They’re very good about marking their notables in Paris. Carved on the sides of buildings. Voltaire lived here. Voltaire died here. I’m not sure everyone notices. They are perhaps too occupied, trying to get the hand placement right on the photograph so it looks like their finger is placed atop the pyramid outside the Louvre.
And as I stand there, in this sea of outstretched arms and index fingers, I shake my head at myself — wondering if it matters. Me, standing there too, but with my new Degas sketchbook, and Voltaire notebook, lifted by the these lives, feeling their presence still. Immersed in the joyful responsibility of doing more. Because of them.
And I do feel it – them – the others that have come before. Those that have made the paintings. Wrote the books. Dared the thoughts. Lived the lives. I have to believe it all matters.
I sent my Minneapolis friend the photograph of me in Paris, wearing her blazer jacket. Layered over my mother’s blouse, and the t-shirt I purchased at The Walker in my home state. She replied – “The jacket! I’m with you!” — all the proof I needed that it does matter — to carry the ones who once carried us, who lift us still.
Margaux is a thirteen year old sponge and the daughter of Dominique’s oldest. She joyfully absorbs everything. Notices everything. And I mean the important things. Like new shoes I’m wearing. Or a bracelet. If my French is improving. And I think the thing that is most spectacular, she not only notices it, she mentions it. (If compliments were supplied in the French grocery store, they would be in the “exotic” aisle, bottom shelf.) It’s just not their culture. But Margaux lives in pure Margaux fashion, so when we stepped into the elevator of the parking ramp in Aix, upon seeing her reflection, I said, “Hello, Gorgeous!” And greeted myself the same way.
She helps me with my French, I help her with her English. But most importantly, we lift each other in the girliest, giggliest, and most joyful of ways. I repeated the phrase, and I told her this is something she must say to the mirror every morning.
It circled through our rotation as we shopped. Sometimes even directed to Dominique. With her French tongue, it took a little practice, but by the time we returned to the parking ramp, it rolled from her head and heart and into the elevator mirror. And so did the laughter. When we hugged and said our gorgeous goodbyes, we all knew we had stumbled upon something pretty special.
The next morning, I was awakened by a text. A rare text from her. You can probably guess, but it’s too spectacular not to type — she said — “Hello, Gorgeous!” I clutched my imaginary pearls, as my heart reflected back to me — no mirror necessary.
Love comes in so many shapes and sizes. Even languages. We must see it. Hear it. Acknowledge it when it comes. And when love’s light reflects and bounces from heart to heart, showing up in smiles and giggles, how could we do anything but look it straight in the face, and say, “Hello, Gorgeous!”
David Holte was my best friend on Van Dyke Road. This was all before we started questioning things. Like why there was a big mound of dirt next to his house. Why was it fun to move that dirt around? I never asked him where his parents were, or what they did. Neither of us wondered if boys and girls could actually be friends.
Once school started, everything began to change. It only took one ride of teasing before we stopped sitting together. I don’t know if he missed me. Again, we didn’t ask things like that. He sat with the boys and showed them how he could touch his nose with his own tongue, a trick once reserved just for me. And I sat with girls in dresses and patent leather shoes, homework tucked neatly on my lap.
I don’t know if he moved away before I stopped missing him, or just the opposite. But somewhere around the fifth grade, a new David moved into the neighborhood. Barbie had become my best friend. We shared everything. Sleepovers and pajamas. Secrets and homework. She lived in Victoria Heights. We spoke on the phone for hours each night. The cord wrapped around our heads, going over the day’s events in the team room of Washington Elementary.
I assumed it was one of her sisters on the phone, the first time I called and got a busy signal. When it began to happen more frequently, I asked her about it. She said it was David Wyatt — the new David on Van Dyke Road. The innocence of my “Holte” period had long passed. We were questioning things. About friendships and boys and girls. And in the sound of that busy signal, I could feel everything changing.
