The older of the two gentlemen that I painted can no longer go out for his daily walk. So the younger does not come over to walk the path alone. I only know this because the older man’s wife stopped to tell me. She drives the same path every day. I’m sure she had for years. I probably stepped off to the side a hundred times to let her through. And I hate to admit it, but many of those times, I was quite possibly annoyed, having to yield to her vehicle. Now I know her car. I know her wave. Her smile and her voice. And I’m honestly quite pleased to share the path.
I mention it only because we just don’t know where one connection will lead. One kindness. They always mean something. And we are the better for it.
And the same goes for the opposite. If we pass along our bad energy, it travels along that same path. Seemingly even at greater speed. So I try to remind myself. Ask myself. Daily. What is that I want to come across up the road? What am I leaving behind for others to pass through?
Now the cynic might say, well it ended so quickly, you don’t even see those men anymore. But you have to understand, it didn’t end at all. It was only just the beginning. And so it is, every time we share the path, the journey — we begin and begin again.
I don’t know if it’s the chicken or the egg. People have always asked me through the years whether the words come first or the painting. I guess my only answer is that the story arrives, and it can take the shape of letters or landscape or limb, but it’s always in the shape of love.
I suppose it’s all a practice. The more I see, the more I see. The same with memory. The most with love. What’s taught is what’s known.
The fields are especially golden now in the south of France. But they aren’t the destination. No, people travel miles, continents even to gather at the feet of lavender. And it can’t be denied, it is lovely. But wasn’t it my grandfather’s hand that gave me the gold? That first waved my hand over wheat, and in that swoop, painted me in? And it can’t be unseen. Unfelt. All that beauty. All that love. And in that same brush of the hand, my fields, my story, arrives on canvas.
And maybe you see it. Maybe it tickles your palm, and you remember your grandpa, your neighbor, your teacher, or youth, and you wave it on, and on, and again, all the while humanity becomes a little more golden.
I have never purchased a keychain in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. Nor a desktop replica of the Statue of Liberty. My feelings are my daily reminders of these favorite places. The French have it right — the word for memories is souvenirs.
So I print out the photos of all this emotion. As I show them, I tell of the places. No Eiffel Tower in the shot, but look at my stride, of course it’s Paris. No visible evidence of Mardi, nor Gras, but look at our smiles, almost musical, it has to be New Orleans. Nothing purchased, the riches remain.
I was lucky enough to learn it as a child — and hurray, I say, to everyone who makes it through. You couldn’t have told me then. No, those chubby hands of mine wanted to cling to it all as we lost our home. But what about, and this… No clinging to chest could save it. No apartment could hold it. But once the grabbing subsided. The desperation released. And I did have everything. Every laughter. Every tear. Every lap of my mother’s embrace, and I was home. Every souvenir in heart. Nothing real could be taken away.
So no, I don’t own a replica of the Eiffel Tower, but look, just look at my face — I have everything.
Maybe it’s the light. The call of the birds. But I wake up earlier this time of year. I suppose it’s counterintuitive, but there is an eagerness to rush into the morning, as if it were a warm and wandering tiger that I could grab by the tail, and convince it to slow down. To sit with me. To sit with us. To dangle slowly as the ripening peaches on the tree just outside our kitchen window. I know how their skin feels. Like they alone can feel the gentle touch of the sun. Almost weightless without winter’s worry. Trusting as if held in the grace of the branch. Never rushing the ripe. For this brief moment, I just am.
Maybe it’s the perk of the coffee. The pop of the toaster. But I catch myself in this moment of happiness. And the tiger runs off. And in catching myself, I guess it ends. But my summer legs tell me it doesn’t have to. My summer heart agrees, and I am back in the moment. I am the tiger. I am the peach. Perhaps even the light. How could summer ever end?
I always made my bed. Did my homework. I guess I’m still doing that. Self-regulation. And it works for me. It’s not a punishment, but a support. So when I need to adjust the “rules,” (and I say this as I’m typing my daily blog next to my made bed), of course I allow it.
Not long ago, I decided to add a new practice. Daily birds. I was gifted a beautiful French sketchbook. On the cover it reads, “À LA RECHERCHE DU TEMPS PERDU” — (in search of lost time.) And I guess that’s what I was hoping to avoid, losing time in worry. Time much better spent creating. And that’s the thing I think…time is never lost in the creation. And because it is creative, the rules are loose. Bird by bird becomes three birds one day, one another…an outline on a busy afternoon, or like yesterday, a full bird lady.
I have never been one to listen to others who come on strong with the “should haves” and “supposed tos.” So I hope you’re not hearing that from me here today. You get to decide. You. And that is not a punishment, but a freedom. Let yourself live there. Be the bird, the tree, the bird lady…whatever you choose. And if it doesn’t work, choose again. But do something. In that something, time is never wasted.
In Rome we rode a white Vespa. I thought it was so romantic. Until the cobblestones. And even with that bumpy knowledge, only the romance remains.
I don’t know who’s in charge, but I’m sure they work together, the heart and the brain. Because it’s the same with the gravel road I grew up on. All those pebbles in knees. All that elbowed skin left behind. The ever present rock in shoe. And still, what I carry is the freedom of the breeze. The lifting from the neighborhood. The launch on foot and bicycle from all that gravel.
