She was trying to make a disparaging point about a certain group of people, but she didn’t want to actually come out and say it. The image was on my business card that sat on the table. “You know…one of those…” she said pointing at my woman in the blue scarf. “Italian?” I questioned, because that’s who I painted, an Italian woman. We both knew she meant a Muslim. (Thrown by the scarf, I guess.) “Oh, no…” she stammered. And the subject ended. Or had it begun?
I suppose we all see what we want to see.
The name of this painting is, “Nothing here I can’t rise above.” It is meant to convey hope and strength. The willingness to look beyond and above. So if I ask that of others, I must ask that of myself. It would have been easy for me to say, “Oh, so you’re one of “those” – meaning something entirely different, but still derogatory. (Oh how those “those“s can get us into trouble.
She didn’t want to be full of hate. Neither did I. So we continued the conversation. Different angles. Different topics. Finding common ground in what we all really want, nowhere near the ground actually, but somewhere above. And that was the point of it after all, to rise above.
When I saw the photo of the Italian, paired with my lake scene, I thought of this conversation day. Because I do feel buoyed, indeed. We can do this — come together. It is a choice to rise. Daily. And above.
It let out a small scream when I opened the door. I guess even a microwave knows when it’s over. My grandma let out the same sound when she scooped up the dice after I lost my turn in the game she said I would one day understand. I picked up a few rules in between squeals, but I’m not sure I really ever understood — until maybe yesterday.
I thought it was the first gift of any substance that I gave to my Grandma Elsie. I moved several times after college. Microwave and large books on Shakespeare in tow. The third apartment had a built-in microwave. It was my mother who told me the timing was perfect — that grandma’s had just died. Of course she could have this one. I was so happy that I finally had something to give.
It was back when things used to last. Maybe she still had it when she passed away. I never really checked. What she did have was a piece of bark with straw flowers glued into the ridges that stood on her nightstand. An art project I had made in the fifth grade. It turns out I was wrong — I had given her something, long before the microwave, with a much greater value.
Today we will go buy a new microwave. We will have to dispose of this one. I asked Dominique how much it weighs this morning at the breakfast table. He said it was a two hand operation. I smiled, thinking that it could be picked up in one Elsie swoosh. It’s just a microwave. I think I understand the game a little more each day.
I was nervous to take the test. If I didn’t get it right, then what did anything mean? The podcaster explained how it would work. A professional author was being challenged by Artificial Intelligence. Both were given the same prompts. Each was to write a short story. Without giving away the authors, both stories were going to be played and it was up to us, the listeners, to guess between human and AI.
The first story began. Immediately specific and elegant. My heart quickly raised its hand with an “ooooo, ooooo,” convinced that it knew this had to be the human author. Hold on, my brain urged, but when they reached the part where, on the dating app, the man texted the woman that he made eye contact with the woodpecker that sat on the horse, simply to explain what sort of mountain biker he was, even my brain had to concede that this must be the human. (It sounds a little crazy without context, but it was delightful). The second story began. It had all the prompts. Contained the right words. Seemed grammatically efficient — so efficient that it was boring. One might say, artificial.
The podcaster began talking with the human author. Which one did you write? The first one, she answered. My all’s right with the world angels sang in perfect harmony. I shook my head in constant agreement when the podcaster said the second story – the AI one – lacked soul. Yes! I thought, maybe even out loud.
I am not afraid of AI. It will be able to perform all sorts of tasks. Quickly. Efficiently. I suppose what I am more afraid of are the humans that spew out, with the same ease and speed, words of hurt and destruction. Dehumanizing others, as if neither had a soul. And I am afraid of the humans that hear these words and simply fall in line.
For me, I’m not willing to throw it all away so quickly. It takes a long time to build a soul. And constant upkeep. I know I’m getting older. With a little grace, I hope I’m getting wiser. I know for sure that we have to begin and begin again. We have to trust in it, follow it, nurture it along the path, and when we find ourselves, shoes deep in gravel on the side of a mountain, the heart yelling, “ooooo, oooooo,” and the soul yelling, “Look, a woodpecker on a horse!” — we have to listen!
The brain agrees. Nods gently. Never breaking eye contact with the soul.
It’s rare, but on occasion, in a morning fog, the Sainte Victoire mountain can disappear. It’s supposed to be there when I turn and look at the bottom of the hill. And of course it is, but it’s alarming for that moment when I can’t see it. And how fast a brain can travel within instability. I am no longer at the bottom of the Montaiguet, but in Herberger’s basement, head swimming in a rack of hanging garments, searching for the steady and sure permanence of my mother’s legs. I shoo away sleeves with my waving hands, trying to clear a path to safety. Hangers give a high pitch squeal as they scrape against metal, and my heart, if it only could, tries to send up the same signal. Tagged with the Herberger’s Rose, the clerk grabs my hand. “Now, c’mon, you’re a big girl…no need for this.” But fear has a way of making you small, and I shook my head no. Of course she was only a couple of discount racks away, but the relief was the scale of soldiers returning from war, and I ran into her arms that were extended, as long and as welcoming as a mother’s could be.
