I love summer. I won’t deny it. But I’m not going to live for it, only it. I would lose so much. The colors of autumn. The crackles underfoot. There is a peace that comes. A slower speed. A much needed rest.
It takes me a bit to see it. To feel it. To remember my sweater. Sock my feet and close the doors. But the never-ending song of the birds in our trees reminds me — there is a melody here — a song of the season — worthy of being sung. Sung without the pining away for green. Sung for the beauty of now.
I shuffle in the fallen leaves. Grab my brushes and capture the soft colors, the non- demanding colors of autumn. And I see it. The beauty of this autumn day.
From my downward dog yoga position I can see into the bedroom behind me. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he had started getting dressed, but stopped to read a few more pages in his book. It made me smile. He had put it down a few minutes before, but it drew him back in. I have always trusted people who live there – in the word. People who love to read.
The vulnerability of the author. The empathy of the reader. The ability to imagine. Become. Understand. Live. I know that people say it all the time, but reading! – please read. Teach your children to read. I don’t mean just knowing how to recognize the words, but teach them how to really read – how to crawl between the letters and become.
All the questions. All the answers, they’re all there, written, or waiting to be written. Dreams. Hopes. Adventures. All there. Distractions. Me too. Survivals. Maps. Doors. All there, tangled in each letter.
From the age of 6, in a hospital in St. Cloud, reading showed me how to survive, and then put a pencil in my hand and taught me how to thrive. I won’t tell you what to read. It can be anything. But read. Aloud. Silent. Often. Again. Crawl through. Become.
The Ralph Lauren (RL) restaurant in Chicago was the reason I painted this horse. We had just finished shopping a marathon on Michigan Avenue, my mom and I, and we stopped — not really choosing this restaurant for the culinary experience, but the location. Our feet agreed this was the place for a break. Our table faced the wall of photographs and paintings. All elegantly lit. Draping our hearts in mahogany. Glasses of wine refreshing and gently embellishing the glorious minutes of the day.
We were shoppers. Not big buyers. Perhaps it was the beauty of the clothing. The curated displays. The bustling sidewalks that didn’t care how we got there, but swept us up in a sea of acceptance. We were welcomed. Good enough. So we walked each street. Entered each store. Michigan Avenue didn’t know that we used to put items on lay-a-way in a small town in Minnesota. Michigan Avenue opened its doors, and we danced in and out.
We sat in the restaurant and smiled. Held up the few items we had purchased. Laughed. Praised. Clapped even. And sighed. Breathing in so deeply as to never forget the warmth of this day. The warmth of being together. The warmth of shared experience. The warmth of shared interests. The warmth that would carry us through the coldest of days. There was a single horse on the wall. So elegant. Such grace. And so I painted that horse. It hangs in a bedroom across the sea, and takes me back to that street — that comfort — that joy — that rest — that warmth of time well spent.
Find your way to that place. It’s waiting, just for you.
When I focus only on my own tiny heart, I can feel badly that she doesn’t remember me, my mother-in-law. It’s only natural, I suppose. And when I say the words out loud, it is only natural. There is no malice. Only nature. She has done her job. For 96 years. She has cared and nurtured and lived. When I arrived she welcomed me. Learned about me. Clapped for my paintings. Sometimes more than once. Knew me. And that was perfect. In its time. It is now my turn to welcome her, again, for the first time. Welcome this period in her life, not with anger (How could you forget?), not with sadness (Why don’t you remember?) but with grace (I’m happy to see you.)
I have climbed the Sainte Victoire. The mountain doesn’t remember me, but oh, how I remember each step. Each stumble coming down. It is my job, my joy to remember. I remember kissing at the Eiffel Tower. Wandering the relics of Rome. The feel of the Mediterranean washing over me. I remember my grandfather’s overalls. My grandmother’s hands. It is my job to remember. To share the stories. Pass them on. Give them life. Until one, day, in one language or another, someone might carry them for me. Carry each kiss and stumble. Until they can only pass them on again.
