There must have been more of it then — the snow. I remember garage doors avalanched. Gravel buried. Yards that melded one into the other on Van Dyke Road. (Aaaaah, the great white equalizer.) And maybe it was youth, or inexperience, or lessons yet unlearned, but I don’t remember ever feeling that we wouldn’t come out from under. Even as abandoned snowmen clung to life beside Spring’s marigolds, I believed in the warmth ahead.
Perhaps it’s the reasoning for all the lights. On trees and mantles. Candles lit and windows outlined with blinks of eternal hope. I suppose we do everything to keep the warmth alive. We highlight memories. Not to relive the winter, but to point our way to summer’s embrace. To prove to our hearts, and mostly our minds (the heart is always the easier sell) that we can overcome. We can survive. And will. And WILL.
It’s ironic — this urgency to rush the winter, when it all really goes so fast. To slow it down, I remember the boots tipped over on radiators. Scarves half frozen from breathless gasps captured in the cold. And I think, what haven’t I survived? What haven’t we survived? And I gather in the light — warmed in the “out from under” — and I am saved.
I told myself it was because of the stripes — that’s why it would be too hard to do this portrait of my mother. My heart tapped my brain each time I was looking for a new project. But I wasn’t ready. And it had nothing to do with the endless blue lines. Of course they would be a challenge, but the real reason, I just wasn’t prepared to spend that much time in this dance. In this joy.
Sometimes even joy can be too much for a weary heart to lift. But the thing about joy —love, I suppose — is its patience. It sat waiting for me. Music cued up. Hand on the lights. Runway set. Whenever you’re ready, it said.
And one day, “can’t” dares to take a tiny twirl, dropping off the apostrophe, letting go the t, and suddenly you’re stepping into the “can.” And once you reach “can,” the music begins to play, the lights shine, and you’re dancing in the “are.”
It was something spectacular to see my mother’s confidence grow. It was my first real job after college. I was in charge of the style show. Of course I leaned on the most stylish person I knew. She picked out the dress she wanted to wear — the ‘ol show stopper – the one with the twirl. I wasn’t surprised. Those in the style show were offered a discount on the clothing. She didn’t have the money at the time to purchase it, but don’t think for one second she didn’t own that dress!
My heart heaves still with a beaming of pride. I had witnessed her dance in the kitchen. Even at the Lakeside Ballroom in Glenwood. But here she was, in front of strangers, never feeling more herself, in the glow of the runway. I never saw her in the same light after that. For me, she’s still glowing.
I won’t say that there weren’t a few tears of tenderness, as I painted each blue stripe of her dress. But pain, had somehow found its way to love. Love, that ‘ol show stopper,” once again twirled its way into my heart.
I’ve heard it said before that love can build a bridge. I smile and think, sometimes a runway.
We weren’t milk drinkers, so when it came to setting a treat for Santa, my mom simply put out a plate of Oreo cookies. “Won’t he be thirsty,” I asked, eating the cream out of the middle of one. “You’re right,” she said and went to fridge and grabbed a 16 ounce glass bottle of Tab.
I suppose our heroes are always formed from within. We offer love and respect in the best way we can. And when we get it right, it’s amazing. But it’s not a guarantee that it will work for everyone. People are so different. And complicated. And the gifts we have to give, might not hit the spot. What you bring today, even with the best intentions, may be as well received as Tab and Oreos. But it’s not a reason to quit. Love, with all of its faults and misgivings, is malleable (if we allow it). And if we can see the love in the trying, in the mere setting out of gifts, as crazy as some of them may seem, then I think we’ll be OK.
My friends brought with them a bag of Jelly Beans this autumn. We don’t have them in France, so it was something special. Am I a Jelly Bean lover because of my mother?Probably. The reds were her favorite. And mine too.
Still a believer, I begin decorating for Christmas. But there’s really only one visit I’m longing for. I place the tiny bowl of red Jelly Beans in front of her picture. She knew how to love me. She’s the reason I keep on offering to everyone else.
I suppose it’s a lot to do with rhythm with the ones we love.
Shari, Jan and I became best friends at Washington Elementary because of the jump rope. A simple line that connected us. How seamlessly we could move from our positions. Two at each end of the rope singing, one jumping in to the words of the song. As the song came to an end, the one in the middle would jump out and grab the plastic handle of the rope, and maintain the twirl, while the one who let go ran around, timed the spin with outstretched hands, and jumped in. The song of this playground friendship continued, never missing a beat.