Maybe once again I’m just romancing the stone. So maybe my heart is in charge after all, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. If it were different, I’m not certain I’d walk the steep gravel each day here in France. And oh, I’ve fallen here too. I have the additional scars to prove it. But my heart’s memory is so strong — remember the view it says, the two foxes yesterday, the flowers, the birds, the butterflies and sweet jasmine’s scent. The repeat of freedom’s breeze gives youth to my legs and they scoot as if the mountains were Van Dyke Road. And I am without worry. Without time.
If I have any advice at all, whatever challenge or opportunity lies ahead, by whatever name it is called, ride the Vespa.
Perhaps panic is too strong of a word, but I am unsettled when hovering between reads. It took three days of sampling between my last book and the one I’m currently reading. Three days and three nights. Three nights of wanting to get into the next one, but stumbling over the words. Feeling like the story was all jumbled, or even worse, not there at all. No connections. Nothing serifing to my heart.
It was the same concern I had starting in the first grade, when we were allowed to check out books from the Washington Elementary library. We were allotted approximately ten minutes to pick our choice of the week. Ten minutes. I spent longer in my discussion with my mother each night about how that wasn’t enough time for such an important decision. I showed her the whole production — of how most of the class just walked up to the shelf. I opened the cupboard door as I was explaining and picked out a box of minute rice, or paprika, and shook it in my spaghetti arm to explain how they just blindly picked anything. Anything! Without a care in the world — I had heard that phrase on the party line at my grandma’s house. But I did care. And my mother knew it. So she didn’t argue. She just shook her head in agreement. Clutched her imaginary pearls, and I did the same. We both loved books. No further explanation was needed. “In your time,” she said, “and if you need more, you ask for it.” So I did. And it was given. During recess. Lunch hour. I was given the freedom to peruse. To let it remain important. What a gift!
And I suppose that’s why it never reaches a panic now. I remember — it’s only because it’s important. And I still have the luxury to feel it. To believe it. I am wandering today in the 1500s of Italy, in Maggie O’Farrell’s “A Marriage Portrait.” My mind safely adrift here in France, all made possible by my access to the Washington Elementary library. Hooked, connected, serifed by heart, I live in the word, all in my time.
Other than the birds in the trees, Bud Christianson was the first to demonstrate the pure joy of music. He wasn’t just teaching it, he was living it. He directed the band at Jefferson Senior High. The only faculty member to drop the mister, we called him Christy. It suited his swagger.
This was long before Fame, Glee, and frankly before most of us had cable television. But I, we, knew we were in the presence of something special. So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when he told us before the spring concert that not only were we going to play our instruments, but we were going to sing. But we’re the band, we’re not the choir, some questioned. “But listen to that music,” he said, “how can we help but sing?! And stand up when you do!” His enthusiasm was infectious. It did feel good! So in between puffs on my clarinet, I stood, jumped beside my section (I would have flown if I could have) and I, we, sang with all of our hearts. There was no band. No choir. No audience. No separation whatsoever. Because the music!!!
Have we lost the ability to hear? To celebrate our differences? I’m not ready to let it go. I must stand. We must stand! Can’t you feel it? We have to be in this together. United. What do you have without the music?
We played a game at sleepovers, after the television screen went to a bullseye, and after all the secrets that a fifth grader could hold or even make up were released. Maybe it was because of all the junk food we had consumed, but we were never successful at “Light as a feather” — where we tried to lift a person with just our fingertips. And while it was true that no one ever left the ground, howling with laughter and pulling on each other’s mismatched pajamas, we certainly were lifted.
I think we knew then, possibly even more than we know now, that it was always just about showing up for each other. Pushing, putting others down, was, is never the answer. Why are we still getting that wrong? The higher we go, the bigger the responsibility to lift others.
And, oh, how easy it can be without the added weight of anger. Joy has always been light as a feather.
The song of the birds are tugging at my nightshirt. And maybe it’s childlike, maybe it’s naive, or maybe it’s just the lightness of joy, but I’m ready to step into the hope of the day. I still believe. And I am lifted.
I always get up first to make breakfast. Alone in the kitchen, I’ll often have a conversation with the bread. After all, we have been intimate. It was just yesterday my hands were in the dough. It was just last night I swaddled it in a freshly ironed cloth, whispering of the tomorrow’s surprise — lavender honey.
We made a trip to Valensole yesterday in search of the best. Nestled between fields of lavender, it wasn’t really a chance we were taking. There would be honey — Miel de lavande. A couple of small arrows at ankle height on a long stretch of gravel would lead us there on this Tuesday. After several second guesses, we would find the locked door of the farm house that said open Wednesdays and Saturdays. Still we jiggled the handle. We had come this far. We looked at each other and read the sign again. I cupped my hands around my face and pushed it up against the glass. I could see the jars of honey. We jiggled the handle again in disbelief. I don’t know how long we stood there. How can you measure time without honey that is just within reach? That’s when he walked through the shadows. Barefooted and bonjouring, he opened the door. Maybe the angels sang, or was the birds? We quickly stepped inside before he could change his mind. I didn’t need the spoonful he offered to know that I would love it, but I took it anyway. It lingered on my tongue and rolled my eyes into the part of my brain where pleasure lives. I could only say yes. Of course he didn’t take credit cards. What were we thinking? But Dominique saved the day with his checkbook, and I coddled the kilo of lavender honey back to the car.
How could I not share the story with the bread as it toasted this morning. Even the coffee pot seemed to be listening.
Needless to say, it didn’t disappoint. Lavender honey on homemade bread. Wow. I smile at the silver medal from 2024’s Paris competition, proudly displayed on the honey jar — and laugh — because for me, us, it’s nothing but gold.
