I would often receive pictures of men cut out from the Banana Republic catalog with a note, “He’s on order. Feel free to call him dad.”
I knew my mother’s handwriting. I knew her sense of humor.
I can’t stop smiling as I read through her journals.
July 9th, 1992
“I’m still celebrating my birthday. My philosophy is to live life to the fullest. Don’t just taste or sample it – devour it and have a second helping. Love a lot and laugh a lot. (And since I have not done much loving of late — I’m laughing a lot!!!) I hope before I finish this book I’ll be doing both! Just keep reading.”
While painting a series of portraits in France, I knew exactly what to do with the man in the hat. I made a copy and sent it to my mother. “Sorry for the delay. Your order is on its way.”
Write it. Record it. Memorize it — this soundtrack of laughter with the ones you love. Nothing is lighter than joy. Carry it with you.
There was certainly no time to sew. No time to sketch. With her 8 siblings constantly underfoot, there was barely room to dream. How hers, my mother’s fashion designer dreams, didn’t get buried under the pile of dishes in the sink, the stacks of laundry, the diapers, the farm reports, the never ending mound of “well, someone has to do it…” – this was nothing short of miraculous.
My grandma was very loving. But she didn’t have the time to sit down and tell all nine of her children that they were possible. My mother found that on her own. She dared to step away from the flock. Find her own path. Put down the apron and gather herself in ruffles. And oh, how that farm girl could shine!
This was the gift she gave me. The greatest gift she continues to give me. This idea that it’s OK not to follow. It’s OK to brave that uncharted course. So if you see me, ruffled in France, you know the miracle that got me here. The glorious miracle that didn’t lead, but dared me to wander, dared me to dream. Gave me the strength, the opportunity — the luxury of time to sit down and tell you – you, indeed are possible.
I don’t create a masterpiece every day. Wait, now I have to look up the word masterpiece. If by one definition — something “considered to be the greatest work of a person’s career” — then no, I don’t. But if you look at another — “a supreme achievement” — then maybe yes, maybe I do. Maybe we all do.
I was fumbling through a difficult afternoon yesterday. Emotions tangling my every move. Every step a trip. Everything seemed too big. I didn’t want to do it – any of it. It was all too much. I needed something small. Contained. Doable. 6” x 6”. This seemed reasonable. I could navigate half of a foot. I opened my sketchbook. Reached for a single pencil. No decisions of color or brush. Just hold the pencil. Feathers appeared lightly. Then shading. And it felt familiar. New, but not frightening. Pencil lines became darker. More confident. And there it was. A bird. My bird. My something doable. My moment of getting through. I smile because I get to know — I get to know the effort it took to get through the moment — the effort it took to achieve this tiny bird. To navigate the afternoon, all 6 inches of it — an achievement, nothing short of supreme.
We don’t get to know every inch of every person. I don’t know what you’re tackling today. What you’re trying to get through. But I care. And I understand the effort it takes. And I applaud the efforts! I applaud the masterful achievements — the supreme achievements of our daily lives.
Perched on the new day, I shout to the opening sun, my lifting heart, to each master rising – one and all — Bravo!
Almost a year ago I began preparing…though I didn’t know it at the time.
I had never painted a bird before coming to France. The first one came so easily. And then another. And another. I painted 40. Sold 40. It kept me connected. I was still a part of something. Fluttering, so small, barely more than air in this gigantic French sky, I was not lost. Not alone. My path, this seemingly random flight, was exactly what I needed.
It came as quiet and unannounced as my first bird, this rebuilding of my website nearly a year ago. A new look, a new palette. We hadn’t really planned it, my publisher and I. I was working on a couple of pieces, just a flutter, I suppose, and soon we were redoing the whole site. Building a cohesive palette. Creativity amid the calm. Our motivation, we agreed, was that if you entered, you would want to live there, nestled in. Comforted. Inspired. Loved.
Oh, how I would come to need it. I DO need it. Daily. This palette. And when I think of it, the best part of it all is that these tools of care were busy at work before I even knew I needed them. I breathe in that wow. And rest a minute, nestled on this offered branch, giving thanks for the magic of it all.
Some call it an “art attack.” The official name is Stendhal syndrome. It is said to develop as a result of encountering something overwhelmingly beautiful — so beautiful that it increases your heart rate, and may even cause you to pass out. Stopping time.
I have often been moved to tears in museums, but to date, I have remained on my feet. One of the first places we visited together in France was the studio of Paul Cezanne. We tiptoed in reverence. It is one thing to regard his finished artwork — gorgeous — but to see where it began, to see the traces of work splattered on the floor, the tools used… tools still warmed by creation… I can feel my heart racing as I type. No pictures are allowed inside. Dominique thought himself more clever than the guard sitting in the corner. Just out of pocket, he pointed what he thought to be his silent phone at Cezanne’s workbench. The din of the simulated shutter click bounced off the hallowed walls. We froze. It was no “art attack,” but it was close.
The guard nodded her head. It wasn’t the first time. I suppose we all want to capture the beauty. Somehow. Some way. To stop the time. To keep the beauty from passing. It’s why I paint. Why I write. To keep my grandfather forever reaching for the pipe in his overalls. To keep my aproned grandma in the scent of family dinner. To keep my mother beside me, everywhere. Willing to break the rules of grammar and being. Willing to get paint splattered and covered in creation’s mess. Willing to risk being caught again and again in love’s overwhelming beauty… Forever warm.
My mother was in grade school when she hit Arnie Zavadil in the head with her metal lunch box. He was making fun of her younger brother Tom. She was the eldest daughter of Rueben and Elsie. And she took it seriously. She would later drop “eldest” and trade it in for “prettiest,” when describing her familial role, but she never lost her protective spirit.