My mother loved all words. And she gathered me in, with poems, prayers and promises. Pillowed beside me, she read aloud each night. As I gained strength from the lessons of Mrs. Bergstrom’s first grade teachings, I began to read along. And the lifelong practice continued.
When she loved a phrase. A line. A paragraph from a current book, she wrote it down on a yellow sticky note and hung it by the phone — at the ready for our next conversation. The words would say, this is so me, or so you, or so us. Each letter deepening our connection.
I started a new book a couple of days ago — “Same as it ever was”, by Claire Lombardo. Not long in, she had me wanting a sticky note. One woman is asking a clearly troubled woman in tears, how she is, and the woman stumbles out the word fine, and the other replies, “I wonder about the accuracy of that statement.” Such delight! I wanted a landline, a sticky pad and my mother. I could say I have none of these, but that’s not entirely true. I have this format. I have these words. And I share them with you. I know my mom is laughing heavenly, and the music continues, as I maintain the twirl.
I wasn’t that close to my Aunt Mavis. There was just so many of us. You had to simply pick a few Hvezdas and go with it. When we gathered for Christmas, Grandma Elsie made sure that we each had something small to open. The certainty of her gift made it a little easier to wait as the packages were read, passed and opened. We didn’t buy for each family. There wouldn’t have been enough money or time.
I was around six years old when I received the somewhat questionable gift of red lace bloomers from Grandma, but I hugged her belly and kissed grandpa’s cheek, and returned to my mother’s lap. It was quite a surprise when one of my cousins handed me a second package. There must be some mistake, I thought, but there was my name. And the urge to question was far surpassed by the knowing of what it was. Its box shape, and heft told me that it was a book. A big book. Whoever gave this to me, must have known that I loved words on pages. The bright red Christmas paper torn open revealed a bright red cover. A giant book of Disney stories. The wonderful world of Disney. It was every Sunday night at 6pm on the only channel that we received on Van Dyke Road — right there, held in my hands. It was if Tinkerbell herself had waved the wand and released the magic.
I was holding it to my chest when she asked if I liked it. I beamed. Yes, yes, I do! She smiled, and limped back to a wooden chair in the dining room. In that moment, I wished I knew more about her than just her having a bad hip. I whispered in my mom’s ear, “It was from Aunt Navis.” My mom whispered back, “Her name is Mavis.”
I’d like to say we grew to be fast friends, but it isn’t true. I did save the book. It remains on my Christmas miracle list.
We don’t always return the gifts that we are given. Is it enough to pass them on, to others, who won’t return to you, but pass them on again? I hope so. I have to believe it. So I limp the words on the page, and maybe I give you a Christmas smile, and maybe you pass it on to the stranger on the slippery sidewalk. Maybe you hold a door, or offer a compliment. Maybe you say their name correctly, with enthusiasm, and they feel seen. And maybe, just maybe, the magic is sprinkled, and continues throughout the years.
Thank you, Aunt Mavis. You are part of my story, and it is beautiful.
It wasn’t that hard to piece together. I saw the publisher’s clearing house magazines open on the table, and the presents piling up under the tree. I was bursting with knowledge when my mother came to pick me up from Grandma Elsie’s house. “I know the truth about Santa Claus.” I told my mom while putting on my seat belt for the car ride home. “Oh,” she said, not sure of what my truth would be. “I know Grandma orders the presents and puts them under the tree.” My mom smiled, thinking I knew that all grandparents and parents did the same. But somehow she managed to contain her laughter when I pronounced, (not that Santa wasn’t real) but that I knew it was actually Grandma who was the real Santa Claus, for everyone.
I wish I could tell you the depths of my pride. I knew Grandma Elsie was special, but this, this was really something. To think it was my Grandma who brought presents to the entire world. If I had begun to question the existence of an actual Santa Claus — the ability of one person to pull off such a feat, I can tell you that all doubts subsided. Because if anyone could do it, it would be Grandma Elsie.
The roads were already covered in snow. My mom pulled the Chevy Impala into our driveway between the two drifts. I was staring out the picture windows. But for the snow illuminating the winter’s dark, I never would have seen it. But there it was — a streak of red. Santa was running across Van Dyke Road! My mom heard my screams of delight, but came just after the blur. “What?” She said. “I saw Grandma running across the road!”
We never found out who actually donned the suit and ran on our snowy road. So I can’t completely rule out that it wasn’t Grandma Elsie. If you ask me when I stopped believing, I would have to tell you, not yet.