I beg the clouds to move. I give them a “shoo” with my panicked heart’s extension. I am frozen at the bottom of the hill. I want to be big. I am not big. I just need a glimpse. A tiny outline of the mountain. A sign to know that it is still here. (That my mother is still here.) I return in the warmth of the afternoon. The clouds have broken. The mountain that never left is clear and in sight and I am ever held. In a big girl world, my heart squeals easily, not from fear, but in love.
After finishing their portrait, I wasn’t sure that I would ever see them again. They didn’t even know I had done it. I carried the knowledge in my pocket, and a picture on my phone, and walked each day hoping to see them on the path. One day passed. Then three. Then a week. Knowing good news doesn’t really spoil, (and I was going to walk anyway) I made my loop each morning and afternoon.
Then I saw it. A flash of his white hat just around the bend. I scrolled quickly through my phone. Had my photo at the ready. They smiled, already surprised that I had stopped them – “excusez-moi-ed” into their journey. I went quickly through the list I had run over in my head — artist, painting, portrait — and I showed them the photo. “Fantastique!” And let me sound it out for you — Fan-tas-TEEK! I play it over in my head daily. I told them I would give it to them. The younger of the two told me that they walk on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. The next Monday, I packed it up and went for my walk. I didn’t see them. I brought it back home. On Tuesday, I went empty handed in the afternoon and climbing the hill, an elderly woman pulled up slowly in her car. My first thought was, oh know, she’s going to want directions, and want them in French. Still, I took out my earpod as she rolled down her window. She asked if I was the artist. Relief turned into joy. Yes, I beamed. It was a fast jumble of her husband spoke about it all weekend and where was I Monday and they will be walking on Wednesday…and I couldn’t stop smiling. It never rains here, but of course Wednesday morning I woke up to clouds. Not to be deterred, I packed it in plastic, grabbed my umbrella, and hit the gravel. Protected by preparation, it never rained. I was nearing my turn around when I finally saw them. Coo-coo-ed them from behind and ran up to give them the portrait.
Do I miss the painting? Sure. A little. But the place it had in my heart has been completely filled by this random connection. And isn’t that the way with love, giving it away never leaves us empty, but fills us even more.
It’s like they think they’ll be safe or something, these people who never dare a connection, but what they are, is simply alone. It is a risk, for sure, to expose your heart, your gifts, but the greater risk, I think, is to not. A heart that doesn’t love, is simply an unplayed piano. Nothing fantastique about that.
“I can’t take the chance that you don’t know how much it means to me, you carrying my hopes like precious cargo, and traveling with me to dreams come true…so I will tell you again and again, as if it were the first time, “It is an honor, it is a privilege, it is a joy, to share with you the path.”
All papers are different. Some work better with water colors. Others, pencil. Acrylics. Pastels like it a little rough. If gessoed, you can use oil. I dance through all of them. Mixing. Matching. Stumbling. One working better than the other. Some not at all. But every once in a while, the color goes on so perfectly, so easily, so accepting of all my imperfect strokes. And the beautiful irony is, this doesn’t lock me in, but sets me free. It dares me to try. To move forward. To experiment. To attempt. To get better.
I had three such “papers” growing up. My grandfather. My grandmother. My mother. All so very different. One stable. One carefree. One dancing between. And when I came to each, of course I tested them as a child will test any paper. Will you love me if…? Each one did. No matter what I scribbled. They loved me.
Even with all this love. This undeniable proof, I’m not proud of the fact that I can still worry. But I learn the lesson, again, and for the first time, daily. In the midst of creation, I forget all of the what ifs, and get completely gathered in the what is — and what is it? — beautiful. Even on the roughest of days, I have to laugh and think, today, I’m a pastel.
Just writing the words, “worry less. create more.” — the curve of each letter carries the love that dares me to try.
It was an Italian woman who sent a message to me in France, after purchasing a picture of mine in the USA — the piece, “On her way.” There are no barriers of language or obstacles of distance, when we speak and listen with the heart.
Yesterday I bought wax to seal envelopes, with the symbol of a laurel. Knowing the words are indeed the laurels, the symbols of triumph, that we must never rest upon. It’s easy to forget about the handwritten letter, when it’s so simple to text, to email, or to do nothing at all. And I am just as guilty. Oh, I still wish for the letter each day as I head to the mailbox. But it’s rare that I send one. But I was fueled by the words in Italian and French and English and I was indeed on my way. Laurels at hand and heart.
I need to do it more often. It feels so good. To take the time. I smiled seeing the dancer on the front of my card, picturing her at her recital. Tickled when I found the purple marker, recalling the color of her bedroom walls. Writing slowly without distortion, knowing she would be sounding out the words in English, her newly second language. Heating the wax. Pressing in the laurel. Walking to the mailbox, just after the untimely rain. My heart was on its way.
