I don’t know that one stick is more inspiring than the next, but then again, I don’t know that it isn’t. So I took great care in my choices, as I Magpied my way through the unexpected pile of discarded wood at the edge of the forest. Forever being in need of wood, this felt like a gift just for me. I wandered back home with my arms full. Smiling. Humming. Perhaps the song is correct, “His eye is on the sparrow…”
I suppose it is a bit like nesting, this building of a panel. Creating a home for the next painted creation. I dried the dew-dampened wood. Sanded. And sanded again. Measured. Cut. Glued. Nailed. Sanded, again, until this “nest” was ready for the life to be held. She doesn’t know yet, the woman coming to life in this painting. Maybe none of us do. We only wait for the final results. But there is so much beauty in the wonder. The wander. The time of being Sparrow.
I have to constantly remind myself. To not miss it. To not waste this day. The walk alone. The discovery. The hope in each discard path. The hum that carries us. It is all a part of this beautiful journey. Because it’s never just about the bird, but it’s always about the song.
There is a trend of writing letters to your younger self. And I must admit I’ve given it a little thought, but as I remember back to my first class on perspective — how the assignment was to draw the hallway in your house — and I thought, how nice, the teacher actually thinks I live in a house… I went home, (because you can have a home that isn’t a house), sat in the apartment kitchen where you couldn’t drink the tap water, looked through the living room and drew the small space between my mother’s bedroom and mine, completely in reverse perspective. I mention it because it occurs to me that this younger self already knew she saw things differently. So it probably won’t come as a surprise that I do the opposite now — it is she writing to me, daily. Each one starts off the same, “Dude…” (she calls me dude, because she was cool like that, and because I know it’s as harsh as she going to get…) “Dude,” she says, “you’ve already learned this…” “But I’m doing it all wrong — backwards,” I tell her. And she replies, a little more gently this time, in my mother’s voice, (because she, my mom, was kind like that) with the same thing my mother said to me when I brought home my incomplete assignment on perspective. I told my mom, “I did the whole thing backwards,” hanging my head. She pulled up my chin and said, “Great!” “Great?????” I questioned. “Sure,” she said, “you’re Ginger Rogers!” I smiled. I was learning perspective after all.
There will be a mountain of things I have to relearn today, and again tomorrow, but in this moment, l look around, offer up a little kindness, and this dude begins to dance.
Long ago I wrote “On the days that I can’t create something beautiful, at least let me have the wisdom to see it.” I suppose the same goes for peace.
She’s the first thing I see each morning. I sit on the side of the table that faces her. In the painting, she sits behind her easeled art, within her book, and all is calm. I know this place. Whenever anxious, they are my two safety zones — holding the brush, or cradling the words. The bang of my heart quiets to a whispered beat, and I am saved.
It’s why I like the French words for not worried — it translates to pas inquiet (Inquiet means un quiet, or disquiet, a lack of peace.) So to be “pas inquiet” is to not be worried, to sit in this glorious peace.
Before I had the words, I had the tools. And on the days when I find myself in the chaos, I do have the wisdom, or at least the opportunity, the reminder, to see it — the place where my heart can rest and my mind can wander.
But it does deserve attention. It needs to be fed. Acknowledged. Yesterday, after baking the bread, we rode the waft of its scent to the vineyard that produces our favorite olive oil. It bears the taste of olive and earth, so pure, that when poured on the grains of the bread, placed on the back of the tongue, your eyes can only give way to the wave and roll to the back of your brain, the threshold, the most quiet place where gratitude lives, where worry cannot find its way.
And so I, we, begin the day, without a bang, in the beauty of this glorious peace.
If I am to believe the words and paintings travel from my heart to my hands (which I do) then it makes sense to me that the opposite can be true. This gravitates me to the tangible. And I suppose that’s why I like to print out my photographs from time to time.
