In the last three weeks I have finished two commissions. What a ride! And as I sit in the after, I go through each step. The building of the panel. The seemingly endless sanding. Gessoing. The background. The images. Coming to life. Stroke after stroke. Pure joy. And without my knowledge or permission, the pieces come to an end. As I knew they would. Still, it’s a surprise. And I have to ship. Build a box strong enough to house all that joy. And then let go. Give it over to the man in the white van. The same man who will push the wrong button, or no button, and I will get the message that “We came by to pick up your package, but you weren’t home, so you’ll have to deliver it.” And I will read it again and again, without my package, certain that both paintings were lost forever. I will spare you the 12 hours of panic…they did get back in the tracking system, and are now across the sea in their new homes.
I suppose these aren’t lessons to be learned. Not this loving. This living. If we did, learn the lessons, we probably wouldn’t do anything. Love anyone. We can know, but still, we must simply go through it all. As I sit in the after, the portraits of my mother, my grandparents, I would do it all again and again. Love them with every color of my heart, every stroke of my being.
And it will bring me to the next canvas. And I will begin and end and begin again. And give thanks for it all. From joy to panic to joy again. Click.
Most of us cried when we lost the last game of season. I can’t say what all the tears were for — but I know for me it wasn’t about winning or losing. It was the ending. Every day for three months I sat in front row of Mrs. McCarty’s English class, watching the last few ticks of the clock that hung just above the door. My toe tapping in time with the second hand. My arms clutched around my books just before the bell rang — the bell that released us into the after school special that no one would film.
I raced down the hall. Past the locker that I never used. Down the stairs. Past the front doors. Waved at my mom at her front desk in the Superintendent’s office. Down another half flight of stairs. A quick drink at the fountain. Into the girls’ locker room. Changed into my shorts and t-shirt. Hiked up the knee pads. Joining Mrs. Anderson and all of my teammates for volleyball practice.
This is why I cried that last game. In slow motion, the last ball hit the floor on our side, and with that one splat, I had nowhere to go. No clock to watch. No hall to race. Nothing.
Not to be all dramatic…of course it wasn’t true. I still had the books to read from the English class that I adored. I had a mother who loved me. All the friends I had from the day before. And a permanent gym locker that Mrs. Anderson let me use throughout the school year. We sang on the bus ride home from the game. Everything was beginning.
Each year for a minute on the 26th of December, I can feel that “ending.” That hollow. And then I go through my list. I smile. I have everything I need. And just enough to wish for. No tears. I’m ready to get on that bus! To take the next ride! Let the adventure begin!
Truth be told, we only went to Bozeman, Montana because my mother heard that Sam Elliot lived on a ranch near the town, and could often be seen wandering the local mercantile. Still reeling high on romance and possibility after both reading The Bridges of Madison County, we set off in the direction of love’s west, knowing full well we would indeed pull open that door handle if given the chance. (If you read the book, or watched the movie screaming for Meryl Streep to open the door, then you know.)
My mother already knew how she could break the ice with Sam Elliot if given the opportunity. She would tell him that while reading the book, he was the only one she pictured, and certainly would have chosen him over Clinton Eastwood any day. We both agreed and grew more and more confident with each passing mile.
It was hard to tell when exactly we entered the town. It did not appear that different from the approaching landscape. I assessed the situation quickly. The Main Street passed quickly, so I turned around and drove it again. There wasn’t Google at the time, so no research had been done. And would we have come had we known? Probably not. I pulled over. Parking was ample. I could feel the excitement slipping from my mother’s face. Something had to be done quickly. We went into the only store that wasn’t hardware related. There was a small rack of dresses. I pulled each one out, like a jester dancing for the queen. And then, I held one that was actually beautiful. I hangered it under my chin. She was smiling, so I went behind the curtained closet and put it on. Black with sublte off white flowers. An empire waist. It fit perfectly. It was no longer us “missing out,” but “they” who had overlooked this beautiful dress.
We found a place to sleep for the night. The next morning we decided (mostly me) to climb the big hill to reach the white rocks that spelled out the name of the town. We got about half way. She stopped, looked around and said, “I can’t even see a mall from here.” We were laughing too hard to finish the climb. We decided if we left immediately, we could be home by bedtime, and be at Ridgedale Mall when it opened the next morning. We could get coffee, while browsing the books at Barnes and Noble. She could look for a new dress. She said the only nature she needed was that of The Banana Republic. Tears of laughter watered the new dream, and we were off again — blooming.
I don’t know how she knew. There were no influencers. No self help books. And even if there were, she wouldn’t have had time to read them. She would have laughed at the thought of someone telling her to stay “in the now.” “Where else would I be?” She would have said.