I like it when you tell me that you sit down each morning with your coffee. Open your tablet or phone, and read the words I have written. In a sea of posts that are meant to offend and humiliate, to separate and push, please know that my effort is always meant to include and gather, to connect and lift. I may not always succeed, (“get there” as they say), but if you can see me, within the wax and the walk, you will know my heart is on the way.
“So then my brush goes between my fingers as if it were a bow on the violin and absolutely for my pleasure.”
I ran into my grandma’s kitchen. If the screen door slamming wasn’t enough to convey my fury, I clenched my fists firmly by my hips and screamed over the motor mixing the dough. “But I gave her all of my candy!” My grandma put down her spatula and turned off the mixer. A blending of cousins ran around the summer grass. I wanted to make friends with the girl arriving from Illinois, so I filled my pocket from the Lazy Susan, I explained — Slowpokes, Sugar Daddies and Babies. I gave them all to her, in exchange, I thought, for immediate friendship, but she ran off to play with my cousin from a Minneapolis suburb. “They are sitting under the apple tree right now, eating my candy!” My grandma looked down at me and smiled, “You mean eating MY candy.” I shook my head reluctantly — she had a point. She wiped her hand on her apron before tossling my enhanced summer blonde. “Always be a cheerful giver,” she said. I turned to make my way to the front door. “Hey,” she said, and pointed with her head to the corner cabinet. “There’s plenty more.” I filled my pockets again. She had given me everything I needed, and candy too.
Be it gift or heart, I’m not proud to say that I have to learn the lesson quite often, to be a cheerful giver. Sharing with no sense of obligation. With no demand of return. Just loving. Even with and to myself. To do things, out of pure pleasure, without condition.
I painted the violin chair with no expectation. Well, maybe one — joy. When I sold it, I heard my grandma say, ever so cheerfully, “Hey!”
I want to hold her – this little girl that sits in front of me. Tiny tears cling to her eyelashes, knowing that if they fall, so will the secret — the one she kept, mostly from herself. One salty drop lands upon her thigh, and she says she had told her mother that she didn’t want to have a babysitter anymore. Not this one anyway. But she couldn’t tell her why. She couldn’t say that this young woman frightened her. Wanted her to do bad things. Dirty things. She couldn’t say that she took her behind the barn, (where nothing good ever happened.) I suppose that’s what they always count on, that you won’t be able to say anything. And what she couldn’t say then, she says to me now. She tells me. And I want to hold this little girl. Pick her up. Wipe away tears and replace them with promises. But she has already grown. She has already peaked only bangs above covers during sleepless nights. She has already learned to pocket the secret and dilute it with morning’s light. Learned to take care of her little sisters. No one else would watch them but her. She has already grown into a woman who carries her own children. Who carries me.
Maybe there always comes a time when the lines become blurred. For mothers and daughters. Sisters. Friends. When we’re all just little hearted girls, trying to hold on, trying to let go, daring both. Trusting each other with tears and stories.
I trusted my mother. And she trusted me. It would be easy for the story to end there, but it can’t. I won’t let it. Not for me. Nor you. Not for any little girl, no matter what her age. We must be the sisters who keep them safe. Tuck them in with stories of hope and joy, of kindness and progress and freedom and learning…so heads and hearts remain above covers — all night long, and all the days after.
I wander in and out, around every barn. I am safe because of her. I reach out my hand, so you can feel the same.
I have no memory of a childhood watch. It seemed as if there would always be time.
The hours first came to me in black and white, hanging large and round on the classroom wall at Washington Elementary. I’m sure we had a clock at home, but that was for my mother, not me. I didn’t even have one in my bedroom. She was my clock, waking me in time to get breakfasted and bused. Calling me in for dinner. Nudging me towards bedtime.
It was my first foreign language, as Mrs. Strand held up the cardboard clock, moving the hands, giving us the “befores” and “afters”… ten before eight, five after three… It took weeks before it became part of our vocabulary… but never as important as the word recess.
And it wasn’t just me. The Norton girls raced after the bus with hair dripping, in the wintertime frozen. The Schulz boys rubbed out their last cigarette to the sound of the air brakes of the bus. All still under the assumption there would be time.
It was only my grandparents who said it — perhaps they were the only ones old enough to know. As we rushed through meals, or raced through hallways, “Take your time,” they urged. How could we?
We eventually tried to trap it in boxes. Clock radios. Then cell phones. We can watch it constantly now, but it was never meant to be contained.
The sun comes up and Mrs. Strand is as near to me as the French path I will walk after breakfast. My mother’s voice in my heart. Every school day under foot, as clear as black and white. I will try not to, but I will race through the day. Stopping only to wonder, what did Grandma Elsie say?
