Nothing really has changed from yesterday to today, I mean weatherwise. You would be hard pressed to differentiate the two. But they feel different. And I suppose that’s everything. Yesterday, spring began, and with its arrival came hope, freshness, anticipation, curiosity…. life! Perhaps you saw a Robin, or the date on the calendar, but I know you felt something, heard something, I did too.
I did a little Google dive on why Robin’s are the sign of spring. And there was so much more. So many “myths” attached to this beautiful bird. But are they myths? If you believe them, and they make you feel better, isn’t that just truth?
Poets and philosophers, religious leaders, and songwriters, try to define what nature already knows – that love is eternal, continuous, ever renewing. It makes you think all things are possible. That you, and I, with each passing season, still have the chance to grow. Nothing could be more springlike than that!
And so it arrives with sun and wind, and robins in trees, and songs of thunder, all telling us to “Bloom! Bloom! – this is your spring!”
I’m working hard to prepare a new launch of prints. Lots of things to be done. Photographs to be taken. Sayings to write. Computer layout. A considerable amount for my mind to keep track of – my mind, one that has always been distracted by a “shiny object.”
I walked from my computer to the studio to take a photo of this pear. I had written the verse for this pear. Scanned the verse for this pear. Put the verse for this pear on my computer. All I needed now was the image — this pear. Inside the studio, amid all these shiny objects, I immediately thought, “Well, as long as I’m here, I could take photos of these paintings…” And I did. So proud of myself — I found just the right lighting. It was nature’s golden hour, and with my new spotlight, and easel, I was really getting good images. I put these images in ProCreate to check for color. Cropped. Adjusted. Scanned for my computer. Placed them in my layout program. Started arranging the images for the prints. Getting so much done. Then I got to the page with the verse for the pear. The pear. I had forgotten to take a photo of this pear. The light was gone. Settling in the sky. It would have to wait for the next day.
Still shaking my head, I took the photo in the light of the next day, and it was beautiful. I forgot about my forgetting, and really looked at the image. What I find most lovely, are the imperfections. I painted this pear on a wood panel. You can see the life of the wood, giving character to the life of the pear. The bruising. The near wilting leaf. It’s all the “flaws” that bring it to life – that give the words meaning. I can see it in this painting. In this morning’s sun. Maybe even in myself. Oh, how we can rise!
Still-life paintings are really just, well, life. They probably say more about the viewer than the artist. I think a still-life painting works if you stop, breathe, and let the beauty in with each inhale, each exhale. Slowly.
And I suppose, that’s what life is. Taking in. Letting go. Every day there are still beginnings. Still endings. Still life. We just have to find the beauty of it all.
When I look at this painting, some days, it is my rest. I just breathe. I am the pear in the bowl. And other days, I am a kitchen in Provence, with all the scents of what’s to become, to be made. It gives me what I need.
Life will do that, if you let it. If you dare ask for what you need, and then see it, allow it, become it. In the stillness, it will come. Believe it. Look for it. All the beauty that you need, is right there in front of you. Still.
We’re all guilty of it, for sure – projecting, delaying our happiness into the someday. “Someday, if we just have more time… more money…”. “Someday, when I lose five pounds, get that promotion, change my hair, fall in love… well, then…”. How is then that different from now?
And even for the small things. Watching YouTube, I’m told I won’t be happy until I get this deskpad, or this computer, or certainly everything available at IKEA, not to mention the “must haves” from Amazon. And I will admit I have lusted after the gray wool desk pad from Grovemade – I’m only human… but my work life doesn’t depend on it. I can still create my blogs, make prints, cards, email my mother, do everything I need. So I’m happy. Today. Without that beautiful pad. Today is the someday that I celebrate.
I have to make an effort. It doesn’t always come naturally. Returning from vacation, I can easily slip into old habits, wearing the same thing, eating the same thing, but then I catch myself, and try to live better. Put on the scarf. Light the candle. Eat new things. Enjoy the view. Celebrate the day for what it is – the gift that is given. I have to remember that this, in fact, is my someday. I give thanks, and begin… today.