It was a Saturday evening. Grandma Elsie’s “now” was filled with some pots brewing, others soaking. She shooed me away from the stove into the wafting of Grandpa’s pipe. I followed it into the living room. I didn’t ask, I simply followed the pinstripe of his overalls onto his lap. He perched the pipe away from the top of my blonde head. “You smell like today, “ I said. He raised his eyebrows. It was a combination of sun, and breeze, and hay and earth, topped with just a hint of tobacco. I squeezed the pouch in his pocket, still wanting to touch the end of his pipe, but remembering the heat from the first and last time I touched it. I pulled at the corners of his pierced lips to form a smile. He was still so new. I wanted to know everything. I didn’t have the words for it then, but he, being already formed, I wondered if I could be a part of it. I sculpted his face and flannel like clay, wanting to be somehow connected. I put a thumb on each of his eyebrows and pulled upward. “That means surprise,” I said. He smiled on his own this time, without my pulling, and I knew that we were connected.
The pans clanked in the kitchen. The coo-coo of the clock stayed silent. It was only a moment, but it was beautiful. And we were in it. I’m sure he had thoughts of tomorrow’s farm, but he didn’t stray. He tapped his pipe in the tray beside the lounger. And we gathered in the scented remains of the day.
Returning home after the first Friday of my first week in the first grade, I vowed I would never go back to Washington Elementary. This was a week full of firsts, and I’m not sure which one put me over the edge — the school lunch lady that made me eat a pickle, the enforced afternoon nap followed by the milk I refused to drink, the pulling of my long blonde hair by my thought to be friend David Holte, or the introduction of time that seemed impossible to follow.
I felt exposed. Unprotected. I waited by the garage doors for my mom to return from work. When I told her that my future plans did not include school, she didn’t dispute it. This was Friday night — we had the whole weekend ahead of us. Two days for a six year old could seem like a lifetime, so I helped her in with the groceries and my new life began.
Saturday morning I jumped into the Chevy Impala, beside my mom, seatbeltless and carefree. We parked outside the Ben Franklin and walked to Herberger’s basement. I ran through the racks like Dynda’s clothesline, while she picked out some new hand towels. She pulled me out from under and said she had an idea. We walked over to the “new for school” items. Windbreakers. I ran my hands along the sleeve. So sleek and shiny. They could repel anything, she told me. Anything? I asked. Any storm to be faced, she said. Like wind? Yes. Water? Yes. David Holte? Of course. Milk? It would run off your sleeve like a raindrop. I smiled. But what about if I get lonesome? This was the best part, she said, and opened the zipper around the neck. The love compartment. Just open it up and pull it around your head. Tie the strings, and I’ll be with you. I put my arms in the navy blue windbreaker. They slid in so easily. They felt cool and fast. I pulled up the white zipper. Tucked my hair in the hood and made a bow, just like I had learned with my bumper tennis shoes. I felt all of the power contained. She handed the clerk some of her hard earned cash. Exchanged for a receipt, the woman asked if I wanted to wear it home. I may never take it off, I thought.
I wore it straight through Sunday evening. I couldn’t wait to show Cindy and Jan. I got up Monday morning, dressed and ready. My lunch was prepared in a brown paper sack, along with a note to my teacher that said I didn’t have to drink the afternoon milk. Fully zipped and tucked in the protective love of navy, I walked to the bus stop. I waved and smiled as my mom drove down the gravel road. The breeze rolled past my waving arms. I knew I could face anything.
I wake this morning, dressed in a love I will never take off.
I suppose I already knew it, but it’s good to be reminded. Margaux began a week of summer school theatre classes. I asked to see the end project. It was just a short film clip to show some emotion. I had never really seen her argue before. She was indeed acting. Thinking about it later, of course they would have been directed to this. Anger is always the easiest. The quickest trip. The path cleared with the worded blade. And unfortunately, that remains so true in our day to day lives.
Wielding our knives, we so easily remove the protective sheaths of kindness. The subtle acts of wonder and curiosity, even thinking. I, too, can make the leap far too easily. Aaaaah, patience. I urge it to come walk beside me, even when it has already made the offer, already stood waiting…patiently. I laugh at the irony, me trying to rush patience itself. So I stop. I listen.
Answers don’t come with the speed of bullet, at the cutting of a blade. Anger is not a path. Will there be acting? Of course. Not pretending, but acting, acting like it all matters. Because it does, doesn’t it? Don’t we? Matter? We’re all listening for this reply. I still have to believe the answer is a resounding yes. A yes that waits for us to join its path. Patiently.