Scrolling through my iPad, of course I checked for my best smile, my best colors, the things that I’d like to see daily, but then I stumbled upon the picture of a note from my mother. Her handwriting. The curves that were a roadmap to my heart. The words that I still long to hear — that whisper from the photo. Signed with the name that only I called her — a connection that was ours alone. I added it to the cart to be printed.
I checked the mailbox each day. And waited. And waited again. The thin package showed itself by bursting through the back entry. I ran to open. There was another protective package inside, like ribs for the heart. I opened this one too, and slowly pulled out the photos. My lips smiled when I saw myself in periwinkle blue, but my full body beamed as I read the note from mother. And I must tell you, it felt like the first time. It was loud and rang brand new, as if she were here. And holding it in my hands, I am here to tell you that the reverse is true. Love does travel both ways. From heart to hands and hands to heart.
I only mention it because maybe you were wondering. Maybe you thought twice about writing the note. Mailing the letter. Printing the photo. Don’t hesitate. Make it all real. Say the words. Give the hugs. Keep the paths open to love tangible. Maybe then we’ll all learn to fly.
At first glance, this sketchbook probably doesn’t seem like a surprise. But when I tell you that I bought it in Iowa, suddenly it takes on a whole new meaning, and we’re all smiling.
And that’s the thing isn’t it? Context. I learned it pretty early on. But I have to keep learning it. I suppose we all do.
It was something, the way my mother looked. Shopping with her, I could see the other women wondering what they were missing. It was the same Herberger’s. The same racks. How was she doing it? And didn’t they stand behind her in the same line for the Clinique promotion? But it was even more than all that. What they didn’t see, is for years she did it on no sleep. No money. Eating only Heath ice cream bars to keep the weight on, the weight that slipped with worry. As surprising as a French girl in Iowa. And just as beautiful.
And in watching her story change, evolve, get moisturized and dressed to the nines, it, she, taught me to look for all the stories. All the joyful surprises. To capture them in words and paintings, so everyone could see the beauty in what was far and near, and maybe most importantly, even in themselves. So if you want to give thanks for this, do it by taking a look, in every face, in every mirror. May you ever be joyfully surprised.
One of the greatest luxuries my mother provided was the certainty of books.
It was not weekly, as the name professed, but from time to time we could order paperback books from our only source of news at Washington Elementary, The Weekly Reader. My heart began its wait at the classroom door as soon as my #2 pencil checked off the box for the wanted read. Every question between then and its arrival began with “when.” Perhaps this would have been more annoying had my mother not shared the same love of books.
She appeased the wait with weekend trips to the Alexandria Public Library. Even the toy aisle of Ben Franklin, which it sat right behind, just off of Broadway, was no match for the lure of the words housed in this magnificent building. There were no lions statued and guarding the front door, but for me, it was nothing shy of majestic. The only math I needed was within the Dewey Decimal system. Thumbing through the card catalog was like traveling the world. Each book a ticket, a ride, a souvenir. And within the wander, I forgot the wait.
I gasped at the sight of the box on the teacher’s desk. She pulled the scissors out from her top drawer. Spread them wide, and gently opened the brown cardboard box of dreams. Taking care not to cut those on top. The flaps cracked and my heart raced. Part of me wanting my book to be on top. Part of me wishing this sensation to last to the bottom. Somewhere in between, she called my name, and without touching the ground, my bumper tennis shoes raced to the front of the room and pulled the book to my chest. It remained there, only pulled out to read in the comfort of my bed, next to my mother’s side.
I only mention it, because I am currently in a moment of waiting. And I have to catch myself, remind myself, I already the tools. And so I build the panels. I paint the birds. I bake the cookies. Walk the paths. Read the books. Without lions, worry turns to wonder, turns to wander. Love pulls me along, pulls me in. And I am saved.
There is something so appealing about wood. The strength, the beauty. The adaptability. It has a life beyond the cut. One could say, even a new one. The scent of reassurance that fills the air, overtaking the noise of any blade, to me smells like growth. Like spring itself.
