We got in my friend’s car yesterday to drive to Minneapolis. There were only a few flakes of snow, and some wind, but we each carried a little concern. She set the GPS for our location. Synced her route to her husband’s phone in Minneapolis so he could follow us along the journey. We had a full tank of gas. We both had fully charging cell phones and people to call, in case… A car full of emergency clothes – most were my mother’s. We had coffee from Starbuck’s. We had everything needed.
As tears and laughter crossed paths, we talked about how we used to get places. No maps. No GPS. No phones. No back-up plan, or any real plan at all. Even in the blinding snow, armed with nothing really but the thought, “Well, I think we can make it…” And somehow we did.
I asked cousins and friends who have recently lost parents, “How do you do it?” No one knew. No one knows. I suppose we have to return to that inner faith, confidence, hope, excitement we carried, on the journey, during the journey, armed with nothing but the will to move from place to place. To set out. To go. To live.
I, we, awaken to this new day. There’s a song that plays in my heart, “This heart was born feet running…” And mine is telling me to begin the journey, navigating with only the carried belief, “I think we can make it.”
I know my mother is in heaven. She told me she was going. She never lied to me.
The day after I moved to France she opened a new savings account. She saved quickly with the excitement of youth. And those little girl dreams of fashion on Paris streets, were just in reach. She got her first cancer. Then the second. And the third.
We talked about it daily. Twice daily. Maybe after this shot or this treatment. Lines of hope were fed by shopping in catalogs together online. Hope was fed with giggles and stories of what we had done, where we had been, and maybe…. So she kept dreaming and I kept dreaming. We could see it. We could here it. We could sing it — “April in Paris…”
After my last visit, about a month ago, I bought a coat at Sundance before we went to the airport. I sent her pictures, modeling just as she taught me. “It’s the perfect coat for me,” she said gleefully, “I’ve wanted it my whole life.” The dreams were still alive. I ordered from the airport gate on my iPad.
I’ve heard good things about heaven, but still, I am going to take my mother to Paris. Maybe in spring. She always loved the possibility in bloom.
If you have something to do, do it. If you have something to say, say it. Dream the dreams. Live them out loud if you can. You’ll never be sorry.
She picked me up at the airport yesterday. Out of complete love and respect for my mother, she drove us straight to the Mall of America. She knew her well. Because we shared our friends. My friends loved my mother. And they loved her. I love my mom’s friends, and if I may be so bold (and I think love should be), I think they love me too. I can feel it.
My mom always bought this friend a pair of gloves for Christmas. We all wore them – wear them – these gloves. I like to call them our “Ava Gardners.” We know that true emotion — love, empathy, joy, astonishment, gratitude — are all best expressed with a gloved hand to the heart. So yesterday, this dear friend, took us straight to the glove department of Nordstrom and bought us each a new pair. We laughed and cried, and expressed it all, channeling the elegance of our loveliest shared friend, our most elegant leader, my mother.
For she is the best of us, my mom. She is the hearts on our sleeves. Our lip-lined smiles. Our hands to our hearts. Our hands reaching out. Let me, us, forever make her proud.
Today is one of those days…one of those days when you find yourself in the middle of doing something you never thought you could do. And yet, you’re doing it.
I have never been a big picture person. Step by step. Piece by piece.
When I used to work the New York Gift show, I, joyfully would come home with a stack of orders to fill. It was thrilling, until the reality set it that I actually had to make each piece of art. Box each piece. Each order. Slide down a staircase. Load the car. Drive to to Fed Ex, or UPS, or the post office. Over and over. And I took it all very seriously. I wanted to give them the best products in the most efficient way. I made promises and I was going to keep them. If I looked at the stack as a whole, I could almost make myself throw-up. So I took it one order at a time. Just complete this one. Do your best and then move on. I did it. For decades.
At this moment, I sit alone at the airport in Marseille. Next flight Amsterdam. First order to fill. I can do this. Bit by bit. Step by step. Promises have been made, and I will keep them. I will do my very best. My heart will lead the way.
Everything can be explained away. But why would you want to?
I was walking down the gravel path in Aix. There is a specific sound to footsteps on gravel. Almost a gathering in and a crunch. I know this sound. I grew up on a gravel road. Now, if you google it, it says that Softer surfaces like gravel reduce the force of impact with your running stride and may allow you to recover more quickly from the workout. Plus these softer surfaces require you to use stabilizing muscles that may grow lax on the road or sidewalk. I’m sure all of that is true. For me though, it’s the familiar of it all that helps the most.
Yesterday, desperately in need of this “softening” and “stabilizing,” I set out on our gravel path. Half way on my journey, I saw a sign — painted in yellow on a giant rock. Now I’m sure it can all be explained away. Perhaps it was put up for a running group. Directions for their race. But all I saw was the word “Ivy.” My mother’s name. Ivy. My heart smiled. I was home.
I guess we all choose to see what we want to see. Choose to feel what we want to feel. And for me, today and everyday, I am going to believe in the magic of it all. I’m going to believe in my feet, my heart, and the love that is always out there, leading me on this, sometimes rugged, but always beautiful path.
“If wishes were fishes, we’d all be in the brook.” My grandma used to tell me that. Maybe that’s one reason why I like the water so much.