He sat next to me in kindergarten, where our only source of hierarchy came from the size of our Crayola crayons box. My mom couldn’t afford the largest, but I did have a good solid 24 pack. A few in class had the coveted 64 with the sharpener included, but not many. He pulled his tiny 9 pack from inside of his desk. He barely made a scribble during the allotted coloring time. At first I thought it was because he didn’t have that much to choose from, so I offered to share. He declined. And he didn’t seem embarrassed, he just didn’t seem to care. This was most surprising! It was my favorite time of day. To be set free. To color. To create. Then hang it on the wall! Wow! His lack of enthusiasm was doubled down with the use of only the color brown. And I must admit that there was probably some judgement in my second offer of crayon sharing, more of a “Are you sure you don’t want to try some of my crayons?” He shrugged them away.
One day he was called out of class for a few tests. We all whispered in wonder. Well, not wonder really, but confirmation that he must indeed be stupid, like we thought. He came back to the classroom all smiles. He was colorblind. We all welcomed the diagnosis. Mrs. Strand hung his brown paper on the wall, and we went on with the lesson.
It’s hard to see things the way other people see them. And I am just as guilty. I ask again and again, how can they not see it???? I suppose sometimes it’s so clear that it’s invisible. I would like to think we have learned and grown since the age of five, but I’m not always so sure.
Facing the same direction, I guess we will always see things differently. And we will rarely receive the reasons why. We will be asked again and again to get from desk to wall without diagnosis, but only pure understanding. We must sit in our differences and try to learn.
It was the most delightful combination of comfort and brand new.
I made a book of photographs for Dominique’s mother. Each visit we would go through the book, again, for the first time. Her short term memory collapsed upon itself within just a few minutes, but the long term — the love of her family — this recognition remained until the end. So we turned, page by page, holding.
Maybe it’s the heart that takes over, when the brain has had enough. The brain that has warned us, urged us. Shot the warning signs again and again. But thankfully the heart seems to win — turning the the brain’s fears of “remember when…” into the heart’s gathering of “aaaah, but remember when…”
They say memory is unreliable. I suppose if you’re using the brain, that’s true. So I write the stories from my heart, where they seem to be holding, strong. Each day turning the page, saying the “I love you’s” again, and for the first time.
I suppose it was at my grandparent’s house that I first learned to come in clean. Winter snow or summer dirt was wiped from shoes in the entryway before climbing the couple of steps into the kitchen where grandma wiped her floured hands inside of her apron pockets and brought you in for a loving belly hug. After the apron imprinted your cheek, there was nothing to do but come directly with the truth. The truth of what you had been doing outside. What you touched that maybe you were told not to touch, like the electric fence, or a baby bird from a fallen nest. Maybe it felt safe, because it had been proven safe, time and time again, with wiped shoes and warmed cheeks…so we told all, and she loved us still.
If I come to you with that same truth today, I will tell you that I have battled it throughout the years — love and trust. Maybe we all do. But it has yet to change. The only way any of it seems to work is when I come in clean. When I come clean. When I tell you my truth, and accept the same from you. It’s not as complicated as I, we, often like to make it.
I grab the straw broom from the corner and smile. It has never needed instructions. Nor does my heart — its screen door swings open, and I dare it all again. Safe. Welcomed in the loving arms of home.
Maybe it’s because I want to hear it. Maybe it’s because Mr. Iverson told us in the first grade that they could be about anything, the poems that he wanted us to write — the poems that he would inscribe neatly on the black board and our hearts, measured out note by note. And they were special. Lyrical. The ordinary things, our houses and shoes. Our games and basements and cars and trees. They all became magical because we called them poetry.
We recently got a new doorbell for our gate. It is connected to our phones. It gives us the alert whenever motion is detected, even when it’s us. When I go for my morning walk, just past the gate, she pings in my ear and says, “There is motion at your front door.” And every day it is the poem that starts my journey. There IS motion at my front door – and isn’t it a good reminder! I always smile. Because isn’t it what we’ve been told in movies and books. By philosophers and teachers. “When you stop learning you die.” “It’s over when you stop dreaming.” “Sharks never stop swimming. You gotta keep moving.” The list goes on. It’s all about motivation. And could there be a better place to start than your front door? So I hear it. I feel it. There IS motion! I AM alive! And so I begin with my doorbell’s poem, off in search of another. Because we get to decide. We hold the chalk that turns the cursive words into prayers and sets the path of our journey.
I have to go now. Begin. Create something. There is motion at my heart’s door.