And it will all be as it should. Filled with grace, this perfectly imperfect gift of time.
I picked up an old sketchbook this morning. One I was making a few years ago while traveling in the southern part of the US. We stopped in a store in Mississippi. It was filled with home goods. I was admiring some material between thumb and index finger. The clerk, with great pleasure, not knowing me, nor where I lived, said, “These tablecloths are so French, you can’t even find them in France!” Even as I type this, I’m not really sure what that means, but she said it with such pride, such exuberance, how could I not be delighted as well! Delighted enough to write it in my journal on a January 27th.
Sometimes I think we use the excuses of time, money, location, situation — excuses not to find the joy, the beauty, the magic of the moment. I have been guilty of this for sure. But years ago, I made it my intent to see things. Everything. Everywhere. Anytime. In people. Places. Things. And this intent became habit, and became a life.
I had terrible dreams last night. The kind that want to rattle you through breakfast. But I entered my French kitchen. Heated the croissants. Drank the coffee. Mixed up the bread dough. I love making bread. I love that soon the scent will waft through the halls. Soon we will eat the most delicious bread! Bread so good, so French, it takes an American girl in provence to make it! It doesn’t have to make sense — it’s just delightful!
Let go of the night — any darkness that surrounds you. Enjoy your day!!!
It’s easy to get too far ahead of myself. In painting. In life. I want the answer. The finished piece. The resolution. The “Veruca Salt” voice sings in my head, “I want it now!” But it doesn’t work that way. Painting. Life. Stroke by stroke. Patience.
I’ve started a commissioned painting for a lake. Blue. Well, that’s simple. Right? Done? No. Each color must be given it’s equal time. The shadows of the almost blue black, to the glistening whites of the sun’s reflection. Each needs attention. Time. To find the movement in the stillness of each color. This is the goal.
Vincent van Gogh said, “Great things are done by a series of small things brought together.” I understand this – on canvas. I take the time in my sketchbook. Work at it. Color by color. Stroke by stroke. Oh, yes. Bit by bit, it all comes together. Slowly in the stillness of my sketchbook. I want this for life.
It was Mrs. Bergstrum who first taught us this. “Sound it out,” she said. But there was the whole alphabet right in front of us! All the possibilities. We wanted it all. Every word. Every book. Every library. “Slowly,” she said. And we made the sounds. Letter by letter. Into words. Each word a victory. Great things were coming together.
There is so much to want. So much I want for those I love. I want healing and grace and hope and joy. I want it all! I know this furious speed. I know the furious speed at which you are trying to get over and around. Wanting every color, every word, now! I have traveled that wind and hung on for dear life. But the dear life I found came only in the quiet slowing down. The letting go. No longer rushing to get past, but easing my way through. Color by color. Letter by letter. Sounding it out. And the peace. Smiled. Knowing it had always been there, as I whirled. Peace, sitting quietly next to joy, and hope, and OK now. There, there. Still. Great things are coming together.
There is an old joke that tells of a person giving directions to their apartment. He tells the friend, when you get to my building, ring the doorbell with your elbow. When you hear the buzzer, push the door open with your toe and your hip. When you get to my apartment door, knock with your foot, and I’ll let you in. Confused, the friend says, “Why would I have to do all that with my feet and body?” To which he replies, “What?… You’re coming empty handed?!!!”
It’s funny, but I’m learning (Oh,I hope I’m learning), that maybe the best thing we can do is come empty handed. I know it’s easy to shy away from difficult times. Not knowing what to say, what to bring. People don’t always need you to say the right things, maybe they just need you to listen. People don’t need you to bring something, but reach out your empty hand and hold theirs. Give a gentle touch.
It’s not easy being human. It takes a lot of strength. But if we can use that strength to be gentle, to be kind, oh, how human we could be! Empty hands. Full hearts.
