I hit the water like a surprising slap… and sank…
It’s over my head, it’s over my head…kick and climb, kick and climb…it’s just like the deep end of the pool…oooooh, ick…weeeeds…kick and climb…up…up….kick and climb…my head thrust above the water…
I’m ok…I’m doing it…it’s over my head, but I’m doing it…tread that water, where’s the tower, spin around…there it is, grab a pole…hang on, kind of slimy, kind of nice…I’m ok…I made it…hanging on to the pole.
Sometimes decisions get made for you. The good news was I didn’t have to climb down the ladder. It wasn’t glamorous. It was no bouncer…but I had made it up and off the tower and I knew I would go again.
I went back every day. I was a pretty good swimmer, and getting better. I could go on either tower. I could jump off. Sometimes I was still pushed, but I didn’t really care…I was part of it…the action, the thrill, the sun, the wind, the wet flung hair…yeah…it was summer, and I was kid on a tower…yeah, I was a kid who jumped off a tower…I hadn’t made it to the diving board yet, but I wasn’t worried…summer was never going to end.
I was wet and wind blown through mid August. I rode one tassel right off of my handle bars. I got a plastic camera from Bazooka Joe. When I was riding to Olson’s Super Market to get film, I dropped it on the road and ran over it myself with my back tire. I still think it might have been a good camera.
I rode my bike home, singing the super market theme song, “Olson’s Super market, bring your car and park it, S & H green stamps, Olson’s super market…”
“Bring your car and park it” – now those were some beautiful lyrics. – and I thought I was simple…and S & H green stamps – please…my Bazooka Joe gum wrappers were much better, and speaking of which, I checked the mail box every day, just in case I’d get my next arrival. I loved getting mail in the summertime…I was a kid on my bike in the sun, gettin’ mail…but this time it was different – No one was more surprised than I was to get the letter saying that school would be starting in two weeks.
School….I hadn’t seen that coming. Two weeks left. I was yet to do a bouncer. Sure I had swum further than most 8 year olds, been pushed off, even jumped from the tower, but I had never taken the dive…and there wasn’t much time left. Two more weeks and I’d again be behind the desk and behind Mrs. Erickson. Mrs Erickson….again. She was my second grade teacher and then decided to switch grades and now I was going to have her again in third. Another year of Mrs. Erickson, with her stick pointing and heavy make-up. I just knew I couldn’t sit through another year of all that sameness without having tried something new. I had to do a bouncer. I just had to.
“Mrs. Erickson again…Mrs. Erickson again…” – it became my mantra as I swam out to the tower. With a new found strength bred out of aggravation, I stepped onto the diving board. It was soooo unstable. It was like a stick of jello…a board made of Knox Blox…it jiggled like a Christmas belly and their was nothing to hang on to. My feet begged my knees for stability. How did they do it? I could barely walk. How could they jump? I couldn’t think. I could barely see. I couldn’t hear…and thank goodness for that, because the line of teenage boys behind me had learned a lot of new words that summer that were far from encouraging. They began to jump up and down. It was their way of keeping the line moving. The board shook, my knees buckled and without fanfare I fell into the water…not the splash I was hoping to make. I hung on to the pole just beneath the diving board. I watched them fly over me for hours. They looked so light and free. I felt heavy, like a rock. The only thing longer than my swim back to shore was my bicycle ride back home.
I played with David for the next three days. He had a big mound of dirt beside his house and liked to play with trucks and diggers. I tried to convince myself that I liked being with David…that it was fun playing on his big, safe dirt pile…that it was cool that he could touch his nose with his own tongue…that I didn’t really even want to go back to the lake…that I wasn’t really scared. But after three days of staying in the shade of David’s mound I realized that I was just kidding myself, I was avoiding the lake because I was afraid….and not only that I was really, really dirty, and needed a swim.