I counted on that protective swing my whole life as we navigated through the world, often filled with “taunting Arnies.” Even when she traded in her lunch box for white ruffles, dangling earrings and Red Door perfume. I always felt safe. I felt protected. What a gift she gave us all.
Never underestimate the strength of a Hvezda girl armed with love — she is grace beyond fear.
I have sat cross legged on cement basement floors many times, waiting for a tornado. I have heard sirens. Nestled against transistor radios. Imagining flying cows and houses. Everything in black and white. Waiting for the technicolor of the Wizard of Oz’s ending. Sweaty hands folded, I stayed until given the all-clear. Then climbed the stairs to blue skies.
I never saw one – a tornado – until last night. It was pink. In my dreams. It sped toward the house. Terrifying, but almost beautiful. In full color, right from the start. I waited in the corner. Holding my breath. Wanting to close my eyes… watching. A pink blur passed by the house. I survived.
In moments of imagining the worst, I have been my own tornado. The wind twirling and blowing in my chest. It’s too full. Too much air. I can’t breathe. I blow and I blow, praying to slow it all down. Breathe. Just breathe. Praying for the all-clear. Please give me the all-clear. Eventually I give it to myself. I suppose Glenda was right — “You’ve always had the power, my dear, you just had to learn it for yourself.”
So I learn again and again. To just breathe. To be patient with myself — amid the winds of change. Within my heart’s tornado — it’s almost beautiful — it IS beautiful! I breathe, and climb the stairs.
We were waiting to be served. And waiting. Dishes were clinking and clanking from the chosen few that already had their meals. The Chanhassen Dinner theatre was filled in the dim theatre light. Table by table people were delivered their pre-play food. Of course all were appeased with a complimentary glass of wine. And then another. The kitchen must have been having a problem. No explanations were brought forward. We were getting so hungry, my mother and I.
We loved going to the theatre. We saw almost everything. It wasn’t just about the performance, we had a production of our own. The pre-shopping at Ridgedale or Southdale. The getting dressed while sipping skim vanilla lattes. Make-up. Hair. A dash of perfume. The excitement building. The drive to the theatre. Walking from the parking lot without wrinkling. Everything building toward the peak of receiving this meal. So the additional 30 to 40 minute wait seemed like a lifetime. The extra glass of wine was not in the schedule, and it started to take hold. My mom was getting chattier. Looking over this shoulder and that. “What could be taking so long? Are they ever going to serve us? I don’t understand. This has never happened before…” She couldn’t get the next line out without laughing — the “Don’t they know who we are???” line. Oh how we laughed. Laughed with wine. Laughed without worry. Laughed with the knowledge that we WERE important – the most important of all (at least to each other).
When the plates finally arrived, my mother napkined her lap, (a napkin that was already filled with laughter-tears). I did the same. She sat up straight. I followed. She smoothed out the sleeves of her ultra-white ruffled blouse. She was pure elegance, I thought. She balanced the fork in her polished hand. Lifted the vegetable to her mouth. She nodded in approval as she chewed. Swallowed, and said, “These are the best damn peas I’ve ever had!” I flung my napkin to my face to keep the laughter from snorting out of my nose.
I don’t remember which play it was. I’m sure it was good. But I will never forget those peas. My mother.
We think it’s the big things we will miss. I suppose it never is. Today, share something small with someone you love. A bit of your heart. A giggle. It may just last a lifetime.
My cousins Shawn and Kalee first introduced me to Knox Blox. The Jello (gelatin) that you could eat with your hands. What had previously been limited to spoons, bowls and tables, was now portable. You could run with it. Squeeze it through the space your last baby tooth left behind. Take it downstairs. Outside. It was indestructible really. You could stomp on it. Throw it. Take it in the pool if you like. The only problem, it didn’t taste very good. Soon, the remains of abandoned red rubber lined the Tupperware container, and we set off to carry the impossible.
There seems to be a lot of people running around this world with hearts made of Knox Blox. No worries. No consequences. And I have envied them at times. Me, struggling with spoonful after spoonful of fragile feelings. But if given the chance, I wouldn’t change it. I want to feel and taste it all. Even this sweet pain of love and loss.
I suppose we all knew, even then, it wasn’t going to be easy. But we didn’t crave easy. We hungered for the challenges under the summer sun. We craved the skinned knees and knuckles. The sun-burned shoulders. Legs that wobbled weary at the end of the day. We wanted it all. Each morning, the screen door slamming behind us, we dared the day. Dared our hearts. To bring it all. Feel it all.
With eyebrows raised, the sun smiles in my direction. OK, I say. Heart and hands full, I reach for the door.
Mr. Opsahl’s art room was lined with windows. Street level. In all the other classrooms of Washington Elementary, you would be reprimanded for staring out the window. But not here. Not in the art room. We were encouraged to look at everything. Even out the window. Find your palette, he said. I’m not sure we even knew what that meant, but to be free to wander, beyond the glass — glass smudged with eager hearts and fingers — this was something! He gave us, not just a way beyond, but a way home.
My palette has changed from time to time. From year to year. Adapting to the ever changing needs of hearts and fingers. Today I live here. In the calm of blues and greens, browns, tans, beiges and taupes. Grays and creams. All things natural. Telling myself — all is as it should be. Resting in earth and sky. The here and there melding together. One. A gift I was given. A gift I continue to give.
Take a look around. Find your palette. Give yourself permission to create the world you need. Dare to smudge the windows with hopes and dreams. Find your colors of comfort and beyond. Find your way home.
