Getting my hair cut a few days ago, I saw her. My hair wet and slicked back, there was nothing to disguise my face. She was saying something about my preferred style as she brushed, but all I could hear was the smile of my mother’s reflection. And it washed over me, the same joyful relief and responsibility, as it always had whenever anyone said, “You look just like your mother.”
Sometimes I catch myself — the brain can so easily throw out words that the heart would never dare. And I imagine those words coming out of my mother’s mouth and I fling them away. Because it’s not just her face, it’s about all that she had faced. And how she did it, with grace and dignity. And she, carrying her father’s, wasn’t I carrying both? And isn’t it my responsibility to do the same, and more?
Sometimes I fail. My hand slips on the rock where he stands. My heart breaks the ruffle of her dress. And I know they see me. I have nothing to disguise myself from them. But they keep smiling at me. On shoulder and in mirror. I hear them. I see them. And know they see the love in my attempt. And I give them back their smiles, and I am saved.
He, being 12, had a different perspective, and was not overly enthusiastic about the lawn that was freshly mowed, nor my table setting, nor the food that I had been cooking for four hours. I thought for sure that the fire I started with pine cones for the bbq would spark some interest, with its big flames and smoke puffing out of the pool house — but no. It wasn’t until we finished that beautiful meal, (the ribs and sausages, the asparagus on a bed of peppers and pasta, the shrimp skewers and potatoes, and desserts from the award winning baker) when I began throwing him the winter dusty frisbee across that same lawn that I had worked so hard to mow, that he began to beam. With each throw that spun directly into his reach, he marveled and said, “you’re really good.” This is what impressed him — that I could throw a frisbee.
It’s true that most people see not what you love, but what they love. And the thing is, we never really know exactly how we will connect. But we can, we can connect. It may not be in the way we think, or even hoped for, but in the end, it’s only about if we did.
It wasn’t long before the frisbee ended up in the pool — the pool with last year’s dirty water, not yet ready for summer’s swim. But still, we had a moment. And this is what we build on.
I never know which story you will respond to. It’s always different. And different for everyone, on different days. So I fling the words, like a dusty frisbee across the lawn, and say, in this moment, I’m happy you’re here.
For years I thought you had to “find” your home. I began with a summer red wagon. Knees not even wagon high, I filled the rusted container with baby dolls and stuffed animals, along with an unopenable can of chicken noodle soup, a glass jar of water, my hardcover copy of Little House in the Big Woods, a blanket (said to be for their comfort, but mostly for mine), Bazooka Joe bubble gum, and the plastic camera that no longer worked that I ordered with those same gum wrappers. I didn’t have a watch, so I can’t tell you how long I was gone. But I’m certain the sun didn’t change positions. I was not allowed beyond the “north end,” and it was too difficult to drag my wagon alongside Hugo’s field, so most likely it took me longer to pack than journey. I returned to the green grass in front of our green house, took everything out of the wagon and placed it neatly back in my bedroom. Grabbed my Big Chief Notebook from under my pillow, palmed my number 2 pencil and wrote of the voyage I imagined I just took. And I was home.
Maybe I’m more of a maker than a seeker. The answers aren’t waiting to be found, but created. I’ve said for years that you have to fall in love with your bathroom. Learn how your oven works. Curate, not decorate. Become and become and become. To be the life in your living room. In every room. I suppose the same is for love.
It’s true I love to travel, but in search of an experience, not the answers. The things I know for sure are nestled in the heart, the little red wagon that I keep filled with all that I love.
The world is pretty big. It’s an amazing place. Mostly I enjoy it. Marvel at it really. So much to see. To feel. But it can get overwhelming. And then I take a moment. A moment to focus on a spot, the spot. Where? It changes. All the time. It is where I need it to be. I look at that flower – so delicate, so beautiful, even after the rain, or maybe especially. A rock. So strong. So steady. Yet, it can be moved, shaped even, by just a drop of water. I look at a blade of grass. Really look at it. It doesn’t seem to be worrying. It doesn’t seem to disappear, even in this field of green. It’s here. All here. It becomes unclear if they are here for me, or I am here for them. But I’m happy they’re here. I’m happy I’m here. I just breathe. And watch. And I think. What if I’m that spot, you know, for someone. And I still myself, to take my turn. To be the flower. To be the rock. The blade. The shoulder for the bird to land. The spot in the garden. And it’s then I know. Everything is going to be ok. Amazing even. And I marvel in it again.
I don’t know if it was a conscious decision, or just the body’s way of coping. I didn’t have the words for it then, nor the thought to question it. But within a week of moving her family from Minnesota to Texas, my Aunt Sandy adopted the southern accent. And just as easily I suppose, I changed the northern pronunciation of aunt to “ant”. And that’s how she remains.
Maybe everything is just a choice. Right down to how the day is going to be.
Each surface that I paint on accepts the substance so differently. How it holds, smooths. I can say, well, that’s not how you did it yesterday in the sketchbook. And it doesn’t care. This is how it is, it says. And so I make the adjustments. And I don’t fight the rough surface of the hand crafted paper, but it embrace it. Doesn’t it add to the character? Not imperfections, but details. And they are beautiful.
Singing along to the Spotify station in the car yesterday on a French highway, how easily I Tanya Tuckered into Delta Dawn, and I thought of her, my Aunt (Ant) Sandy. We’re all characters, rough and hand crafted, and isn’t it beautiful?!