When I lived in Minneapolis, I could buy a group of lilies for just three dollars at the Byerly’s store next to my apartment. It would produce four to five giant, beautiful white flowers, that often lasted three weeks. This was a luxury I could afford.
I would buy a stem that was mostly unopened. Each morning I would check to see how she had bloomed. “Good morning, Lily!” I always wanted to catch her, in mid bloom – see how she opened, but I never did. I would be in the kitchen, or bathroom, and come back, and she would be new. Lovely.
I suppose that’s the way it is with most of us. We don’t often get to see what makes others change, grow, but it’s happening. All the time. We are all going through something — struggles, lessons, living. All of us, just trying to bloom. And if we’re lucky, truly lucky, the beautiful few that we can call our friends, will show us how they got here — how they came to bloom. A luxury we could all afford.
We stood in the long line. I didn’t want to be there. I glued myself to my mother’s leg. We got closer and closer. There was a long table of food. An indecipherable melange of flavor. I peaked around my mother’s hip. All I wanted was to find her dish. I knew if I could find it, I would be saved. I didn’t want something from another kitchen, another mother. “What did you make?” I asked. “What color is the bowl again?” We were taught not to hate, especially in this place, this church, but I strongly disliked the occasional pot-luck lunch. I didn’t have words for it then, but I knew there was something about “the making.” To know the maker meant something. It was important. I knew the maker, my mother. I knew her hands. And that was love. And that’s what I wanted. The only thing I would stand in line for.
After visiting the Museum of Modern Art in New York, I walked around the gift shop. So many beautiful things. It was hard to focus. And then it caught my eye. So small, almost indecipherable, but oh, so familiar. I moved immediately across the aisle. I held it in my hand. “Made in France,” it said. It was a magnet of the skyline of New York, including the Statue of LIberty. A line. A connection. It was familiar. It was mine. This maker, this France, I knew it. It was as warm, as familiar, as the dish my mother made, and I was saved.
Trust the line that connects from hand to heart to others. These are the makers. This is the love worth standing for.
Never had we been so divided. I was only in grade school, but rules had already been made. Followed. Lived. It was when I went to visit a cousin that everything changed. We went to the playground. Lots of children were there. Enough to play a game. We decided on “Duck, Duck…” (A group of players sits in a circle, facing inward, while another player, who is “it”, walks around tapping or pointing to each player in turn, calling each a “duck” until finally calling one a “gray duck”, which designates the chosen player as the chaser. The chaser then stands and tries to tag the chasee (it), while the chasee tries to return to and sit where the chaser had been sitting before.) Much to my surprise and horror, the player who walked around the group first did not call out “gray duck,” but goose! Goose! I was appalled! The game was “Duck, Duck…Gray Duck. For me, for everyone in my school, it had always been Gray Duck. How could it possibly be goose??? I stopped the game. Goose??? What is this Goose?? They had never heard of gray duck. We defended our sides, for a matter of minutes. Turns out the game was exactly the same, no matter what we called the person who was “it.” We continued to play in the sun.
I feel like the lesson is pretty obvious. I just wish we all could see it, today, as adults. All the time we waste, arguing over nothing, fighting over nothing, when all we really want is to spend another day chasing under the sun. I reach out my sweaty hand of youth — Come play.
“It was so windy that day, I couldn’t stand up straight. It blew my hair this way and that way, and sucked the tears right out of my eyes. It was so windy that day, I tried to tell you I loved you, but you couldn’t hear me. Deaf to my cries, your ears heard a different calling. It was so windy that day. On hands and knees I crawled to your side. I reached up to you, begged you to hang on. I closed my eyes with visions of our hands joined, like they were before the storm. The wind shook my insides, leaving me hollow. I opened my eyes and you were gone. It was so windy that day.
