It was almost a relief after the first scratch. Oh, the pressure of white tennies from Iverson’s shoes. I tiptoed from bus to class to preserve. And then maybe one day, guard down, laughing over a passed note from the back seat, leaning over a nothing that could be funnier, blocking the aisle of the bus, someone less interested in the joke and more concerned about getting off, stepped through the glee onto my new shoe and marked it with a rub of black urgency. Once the shock wore off, so did the pressure, and the outside rain no longer seemed a challenge.
When I hopped from the final step onto Van Dyke Road, I could see them — all the puddles that gravel will allow. Grownups complained, why wasn’t it paved already. But in this land of 10,000 lakes, our sweet dirt road added more than a few extra. And didn’t the name itself sound like an invitation — puddle…. And so I did, I puddled my way up the drive.
Not to be outdone, my socks were as wet as my shoes as I stripped my feet in the garage entry. There was a small line strung from the ceiling to hang the well traveled. I walked from the outlines of my damp bubble toes on the cement, and went victorious into the house.
I’m reading Gertrude Stein. She writes, “ You are so afraid of losing your moral sense that you are not willing to take it through anything more dangerous than a mud-puddle. ” I know I was brave on Van Dyke Road. I must be braver still. We all must be. This current murk that we find ourselves in, more than a puddle for sure, we must brave our way through. Daily. The moral compass is strong. It calls to the heart well traveled, “Come.”
He could see me eyeing the small frame. I already had one on hold behind his desk at the Emmaus location. Emmaus is the equivalent of a Salvation Army or Goodwill. Most of the employees are those that need the aid of these donations the most. Between our two accents, it was hard to figure out what the actual price was. As we wandered through our attempts, a conversation began. He was from Belarus. He seemed delighted that I was from America. The more we learned about each other, the less I hesitated with the purchase. Soon I settled on “pourquoi pas” — why not!? And I went home, not only with an extra frame, but a story to tell.
And isn’t that what art is, an exchange of stories? For that matter, I suppose that’s what life is.
Yesterday, I cut the small piece of panel to fit the frame. I gessoed. Underpainted. Sketched. Then began to paint the tiny bird. As it appeared, I had to smile, because it wasn’t just coming to France, it was leaving Belarus. He was leaving Belarus.
We are not the same. But we are all connected. And that’s nothing to be feared, but celebrated. I tell this to the tiny bird, who replies, “Yes, chef!”
Running feral as I did, from sun up to sun down, on the equally untamed gravel of Van Dyke Road, it’s counterintuitive, (and yet true), to believe that I never wanted to get dirty. Of course dust gathered on my once-only-white gym socks, creating a permanent outline of my bumper tennis shoes. This was unavoidable. But I mean really dirty, purposefully dirty, like when the Norton girl added more water to yesterday’s rain soaked garden and scooped the mud by hand into discarded EasyBake oven tins scattered in their back yard. “The horror!” I exclaimed to my mother, “Mud pies!” She, being ever crisp in her white blouses, understood completely, as she tried to rub out the wayward splatters on my shorts and t-shirt.
I still find a way to run wild, mostly on canvas now. I have specific clothes just for that. Yesterday, in the studio, K.D. Lang was singing along with each stroke. It wasn’t lost on me that I noticed the brown oil on my sleeve as she sang, “Wash, wash me clean. Mend my wounded seams.” And isn’t that what love does? Accepts us. Gathers us, in all of our commonalities, all of our discrepancies, washes us clean.Maybe this is what allows me to dare the palette. To navigate this beautiful mess we’re in.
She left them in my care. Her most crisp and white. It’s healing for me. Tending, wearing, my mother’s blouses. It mends my wounded seam, and keeps her near, through wayward splatters.
I had read my way through the Golden Books on the bottom shelf, and was advancing to the next level of Olson’s Super Market book section. No longer crouched on my knees, I immediately felt more grown up as I reached at heart’s height and arm’s length. This selection went beyond the stories of Snow White and leaned into the more complex tales of Rose Red (her less famous sister.) I had to sound out the larger titles. Pan – do – ra’s Box. My mother was filling the cart from the generic sections of the aisles when I tugged at her blouse, trying to get her to explain. She put the book in the safety of the child area of the cart. As I whined for brands like Chef Boyardee, she pointed to the book, and I was more than willing to make the sacrifice.