It had been several days since we talked (which is a lifetime in fifth grade). So when the phone rang about 5:30pm, I raced through the kitchen to grab it from the wall. It was her. I took off into conversation. About Wendy and Lori and Kyle and Chris… and this week’s spelling trip. But she stopped me abruptly. She wasn’t at home. She was calling from the neighbor’s house. Why? She began to explain that she had been on the phone with David. My heart already began to sink. He must have forgotten to hang up the phone, she said, because they were still connected. The lines tied. She wanted me to walk to his house and tell him to hang up the phone. This is why she called. Of course I was devastated. Of course I did it anyway. Dragging my feet in the gravel. It was his sister Taffy who opened the door. I explained the situation. She found David and smacked him on the back of the head before putting the receiver back in its proper place on the wall.
So everything was in place. And I felt completely lost.
I don’t know when the Wyatts left Van Dyke Road. Probably not long before we did. I mention it only because never have we been more dependent on our cell phones. Lost without them. When really, it’s always been about our connections, not the objects that connect us.
Surrounded by doubt and questions, the world will forever keep changing. But one thing remains constant, sure, our need to be seen, to be heard, to be surrounded by those who say, for you, I’m not too busy.
There’s no easy way around it. (And I’ve looked. Googled.) The current painting I’m working on has a stretch of gravel road. Without the luxury of pavement, nor good intentions, it is but a lesson in patience. Pebble by pebble.
I must admit that I was a bit embarrassed of our gravel as a child. Van Dyke Road remained wild and loose for most of my youth. And I have the scars to prove it. But I was able to recognize the thrill of the change. Half way on my bike ride to town, just off of Van Dyke Road, right in front of Lord’s big gray house, it was tarred, and down hill. No more popping pebbles beneath my tires. I began to fly. My long blonde hair making a trail behind me. Weaving in and out of the geese beside the lake before the railroad tracks. Pushed and propelled all the way to the feet of Big Ole at the beginning of Main.
Would I have appreciated the sleek, black surface as much, if I hadn’t begun on the gravel? Possibly. But I’m not sure. I think about it as I stumble along this new painting. Anticipating the speed to come. The thrill to come. And it will, all too quickly. Will I remember each pedal, each stroke? I hope so. It’s the journey after all.
And not showing you yet, this unfinished painting, you get to ride the gravel beside me. Waiting. Watching. Imagining. That’s the gift I offer today. Sweet anticipation. Hang on. Soon we will fly.
It wasn’t until I mastered the sleep-over that I understood most people set their clocks to the actual time. My mother had her own time zones. Her bedroom alarm clock was set 20 minutes ahead. The bathroom about ten. And the kitchen five. Maybe it arose from the days when sleep eluded her. When a smile had to be painted on before it could be followed. When there were no extras to be found, not in heart, mind nor pocketbook, she created them herself on the faces of each clock.
The time changed here in France early this morning. Most of the clocks change themselves now. Our phones and iPads. Our computers. It’s 8:08 on my iPad. I glanced up at the screen saver on my computer and on full display was what could only be explained as my mother’s hand, 8:09.
It reminds me. She reminds me. Time means nothing. It’s what we do with the time. We get to decide.
It didn’t matter the season, my mother always chose to “spring ahead.” To give herself a head start when facing any challenge. Whenever I feel the stress of time, I reach into the pocket of 20s, 10s and 5s, that she gathered for us through the years, and I, just like those minutes, am saved.
It probably wasn’t obvious, given the size and gender — and the Hvezda boys, these strapping sons of Rueben, these born of the earth, farm raised young men, quite probably held their own in the country school just up the road — but I would have to say that it was my mother on more than one occasion who proved to be strongest.
And she was tired. She, being the second of nine, and the oldest girl, worked side by side her mother. Washing the continuous dishes. Changing the diapers. Retrieving the dolls thrown up apple trees by brothers endlessly tormenting sisters. Her arms weary from rocking and cradling babies she didn’t choose, but took in, one by one.