What used to blow through me, now gives me wings.” Jodi Hills
I love to paint birds. Perhaps because the woman who raised me is one – a bird. A beautiful, delicate, resilient bird. And it seems so obvious to me, to represent strength in this form.
It has been so windy here for several days. And not just breezy, I mean wind. Stronger than Minnesota wind. Stronger than Chicago wind. WIND! Even the giant pine trees in our yard succumbed to the pressure of it all. We woke to find giant branches lying across the lawn. And these weren’t old brittle branches, these were strong, still dampened with the hold of youth, lying in defeat on the ground. But the birds are still singing. I hear them. Living through it all, these tiny little birds, still vibrant, still singing.
I guess it’s a choice, every day. You can fight the wind, like a branch, or ride the wind, like a bird. I know this song… it has called me for years, lifted me. I’m not afraid. I’m flying.
I don’t know what they looked like, the radio announcers on KXRA, the early morning show. But once, maybe twice a year, I imagined them in full super hero gear, red capes, powerful arms reaching out to save the day.
We didn’t get that many “snow days” – days when the weather closed the schools – but oh, when they came, it was glorious. The seed would be planted before bedtime. The bad weather might be on its way. It was like going to bed on Christmas Eve, so filled with hope you could barely sleep. When the alarm went off, we raced to windows, praying to see only snow. And if there was a pane filled with white, we raced to the radio. Did they say it? Did they announce it? Usually it would start with a delay… two hours late… no, that wouldn’t do. “Close it, close it, close it,” we pleaded with the radio airwaves. A delay meant still getting dressed. No school meant pajama day. Pajama day – PLEASE! The announcer started reading the school districts by number. Please 206, please 206. And when you heard it – oh my! And it wasn’t like we were tired – no just the opposite. How exhilarating! The freedom! The possibilities in that day. All because those super heroes on KXRA said our school district number out loud on the radio – but what I heard, what we heard was “You’re free!!!”
There is no snow in Aix en Provence. All of our trees are in bloom. On our way home from dinner last night in Marseille, it was late, and we started talking about sleep, bed… and for some reason we brought up pajama day – what if tomorrow was pajama day? It felt good to dream about it. Wait for it. We smiled all through breakfast, knowing we had the power to decide. We had the power to be our own super hereos. To swoop in, no matter the weather, and claim the day. All things possible. Everything in bloom.
Now, I am no Patty Wicken (our local radio star), but I tell you in my best radio voice, save yourself today, do something you love, be someone you love, because in the blossom of today – You are free!!!
Years ago I started painting on my clothing – I mean on purpose. Of course I had painting clothes, but these were clothes I painted with intention. I had a pair of jeans that I covered in paint, (this was long before it was cool) and then at the bottom of one leg I painted, “I have to believe my feet will take me where I need to go.” I was wearing these pants when making a delivery of art to a store in Edina. The owner, Kevin, before I even set down the paintings, asked “Are those your pants?” Laughing, I replied, “I usually wear my own pants.” Both laughing now, of course we both knew what he meant – he was wondering if I had designed these pants, painted on them. “Yes,” I said. “I made them. These are my pants.”
I have always believed my feet will take me where I need to go. I didn’t know at the time it would include France, but here I am. And I believe I’m supposed to be here. There are new challenges that I am supposed to face. New adventures to be on. New loves to love. Relationships to form. Places to see. Mountains to conquer. So I painted a new pair of pants. I wanted to represent my life including where I have been and where I am now. My steps between the USA and France. The Statue of Liberty. Perfect, I thought. In so many ways. I suppose it is my way of “wearing my heart on my sleeve” – just taking it to a different level.
Throughout the years that I have shared my stories, my continuing story, the greatest gift that I receive in return is listening to yours. Then we are connected. When we share our journeys, our lives, we all become a little more human. So I tell you my story, in hopes you will tell me yours. Together, we walk in eachother’s shoes…or maybe even our pants…wherever we need to go.
