I suppose the combinations are near infinite. Paper and paint. For a Christmas gift I received this tablet and a set of pastels. The person who bought them together wasn’t wrong. It was printed right there on the box and the tablet cover. They were supposed to get along. But I didn’t love how the pastels felt against it. The paper didn’t seem to want to hold the delicate medium. A few days ago I started using acrylics with this paper. Instant love. The paint grabbed onto the surface like it was meant to be there. The paper welcomed it home. The combination worked perfectly, without the “should haves” and “supposed tos” of the manufacturer’s suggestions.
When I was younger, I wasted a lot of time trying to fit into these guidelines. Trying to make people love me the way I needed to be loved. Or possibly worse, accepting “love” that I knew would never hold. It wasn’t until I let go, that it all started to come together. I let go of the norms. The rules placed upon me, or maybe the rules I placed upon myself. Either way, I released them. And everything that was once forced became natural. Became Art. Became Love. Beautiful.
Love, real love, is never wrong. You get to decide on your family, your friends, your life. And when you find it, it will just work. Without force, it will hold. You will be held in the open arms of “welcome home.”
As someone who grew up in the ice and snow of a Minnesota winter, I consider myself a bit of an expert, but through the years I have found nothing to be as slippery as old habit.
I decided to take a new path yesterday. I turned left instead of right out of our driveway. Across the bridge then towards the city. Cars raced past me. It was louder. The sidewalk seemed a little harder. Maybe I should just turn back, I thought. But I kept going. Turned to go down the embankment. I could hear the sound of the river. Bienvenue, it rolled. The ground softened. The colors brightened. I stopped thinking and started looking. Flowers were new. Listening. Two young girls giggled as they waded in the sea of white flowers. It’s hard not to smile when you hear giggling. And soon everything seemed to be — the water, the trees, the fountain, the birds — they were all in on it…
There are days, I must admit, when my brain wanders down a negative path. And it knows the way. So easily it can slide. And replay the tapes of negativity. Over and over. Step after slippery step. I’m getting better at catching it – before I slide too far. I really have to take a sharp turn to a new thought. And it can be as simple as changing rooms. Reading a book in a new chair. Going outside. Turning left.
As uncomfortable as change can be, it may also be the gift we are looking for. The gift we can’t seem to find sliding down the same old path. A butterfly kissed my cheek just before arriving back home. I get it. The universe wants us to be happy!
Some might lose their way today. If you’re able, be the giggle that walks beside, then leads them home.
I’m not sure I thought it was so beautiful, when I walked alongside Hugo’s field behind our house. But the song Mr. Iverson taught us at Washington Elementary said so, “Oh beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain…” Neither had lied to me before, so I Iooked long and hopeful, as my sunburned legs brushed against the amber.
I was yet to see the ocean, but for in books. And in those books they spoke of the tide. The magical way it rolled out, rolled back in…and some said, within this magic, you could let go of all your worries, your problems, and the waves would take them out to sea, and return to you, free from them all, freeing you as well.
I was in need of some of that freedom. I walked as closely to the field as I could. Hugo didn’t want us inside. I imagined it was so we didn’t trample on the magic. That made sense. I only let it brush against me. Praying it was enough to latch on. Praying the wind could make the grain actually wave. Praying it could take away the noise of our house. The argument shook walls that creaked late into the night. The noises that worked themselves into fear and then, as if to taunt, lay deep inside my muscles.
I didn’t know how big an ocean was. Was it bigger than Hugo’s field? I could see across it. Maybe it wasn’t big enough. Maybe it wasn’t even real, but I kept walking. I continued my solo prayer. To say the words out loud seemed too dangerous. As if these words might be the final noise to break the last board holding our fragile house together. I walked and whispered.
We moved from VanDyke Road. I like to believe it was the wave that carried us. Again. And again. From the gravel to the tar. The field to the city. From the noise of fear to the sound of possibility. To Lake Michigan. Then the oceans, Atlantic and Pacific. Then across the sea.
Yesterday, I was readying for my afternoon walk, in France. Ear buds. iPhone. Tennis shoes. I am not proud to say that my thighs were heavy with something that was best let go. It can still happen. Then it nudged me – a tiny wave perhaps – and I reached for the book of poetry next to my phone. I read the lines in French. Could that be right? Did I have the French words right in my head?
“Où même les roseaux répétaient leurs prières Que reprenaient de plus plus fort et plus loin les oiseaux”
I went to the translation poem.