I often wonder if my Grandma knows that I’m here. What my life is like now. But then I saw her yesterday in Marseille. I sat beside her in the magic of Christmas.
I suppose that’s the way with living. We don’t know we have the tools until we desperately need to use them.
Until recently, I haven’t used the desk that we inherited from Dominique’s mother. It holds up the picture of my grandfather. Displays some books, but I never really sat at it and worked. But I started writing the daily blog here. And the more time I spent, the more I wanted to use it. It’s more of a vanity really. My morning crossed legs don’t fit under it, so I sit at an angle. My top knee hitting what I thought was a panel. I dropped my apple pen on the floor. No place to put it. Bending over to pick it up, my hand hit against the front panel, and it moved. I gave a little pull on the handle-less wood, and out came a drawer. I put my pen inside. How silly you might think, to not know, and yet…
I have to smile, because it’s usually in this position, bent over, perhaps on my knees, that I find the hidden drawers of my heart. The places where I store what’s needed to get through. The extra courage. The extra will. Always another collection of love. I have accessed it again and again, and it always provides.
I learn it frequently, as I clumsily bang my knees on the journey. But eventually, I find my way — bruised and joyful.
It can be very humbling, an empty space. Sometimes even frightening.
When I first saw the empty cathedral, it took my breath away. It was the location for my first solo show in France. How could I ever fill it? Seemingly miles of endless space. The answer has always been the same. Whenever faced with a void, be it of heart or mind, I return to my story. Because from the hardest of days, to the best of days, this story I’m living, creating, day by day, has always led me to love. So I put it down on canvas and page, and I filled that cathedral.
It’s different every day — the spaces we’re offered (sometimes not even offered at all, but reached for, struggled for, chosen, claimed…). And it’s funny, possibly even ironic, but always true — I have to keep pouring out, in order to be filled. Sometimes it’s merely a tiny scrap of paper. (It’s rarely a cathedral.) I fingertip the tiny apple and it’s enough to complete my day, to keep me whole.
From time to time, I get mixed up. Seeing others as vessels that could never be filled. How could they need so much? Their never ending demands. Their “it’s just not good enough”s. I could never give them enough. It’s just too much. But in a moment of clarity I remember, that it’s not up to me. I give and forgive, not to fill their cathedral, but mine. And with a humbly stumbling heart, brimming whole and hopefuI, I, we, can do anything.
He used to bark at me. But he has grown accustomed to my passing twice a day, the dog behind the gate up the road. He sports an aged coat of overgrown gray and white. Perhaps he once ran tall in his breed, but now he lays sacked in his indiscriminate being, his head peeking through the rungs.
It was a long time before I saw him out on the road. Perhaps he lumbered out behind the slow return of the gate as his owner went off to work. As I approached, he cocked his head to the left and looked up at me. He knew me, perhaps by scent or by the sound of my steps. So he didn’t bark. But as I got closer, I realized that this was probably the first time he actually saw me. His left eye was just a gray, milky ball. Watching me through the gate all these years, not being able to turn his head, I’m sure he never actually saw me with his good eye.
His back hips swayed to a soundtrack that only he could hear. I skipped along to the milky French in my earbuds. Each of us, making our way. Both a little more understanding of the other’s path.
I painted a dog in a similar position many years ago. The original sold almost immediately, but I still get requests for the prints even today. It’s titled, “Unconditional.” (I suppose we all want this.) I smile and think, maybe, even with all of our blurred limitations, we could see each other. Be a little kinder. Be a little more understanding. Make a little more room for each other on the path.
She stood beside Martin Luther King, Jr. and sang “We shall overcome.” She was only 19 at the time. Recalling it today, Joan Baez states she really thought that it meant once, this overcoming…laughing, in the way that you do from exhaustion but an unwillingness to give up, she says at 83, “I didn’t realize we would have to overcome again and again…”
My mother loved her for a different anthem — the song Diamonds and Rust. She must have spun a hole in the record, with her own reasons and willingness to overcome. It’s gained popularity again today because of the recent movie about Bob Dylan (for whom she wrote this song). The world keeps beginning.
When I was a kid, watching the record spin, I thought I would just figure stuff out, you know, and become something, and that would be it…that would be my life. Thank God that isn’t the way, not for me anyway. I think that I, we, just have to keep becoming. We change and grow. We are molded by love and trips around the sun. It takes a long time to build a soul. We get older, maybe wiser, (even better, we gain a little grace) but we don’t finish – we don’t have to – we begin, and be, and begin again. I think that’s the gift of living…the joy of being alive! We shall overcome.