But those arms, that dangled long and heavy by her side, weighted by work, and books, and a metal lunchbox, found the strength to defend her brother Tom, from the endless teasing of Arne Zavadil. He never saw her coming, as he pushed and taunted this young boy struggling with words. He never expected this quiet, arm-weary sister to rise up from the ditch in front of the white school house and swing that metal lunch box with all of might, and flatten him to the ground. She wiped the blood from the lunch box on the grass and walked home to help her mother.
I don’t imagine Tom thanked her. He still found a way to tease his sisters. But strength untouted is still strength. Without the need for boast or gratification, those who do the work, the endless work, and still show up, these are the strongest of us. The most brave.
Sometimes, in a moment of weakness, I can wonder if it all matters. Heart and arm weary I wonder if the words on page make a difference. If the paint on canvas is wasted. But then I feel her, walking to school, step by step, and I am stronger. Ready to swing with all of my might. To defend what’s right. To rise up from the ditch and protect the ones I love, even the ones who just hours before “left my favorite doll out in the rain.” I am ready to defend. To rock and cradle. To swing if necessary. To love with a strength undenied.
I’d like to think I was aware of each twig. Each stick. The constant effort it must have taken, with damaged, sometimes even broken wings. Just to build something that I would be certain to leave. But I’m not sure that I saw it. Does anyone see it while nestled? Mostly, I suppose, I just took comfort.
Seeing it now, for the gift that it was, continues to be, I can only wonder, am I singing enough? I sing. I know this. But is it worthy? Is it heard above all the noise? Sometimes I hear the humming along, and I think, I can feel it, the gathering of new sticks. The building of new nests. And I think we can build something. Build it together. Joyfully. We who have been given all the tools, all the luxury and comfort, all the support of those who came before us, we have to sing. Sing and gather, and risk each thorn, because the world is listening. Watching. So in need of a nest, an impermanent nestle that holds us, lifts us, and sets us free.
We must be the gatherers. The inconspicuous gatherers, preparing the nest. Allowing all the comforts unaware, tucked within the improbable verse, the impossible song. It’s all we’ve been given, it’s all we need to hear.
Perhaps my most equestrian act is pulling in the reigns of my excitement for the upcoming Christmas holiday.
I don’t take them off of my musical playlist, but for a good nine months, while painting in the studio, I skip through the Christmas songs. A few days ago, my hands covered in paint, (which is always the case so it’s not really an excuse), when Frank Sinatra declared he had in fact “heard the bells of Christmas Day,” I let it play to completion. Up on the horse, in full trot.
Visiting recently, she asked about the horse painting in the bedroom. She wasn’t sure if I was a rider. I explained my reason for painting it. She looked surprised when I began, “One of my favorite restaurants in Chicago was the RL — Ralph Lauren restaurant…” I continued the explanation. “All of the walls were covered in the warmth of these beautiful paintings and photographs. As I sat with my mom, pre-Christmas, sipping on a glass of wine after a full day of shopping on Michigan Avenue, the large horse on the wall watched over us, promising to keep the joy of Christmas alive for every year to come.” I suppose it sounds silly, but if you felt it, that warmth, if you were gathered in that love, that promise, I guarantee you would do the same — create anything to preserve it. That’s why I painted the horse.
I suppose that’s what art is, for me anyway, this preservation of warmth, love. And it’s not living in the past — I don’t want to go backwards. It’s more of a celebration. A celebration of a moment with my mother on Michigan Avenue. Or capturing the kids beachside, in a state of wonderment. Gathering in the freshness of laundry on the line — the promise of summer. Allowing the Christmas songs to remain in the playlist year round.
I guess it’s official, I have let loose the reigns. It’s time to feel it all! I walk out of the morning bedroom and proclaim — Let’s ride!