“Where even the reeds repeated their prayers Which the birds took up louder and farther on”
I smiled. The magic was real. Had been real all along. I walked lighter in the afternoon wave.
When I got back home, I decided to paint this little bird. A little bird that carried my prayer of only this — thank you.
“Thank you.” Up it went, and farther on, into the oh, so beautiful, spacious skies.
I always knew I was fast on my bicycle, until Hardware Hank’s had a sale on speedometers. Before my brother secured it to the handle bars, I had my own way to gauge the speed. I sang. I knew two complete songs from Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark album, thanks to the constant play on my sister’s stereo. I knew how many verses it took to get past the gravel of VanDyke road to the smooth pavement. How many verses it took to get through the cemetery to the fairgrounds. I sang and sang. Past the tanks. Up to big Ole. Down Main Street. Each segment had a song. A lyric. A melody. I had created a soundtrack to the movie of my life.
The first ride that I watched the needle rise was rather amusing. I had a number now. Something real, I suppose. But then I stopped singing. And only watched the speedometer. My eyes darting from the road to the needle. Up and down. I began to miss it all. So focused on the number, I missed it all. The signs in Ben Franklin’s window. The girls laughing outside the Dairy Queen. The boys pushing outside Hardee’s. No music. Only a number.
I guess I learned pretty early on. It was always about the journey. And I didn’t want to miss it. I still don’t. It’s so easy to get caught up in the race of it all. Have to get here. Have to do this. Clock racing. Calendar flipping. And soon the music of it all disappears. Until I sing. Slow it all down and listen. Look around. Stepping. Riding. Living in the moment. In the movie of my heart.
Breathing heavy. Unsatisfied, I dropped my bike into our driveway. I found a screwdriver in the garage. Smiled with each turn. Dropped the barely used speedometer into the junk bin beside the car. And began to sing.
I never considered our family broken. What a crazy word to call a family. Was it a big fat mess at times? Sure. Of course. But none of us really wanted to be fixed. Only loved.
It was like my grandma’s kitchen. Dirty dishes in the sink. Ingredients never measured, simply added. Meals made out of seemingly nothing at all. Plates cracked and clinking. Forever a table full. A pot boiling. A dishrag dirty. In a constant state of preparation, but rarely prepared.
My grandfather soaked the last bit of sauce from his plate with a piece of bread and went back to work in the field. Guided by a belly full and ever changing weather, he too, created, farmed, something out of nothing.
We had a smaller table than the one at the farm. And quieter. Only 5 of us. And we weren’t prepared when our family of five suddenly became two. Of course my mom was hurt. I was scared. And the table changed. But we weren’t broken. We found a new way to love. To live. Our place at the table.
If you’re reading this, there is nothing that you haven’t survived. All those things, those changes, those unbearable times…you have gotten through. I write it to remind myself as I foolishly order up the “worry du jour.” As I try to “fix” it all. It’s not broken, I repeat and repeat. It’s only life. It’s only love. Take a seat at this beautiful new table.
I remember the last coffee my mom and I had with my grandma. She was sitting at her round table when we opened the door. An empty cup with coffee grounds just within reach. I bent down to hug her. She reached up her arms to grab hold. So frail. She started to push herself up against my shoulders. “No, no… you don’t have to get up.” “Yes, I do,” she said, “You’re here.” I knew I was loved.
Most of her cups were stained. Not dirty, but showed the years of use. We took two from the cupboard and sat with her. I had just sold a painting. I remember telling her for how much, and she made the big “OOOOOH” sound with her rounded mouth and clapped her hands together. With that one sound, I received more than any payment.
It wasn’t long before her head was asleep against her fist. We washed the cups and helped her to bed. The waft of coffee and love followed us out the door.
I suppose that’s why I write the stories each day — to keep the smell of love brewed alive and following. My grandma’s love. My mother’s love.
Not that long ago, I was struggling through the tears of tenderness. I was writing this daily blog. A dear friend told me, “You don’t have to do it every day.” “Yes, I do,” I replied, “She was here.”
If you’ve been a follower, it probably won’t alarm you to hear that we moved Uncle Wally into the back yard. (Uncle Wally is our baby Walnut tree who is not such a baby any more.) It’s not surprising how easily and quickly he outgrew his space by the front door. But we were more than a little amazed at the strength and depth of his roots.
On hands and knees we dug for three days. The impressive tangles crept deeper and deeper. Impossible to just pull. So this is how he did it. Does it. Stands against the Mistral (the winds of provence).