We closed the pool down for the season. It’s a process. One that I never dreamed I would ever have to learn. Coming from the land of 10,000 lakes, nature took care of all that on her own. We vacuumed and brushed. Swept. Scooped. Added the extra chemicals. Covered it. Then placed a net on top of the cover. I got a little dizzy, bending over, putting the stakes in the ground to hold the net. I leaned against the pool house, gave thanks, and said goodbye to the season. I know another will come. I believe in it.
And in this new season, I will wish new wishes, and be buoyed by all the ones that have come true. And there have been so many. Pools and pools and lakes upon lakes filled with blessings. Oceans have been crossed and filled. I know how lucky I am. When I stop to lean against the sturdy of gratitude, beside still waters, I am saved.
It was our first trip to New York together. After my first show, I was getting my portrait taken by a photographer for a national magazine. This was a lot of first for one trip.
We were both high with excitement. It was all makeup and wardrobe changes and flashing lights. Neither my mom, nor I, could quit smiling. Near the end of the shoot, they even took our picture together. And we both ended up in the magazine!
They had a limo take us to the airport. Another first. I can’t imagine, any previous passengers – even those laced with champagne – could have giggled more than we did. We weren’t even considering airport regulations. I arrived in my last outfit change, which was a red leather jacket (to go with my Slap on a little LIpstick book). It was a very light leather that snapped up the front – technically, it was just a top. And that’s how I wore it. But when we reached the security point, they immediately said I had to take off my “jacket.” But I’m not wearing anything else, I said. Pleaded. And even though I had the laws of fashion on my side, they had the actual law law, so I took it off. Put it in the bin, and walked through with only my bra on. Of course there was a large group of people traveling back to Wisconsin behind me, who found it all quite amusing. I put my “top” back on as quickly as possible. My mom walked through behind me. She looked at me in utter amazement and said, “They would have had to tase me.”
Ensemble was a verb for mother. She loved fashion. When she would come to my apartment in Minneapolis for the weekend, (which could often be just a day and a half) she would have a suitcase, hanging clothes, two or three bags for make-up and moisturizers, a bag for shoes, one for jewelry, and often an extra coat or two, just in case. It seemed exactly right to me. These weren’t “material things.” Those bags held confidence, and joy! They held dreams come true. And dreams to come!
As I am packing my carry-on to come to Minnesota, for a mere few days, I am wondering how to explain all of this to the security guards, as they rifle through my make-up and jewelry. But I will stand tall, knowing everything I really need is already packed in my heart.
But if you see me, the next day off the plane, please forgive my appearance. For there will be jetlag, and it’s quite possible, I will have been tased.
When I first picked up the clarinet, it was completely foreign to me. It didn’t feel securely balanced on my right thumb. It felt wobbly. So instead of just cupping my lips gently on the mouthpiece, I dug in with my front teeth. The marks remain today.
I eventually learned to hold it correctly. To trust the balance. But it didn’t come overnight. It took years. I had to practice daily. I knew I would never be great at it – but that was never really the point. I practiced to be a part of something. The routine was comforting. I knew I would forever hear the music.
When a Benny Goodman song comes on the radio. I understand that I wasn’t the best, but I was a part of this beautiful music. I always will be.
I saw my mom’s picture in the paper today. Oh, how I wanted to love her perfectly. She deserved that. She was Benny Goodman and I was second chair in the fifth grade band. When I see her face, hearing that beautiful music of her heart, I truly know that I wasn’t perfect, but I was a part of that. I was a part of her beautiful heart’s song. And I always will be.
Today, I may wobble, but I trust the balance, the magic of the music, and, oh, how I’m listening.
It was common knowledge on the playground of Washington Elementary that if you skinned your knee, the immediate solution was just to blow on it. Because the monkey bars, swings, jungle gym, all rested on paved ground, this was an everyday occurance. And it was your truest friends who, when the scraped area was just out of reach, took over the duties, and eased the sting with this balm, barely more than air.
I want you to know that I felt that yesterday, as you commented again and again with words of love for my mother.. Each letter, each phrase, relieving the pain of my skinned heart.
We made it through recess together. Limping, hand in sweaty hand, we went back to the classroom with the love and knowledge gained on this sometimes battlefield. It’s comforting to know we can still do that for each other. Thank you, my friends, from the bottom, top and middle, of my ever-healing heart.
I don’t know if it’s ironic, or just plain sad, but the only person I want to call right now, to tell how badly my heart hurts, is my mom.
If you’re a person of a certain age, you probably recognize the similarity to the movie – The Way We Were. Maybe you watched it as a young girl, or you rewatched it through the women of Sex and the City. Barbara Streisand and Robert Redford break up. Sorry if that’s a spoiler. Her heart is broken, and she calls him, telling him, even though they broke up, she just needs him to be her best friend at the moment to get her through this.
I want to make that call. I want my mom to hold me one more time and tell me it will all be ok.
In the movie, Barbara Streisand sees Robert Redford with his new love. She shows a grace unmatched, and simply says, “Your girl is lovely…” — I want some of that grace now.
I believe in the ever after. I believe Heaven got a beautiful new girl. She’s giving her famous twirl for all the world to see. And that makes me so happy. She deserves this – this peace, this love, and so much more! So I breathe deeply, knowing, if Heaven shows their beautiful face today, I will say, with all the grace I have been shown, given, taught by a mother who was nothing but grace itself…I will say the words that have never been more true, “Your girl is lovely…”