The man in the store apron carried the bags to the car and placed them in the back seat of our Chevy Impala. My chubby thighs stuck to the seat on the drive home. No seat belt required, I easily grabbed the book from the rear before we reached Van Dyke Road.
“I don’t get it,” I said as my mother came back for the second paper sack in the driveway. “Read it again,” she said. I did, and one more time on the front steps. Still puzzled, I took it in the kitchen. “I thought curiosity was a good thing…” I said. “It is,” she said. What else could she say? Hadn’t we dreamed a life beyond this gravel on countless Sunday afternoons? Hadn’t we continued to dare things like love and hope? I could see her going through the list in her head as she reached opened each cupboard. She could see me outlining my own heart in worry. That box had long been opened. “You go ahead and Pandora all you want,” she said.
Maybe I never did get the meaning. Maybe I jumped too quickly to the second shelf. I still do that. Nothing comes without risk. But the greatest experiences I have ever had have come from taking the chance. Of course problems come along with it, but the rewards… well beyond heart level.
Maya Angelou wrote, “Curiosity wants to behold, to comprehend, maybe even to become.” And isn’t that what I, we, want — to keep becoming. I fling open the morning window and lean into the possibility of maybe even me.
My cousins had a wood burning stove. Each weekend their family would, as they called it, “make wood” — which meant cutting down trees, then into usable pieces, then bringing to their house. When the teacher asked him what he did over the weekend, as was standard each Monday morning in school, my cousin said they “made wood.” The teacher corrected him and said they probably cut some, loaded some, put it in their trucks, but certainty they did not “make” wood. The next week when the question came around to him, “What did you do over the weekend?”, he answered, “We certainly didn’t make any wood.”
I thought about it yesterday as I began to finish the panel for painting. I cut the piece first in half. Sanded it. Measured to make the frame. Sanded those pieces. Glued them to the back of the panel. Clamped. Sanded again. Then Gessoed. For me, there is a real satisfaction as I rub my hand across the smooth surface, the smell of forest still lingering, traces collected on the tops of my shoes. Soon it will enjoy a new life. Become a painting. And while I know with all humble certainty that I didn’t make the wood, I do know that I am a part of it all — the nature of things. And that feels good.
It’s easy to get caught up in wanting to feel masterful, powerful, useful. I know I have caught myself thinking – I made that out of nothing. Certainly I didn’t. It began, as all things do, I suppose, as a gift. And the best thing, I think, is not to squander. Not to look away. But aid in the becoming. To be a part of it all, to humbly, joyfully, creatively, lovingly participate — that might be, well, everything.
Showing them the studio for the first time, I was explaining that the 8’ frame that holds the painting of these people in the water was once holding an Indian motorcycle, horizontally. The Indian sold rapidly. Needing to ship it to another continent, I took it off the frame and rolled the canvas. And while it has been long replaced with these people now bobbing in the deep, I always feel the need to tell them that first there was an Indian.
I suppose that’s why I share the stories of my grandparents, my mother. Because long before there was an artist, me, there was a farmer, a dreamer, a dancer. And even as I type this on a different continent, I am part of it all, part of them. And to tell my story properly, they need to be recognized.
It’s never just one thing. We are not one thing. As the motorcycle rides a wall somewhere in New England, I can feel the breeze. And with soiled hands, I do the work of the day. With a sparkled vision, I see what’s possible. With a daring heart, I spin around the room. Love comes first, and seems to be all that lasts.
What was it all for, if we didn’t have a little fun?
In my younger years, I was a frequent visitor to orthopedic clinics around the state of Minnesota. Without cell phones or iPads, the only thing to do in the waiting rooms was to listen. It was Dr. F. Dixon Conlin that said something that sticks with me still today. Up and down the hallway, he would walk his patients. Those who were ailing seemed to have one thing in common that he corrected again and again — Never look at your feet. I didn’t have the words or knowledge of what all that entailed, but I was certain that no healing, no progress of any kind, could be made while looking down. I was determined not to make the same mistake — I suppose I still am.
I have painted countless birds that counsel from shoulder to head. But this woman, I could see it in her face that she already knew. Her bird, her hope, was always mid flight. So this is what they mean by, “blessed assurance.” It’s written on her face. This quiet confidence. Not weighed down by doubt or arrogance. No need to stomp or trample when you know how to fly.
I’m not always certain of my path, but I return her smile, and keep looking up.
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.