There are times in life when we are asked to do the same. Forced to dig to the very depths of our soul and hang on. And it’s hard and it’s messy, but when you find it, when you get to the roots of your very heart and soul, and see how strong they really are…it’s then you stand a little taller. A little stronger. It’s then you have the strength to not only withstand the wind, but provide a stable force for someone else. Someone still fresh in the dig.
We can do this for ourselves. For each other. I think we’re meant to. Grab hold. Dig deep. It’s nature at its finest.
We had to trim our olive tree down to almost nothing. It was growing into the shade of a large pine tree. It just wouldn’t be able to survive in all that darkness. It was hard to watch as each branch fell to the ground. But it has a chance now. A chance to grow in the other direction. A chance to thrive in its own light.
He cut a thin slice of one branch for me. I began sanding. First with the 40. Then the 80. The 120. Change doesn’t always come quickly. Two days of sanding, and it is cheek brushing smooth. This olive branch lives on as a coaster on my desk. The desk that faces the window. The window that shows the olive stump. The olive stump that has a chance at new life.
Change can sometimes feel like a chainsaw to our limbs. But it’s often our only chance to grow. And we don’t always get to be ready. But we do get to decide — decide whether these will be growing pains, or simply pain. I choose growth. May we all choose growth.
The sun is coming up. I drink from the cup that rests on the coaster that came from the tree that waves to me with its hopeful limb. Welcome to the garden!
They put just a little bit of rhubarb on the top of the tuna. The waiter described in French why the chef likes the combination, but after one glass of wine from the local vineyard, there was really no need for explanations. It was delicious, but more than that, transportive.
My grandmother grew rhubarb in her garden. Just as easily as you could see it from her kitchen window, I can see it today. The large pink stalks. I suppose it was the color I loved. I can’t remember ever eating it. I could paint a picture of that garden. The apple trees. The lawn. The garage. The barn. The chicken coop. The fences. The cows. The cowpies. The house. The doors. The stairs. It’s all inventoried and locked in my brain. These are the true gifts.
Of course she gave us presents. Each birthday we got a crisp five dollar bill in the mail. Even when I had moved away. Old enough to have my own apartment. My own job, it would arrive right on time. An envelope, with the handwriting I recognized as hers. I don’t know what I did with the money. Maybe a coffee at Starbuck’s. But I saved the envelopes. Her handwriting. Still with me in France. Forever written on my heart.
After the sugar rush of Easter Sunday, Margaux sat by me on the sofa. I was thumbing through the pictures on my ipad. She let out an audible gasp of joy. I stopped on the painting of my mom’s blouse hanging on the clothesline. Because she knew it. She knew the place. It was a part of her heart now. My heart gasped along in time, because we had given her that. It wasn’t the chocolate or any other presents, but it was the life here. The life that blew from my grandparent’s farm, to my mother’s apartment, across the sea, to the line behind our house — it was all a part of her heart’s inventory now. There was no need for explanation.
It’s all in the details. My grandma knew this. My mother as well. I hope I can live in the same way. Give in the same way. Love in the same way, because the stakes are high — our hearts, forever on the line.
We felt like we knew a secret. Decoding DKNY. Donna Karan New York. She was one of the first designers displayed as you entered City Center in downtown Minneapolis. My mom and I thought it was like entering the magic kingdom. The greatest part was that we shared the key.
We spent most of our time in the designer sections. We couldn’t afford to buy it. We couldn’t afford to miss it. We tried on everything. And the matching shoes. It was never about having, it was about seeing. Experiencing. Adoring, not only the clothes, but this time together.
Yesterday, walking in Aix en provence, I was listening to a podcast. It was the designer that first helped Donna Karan launch her brand. They were both just starting out. Both New Yorkers, with all the love that entails. The designer listened as Karan expressed her love for New York, as they sat under the Brooklyn Bridge. It reminded him of the story of why he was in love with this city. As a young boy, his grandfather — a fishmonger — would bring him to this bridge in the middle of the night. They set up for the early morning sales. His grandfather gave him this bridge. Gave him this dream. With this beating inside of him, it was so natural, so easy for him to create the branding for Donna Karan. He included the image of the bridge. The words New York. And gave birth to both of their careers.
I imagine my mother, sitting in my grandfather’s pickup. Sweaty legs against the vinyl seat, at the last stoplight before turning into town. Waiting anxiously for him to put the truck into gear, place his foot on the gas, and take her across the “Brooklyn Bridge” of her heart and into the city of Alexandria.
He took her to Alex. She took me to Minneapolis. I eventually took her to New York. Love always leads us. Helps us cross over, to the beauty that lies ahead.