Wood is not plenty in France. It came as such a welcome surprise yesterday, while walking up the hill. The scent wafted beneath my footsteps. Lifting me just when my thoughts began to drag. Certainly it was for something my neighbors needed, but who am I not to ride upon the air of reassurance? So I let myself be lifted above the cut.
We are in our limited humid season here in Aix. The wood I have for panels in the studio is struggling. And just like it is for everything, for everyone I suppose, sometimes the “center cannot hold.” I made the decision to cut the large sheet of wood in half. Reducing the pressure, the chaos of the current environment. The scent seemed to sigh in relief. In the letting go. The now two panels relaxed.
I only mention it to remind myself, perhaps you as well, to break free of the cling. To let go the chaos. To allow yourself to be transformed. To be lifted. Even in the time, the place of unplenty, it wafts beneath our steps. Changed, growing, even cut, we joyfully keep going.
I wasn’t allowed to eat in my bedroom as a little girl, but that didn’t prevent me from making snacks. My mother knew it wasn’t about food when she asked what I was doing. It took a little explanation at first. It was with crayons and paper. I colored in the books. I wrote tiny poems in my Big Chief notebooks. All on the chance that I would need them later. That I would hunger for these little bits of color, these little snacks of hope.
And in later years, when it was she who needed them, I wrote them in spiral notebooks. Painted them on boards. Burned phrases into wood. Typed them on recipe cards. Penned them on yellow sticky notes.
And when we both were fed, strong, I was able to share. She was able to share.
I suppose it’s why I go to the studio each day. Maybe I will need that little bird later. Maybe you will. Sometimes you write in the comments, “this is just what I needed today,” and I know, I know exactly what you mean. We never lose our taste for hope. So I fill the sketchbooks. Because it’s never just a bird. It’s a snack to get us through. Use all of your courage today. All of my hope. Take it. Fly. I, we, will make more tomorrow.
My mother hated the camera. Her smile that came so easily face to face, struggled in front of the lens. It wasn’t until I started painting her that, I watched that fear disappear. I’d like to think that’s trust. What she was giving to me was real. What I bounced back to her was admiration.
First it was her birthday poem. . Then in the cards. The magnets. Her face. The one where she said, “I meant no, but it came out yes.” The woman at the phone who said, “There are no operators standing by…” And she saw herself. And we laughed. She was the woman behind, “I signed up for eternal bliss, I must have gotten in the wrong line,” and “Yesterday I was so tired I could barely think straight — thank God I was at work.” Because it wasn’t about a perfect reflection, it was pure joy. Even when the truths were difficult, like in the poem, “I saw the truth about you…” it was still joy. Joy to be seen. Joy to be heard, connected. Revealed, and still loved. Perhaps loved even more.
When I painted her portrait she looked at it and said, “That women doesn’t look like she needs to be afraid of anything…maybe I don’t either.” It’s that portrait I see when I look in the mirror. Those words I say when I look into my heart.
There are a million things to be afraid of in this world, but our reflection shouldn’t be one of them. And if we can do that for each other, for ourselves, take away the fear of being, of being seen for who we truly are, then I think we have a real chance — a real chance at joy.
Long before I even knew how to read, I knew how to comfort myself. It started with off-brand crayons and coloring books from the bottom shelf at Olson’s Super Market. I can’t be certain I even knew what the feelings were. If I even had a word for comfort. But I did know this, after completing a page, presenting it to my mother, I was held in the warmth of her embrace, and I was saved. It’s still true today.
It wasn’t until I moved to France that I started painting birds. And true to my own algorithm, I suppose, it was then I was introduced to the book “Bird by bird,” by Anne Lamott. It was her father’s incite that gave the book its title:
“Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he’d had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother’s shoulder, and said, ‘Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.’”
Reading it so many years after practicing it, seems to me to be but a wink from heaven.
I made a short video after completing the page of birds. The first suggested song was “Wonderland.” It sings the question, “How do you get to Wonderland?” I smile, because I learned the answer so long ago —bird by bird.