Most will never even see it. Let alone touch it. So why does it matter? This sanding of the panel. So smooth to the touch as I dare the thin skinned fingers of my right hand across the top, bottom and sides, knowing it is my left that will reach for it. Grab hold while painting. Pulling it close so my right hand can do the brush work. My right hand can talk to my heart and get all those messages on the panel, stroke by stroke. My right-hearted hand that will get the praise on walls, disappearing all that was held, supported, in order to get this result. So will everyone know? No. Anyone? Probably not, but both of my hands know. Even when the painting is finished, I brush the wood and remember. I remember everything. A symbol of all that has held me. Everyone that has supported me. Supports me still.
These are the people, the left hands that hold me. Not for praise or glory. The teachers. The neighbor ladies. The friends. My grandparents. My sweet mother. All who risked holding the jagged wood for me when it wasn’t sanded. They took on the splinters so I wouldn’t have to. And I hope I said thank you then. But there were so many times. I couldn’t have possibly gotten to them all. This is why I sand the wood. This is why it matters. It is for them. They are within every piece that I create. And these heroes, who never asked for recognition, they need to know that I know. I know it every day. So I smooth the wood. The luxury of this gentle touch holds the thank you I meant to say, the thank you I mean to say, daily, and do.
If I worried about anything, it certainly wasn’t the raw egg in the yellow cake batter my mother occasionally mixed up, along with the aid of boxed Betty Crocker, or Duncan Hines. Begging for the beater in mid-whirr. I sandwiched myself between apron and cupboard, inching my fingers toward the spinning bowl, my mother trying to push me out of danger with one thigh. She spun the dial back to stop, and cranked the neck, lifting the dripping attachments just out of my reach. She unplugged the mixer, because she thought of things like that — ways to protect me. Perhaps she had been bitten or pinched before. Or maybe it was other dangers lived through that told her to beware. With the power off, I felt like it had all been given to me. I cupped both hands as the elixir dripped into my palms. We had spoons, even a spatula, but I couldn’t be bothered with either. She then pulled the beaters out of the neck and handed me the first. Licking one rung left two pale yellow lines above and below my mouth. I was a warrior — a “battered” warrior.
Of course we never used those words, because they would have been too close. Too close to the actual battles ahead. And if there were warnings, would we have even heard them? Over the mixer’s motor? (I’m not sure anyone can, or does.) The laughter rang as she wiped a line of batter from my face and tasted it? Sweet was the taste of no real fear.
I don’t know if he left that day, my father. Did the cake get baked? Did we eat it? Did it get thrown away? This yellow cake of innocence? I don’t remember hearing the mixer again. Did we sell it at the garage sale? Probably. It was big. Too big to fit in our future small apartment. Too loud for those above us, or beside us. She would have thought of things like that. Not disturbing the neighbors in the duplex. The fourplex. The eventual apartment.
We never really baked again. But she filled my palms. First with security. Her hand in mine. And when the hunger returned, for something sweet, when the baked-in trust awakened and said it was ok to enjoy things, the laughter came as well, by the handful, by the heart full. Sweet laughter. It rang over rumor. It rang over fear. And it WAS sweet. Not like at first — when I didn’t know about the “eggs” — when I didn’t know that bad things could happen. (Once you know about them, it’s hard to forget.) But sweet nonetheless. Even baking now, I don’t give it worry — it’s just a part of it. And life is still so very sweet.
It’s happened once or twice before — just as it did this morning. Walking on the path, it nearly stopped me in my tracks. This sweet taste in my mouth. So clear. So delicious. So transportive. Yellow cake batter. The taste tickled my tongue. Inside my cheeks. I put my finger to my lip. Surely it was there. It was so real. My finger came back dry. But the smile remained.
The certainty of gravel remains beneath my feet. I stand unafraid. She is still finding a way to protect me — she still thinks of things like that. Reminding me. Pointing me to all things good. And the laughter rings above the birds, singing “Fill your heart. Feed your soul. Taste this life.”