Pale David got smaller in my rear-view mirror as I biked away. It wasn’t the fastest I ever rode…but I was riding again, and going to the lake. I swam past the buoys and climbed the ladder. I stood at the end of the line and watched each one dive off in front of me. I knew diving was hard…but we had been taught at the Central School Pool. The teacher held our legs at the edge of the pool, so our heads would go in first.
I could dive. I could do this.
I got closer in line.
They were flying off in front of me. What was I going to do?…sit on a dirt pile for the rest of my life?…
I got closer to the board. Only three in front of me now.
Sure it was going to be hard. But it was flying…was that supposed to be easy? I could do this. I could really do it.
One left now and I would be next. I was really going to do it. I had a banana seat bike for goodness sake…I was going to be a third grader…I rode on a major road just to get here…
I can do this…I can do a bouncer.
The girl in front of me was gone. There was no more time to think…my heart pounded fast and steady as if leading me to the edge of the board…I lifted my right leg and ran…one, two, three and I jumped…it was almost in slow motion as the board bent beneath me and then flung me straight in the air…it was me…I was flying..there were no longer obstacles or worries, just a beautiful blue sky all around me…I was flying and I was free…and it’s funny, at that moment, I didn’t feel smarter or older, or more brave, like I thought the others did, or I would…but what I felt was really happy… happy to be me.
I had thought on that one day in June, when I rode my bike the fastest, that it must feel really good to fly…and it does.
My hands shot above my head and I cut through the water. I had done my first bouncer…and I knew I could face anything…even the sameness of third grade at Washington Elementary.
That was my first leap of faith…I thought I’ve had so many since…but maybe I’ve just had chances…maybe I’ve just had the towers…towers of friendships and schooling, death and divorce, diseases battled and games won, loves gained and lost, tears and smiles and laughter and jobs and waiting …Maybe they get harder to see now, or maybe I just turn away…but I don’t want to just swim out to the towers…I don’t want to live like that….I want to jump toward my leaps…I want to believe in my faith. I want to get in over my head, and kick and thrash and if I need to, cling to the most unlikely stable, slimy forces. When I dream, I want to climb every slippery step. I want to hope and believe three miles deep. I want to trust my unlocked feelings. And when I love and when I live, I want to take three running steps and get airborne.
I don’t know if this is going to be the day that my feet will touch the sky…but I am going to climb that tower, and I’m going to be scared and I’m going to be happy and with the wind in my hair, my heart is going to lead me…and one way or another, I am going to fly!
I recently purchased the pin combination of Bob Ross and his Happy Little Tree. Bob was known for his program on PBS, The Joy of Painting. When asked about his relaxed and calm approach, he said, “I got a letter from somebody here a while back, and they said, ‘Bob, everything in your world seems to be happy.’ That’s for sure. That’s why I paint. It’s because I can create the kind of world that I want, and I can make this world as happy as I want it. Shoot, if you want bad stuff, watch the news.”
I can’t say I’m a huge fan of his painting style, or even his paintings, but I love his attitude, his actual joy of painting. In his world, he would always add happy little trees. Even just typing it, I smile. Maybe he isn’t a “master” at painting, but he seems to be one at living. Some art won’t hang in museums, but it will rest well in your heart.
When I opened the package of the pins, the first name that popped into my head was Don Opsahl. I hadn’t thought of his name for a long time. I tried to remember it years ago, but nothing came, and I forgot about him. He, Mr. Opsahl, was my first grade school art teacher at Washington Elementary. His world smelled thick of color and it was like walking into a cartoon. I’m not certain of what he taught me. I don’t even recall knowing if he painted himself. But what he did was introduce me to was a world of belonging. He opened the door to a space that I so easily slid into. He welcomed me home. Some of the best gifts are unwrapped, day after day, year after year.
I now live in the land of Cezanne. I have walked through his studio. I have driven past the house of Picasso. I have visited museums throughout the world with the finest artists. I have wept in front of a Matisse in Paris. Today, with the same reverence, I give thanks for Bob and Don.
The world is filled with people trying to create a better world. Let them rest well in your heart.