We visited the home of Thomas Jefferson. I took a picture of his work space on my ipad. I have the same hammer. I use the same hammer. In some ways we have come so far — I don’t know that he ever could have dreamed about an ipad, but he loved learning, progress, so I think he would approve. In other ways, the world hasn’t changed that much. The basics. The hammers. The tools of our daily living. I think the goal is to use what still works, but then keep learning. We have so many more tools at our disposal now. But are we doing better? I want to do better. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before, but I always go back to one of my favorite people, Maya Angelou — she said, “When you know better, you do better.” We can do better. We can pick up the hammers that still work, and build with them, build on them. Use the tools we have today and go further.
It’s easy to type the words. Harder to live them. I know. Yesterday I got clogged in a mess for a couple of hours. I don’t want to give it more time, so I’ll just say, toner. Stupid toner. Stupid printer. My first thought was, “you’re wasting my time!” I said it over and over in my brain. Then it occured to me, that it was actually just me. I was wasting my time. I can do better. Today, I will do better. My hammer still works. My hands still work. My brain still works (well…as it does), and I will build a better today.
We were going through some of my grandmother’s things after she passed away. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Nor my hands. There it was. Something I had made when I was in 5th grade art class. A piece of bark from a local tree. A few pink straw flowers glued inside a crevice. An angled piece of wood nailed to the back so it would stand. And oh, how it stood – for decades. It stood for family and belonging. It stood for a life recognized. Seen. Mattered. And so I return the favor now, with her picture standing next to my sewing machine. Her picture guiding me through each stitch. A life – her life – one that is seen, recognized. A life that matters. Still.
When I walk into my brother-in-laws house in Aix en provence, the first thing I see is the painting I did of three yellow apples. Even if I fumble the language. Stumble over the culture. I am seen. I belong. What a gift! Oh, how it matters to this imported heart!
The thing is, we think “Oh, they must know…” But people don’t always know, until you show them. Show them how you feel. And even if they do know – a reminder, well, that just feels good. All the time!
Here’s to living in plain site! I see you! I give thanks for you. Every day!
She gave me a five star review, the woman who bought this portrait. 5 out of 5 stars! Of course I was delighted. Delighted that she loved it. Delighted that he would live in this wonderful home. A home doing the work. The work of equality. The work of trying to make this world a better place for everyone. Everyone. Because that’s what she does, that’s what she’s doing every day — fighting against racism. Spreading kindness. This is the truest beauty – the truest work of art.
Because it’s easy to do one thing. Paint one picture. Look what I did. I must be a good person. But it can’t end there. It must only begin here. The painting of a picture. The writing of an article. The marching in a parade. These are beginnings. The true differences come in the living. The day to day. Here is where we earn our stars, I suppose. In each conversation. Each hand extended. Each heart opened. Every day. Taking the time.
It was Marcel Duchamp who created the work of art entitled — “To Be Looked at (from the Other Side of the Glass) with One Eye, Close to, for Almost an Hour.” I’m not sure anyone actually does it, looks through the “peeping” hole of the glass for almost an hour. Seeing it at MOMA, I didn’t do it. I have researched the piece, and critics a lot smarter than I am have come up with many descriptions of the piece, discussing cosmic, pseudo scientific realms… I don’t know… maybe. But I’ll tell you what it means for me. Maybe it’s too simple an explanation, but I’m not really sure it always has to be so complicated. Maybe it’s just about taking the time to look at things from a new perspective – someone else’s perspective – walk in their shoes… And in this time, this sometimes uncomfortable viewing, walking, we can gain a little empathy, a little more compassion, and we can, in this life, really earn our stars.
(Side note: My grandparents’ last name was Hvezda. Hvezda in Czech means star. Fitting, they were two of the kindest people. I don’t think it would be out of turn to say they didn’t know much about “art”, probably never heard of Duchamp, but they knew how to be human. How to be kind. How to take the time. I can feel them still, from the other side of the glass, and I will forever try to live up to the name.)
