It’s ridiculous I suppose. It’s just a shoelace peeking out of a closet door. But in my head, I hear, “I’m ready whenever you are. We’re going to have a great walk today.”
It’s true, we hear what we want to hear. And by giving things voice, I give myself a voice. So I wake up and answer yes to my shoelaces, along with the day. I talk to the trees and the birds. And somewhere between bloom and song, I wonder if they too are doing the same thing. When they see me opening the morning door, I wonder if they hear, I hope they hear, “I’m ready whenever you are.”
The French have an expression when someone passes away — “casser sa pipe” (to break your pipe). I only learned of this two days ago at a funeral. But somehow, my heart, not driven by language, already knew. The two portraits I painted of my pipe-smoking grandfather both have his pockets full — his pipe always in reach.
That’s the question I guess, is “how do we keep our loved ones alive?” And the answer lies directly in the question itself — love. I speak to my grandfather daily. My grandma. My mom. Nothing is broken. The love remains, so the heart’s conversation continues.
When you know someone, really know them with all of your heart, you can keep them present tense, keep their pockets filled with the love that you still have to give — a love always within reach.
She said, “I’ll take that in mauve,” as if I had stock of my mother’s birthday present that hung on the wall, and in different colors. I looked at my mom to see if I actually could sell the poem that I wrote for her birthday, the poem that painted her picture in every word, line and phrase. She clapped her hands in front of her smile, and would have been the first to carry it to the woman’s restaurant had it been ready.
We never looked back.
Maybe it was the approval, the validation in the sale. But it seemed more to be the pure joy of stepping into our lives. Finding the doors and walking through. No longer looking for permission, but offering it up to those behind.
The woman who owned the beautiful new coffee/bagel/restaurant in town, covered her walls in my images, right down to the “lipstick woman” in her bathroom. For years my mom would get the random call, “I’m in the bathroom at Time Square.” The first time was alarming, but it brought years of laughter, and even friendships were formed from that image.
I saw people reminiscing about the place yesterday online. The tagline read, “for people on the go.” And weren’t we all…on the go…becoming. I think we still are. Still standing in front of doors, wondering, do we take the chance, (still feeling those that have closed), but pushed forward by the joy of the time we were mauve. The time we dared, and kept daring. And believed. And believed again. This is the time, once again.
In 1938, Douglas Corrigan earned the nickname “Wrong Way” for mistakenly making a trip across the Atlantic from New York, when he was headed for California. I only know this because in the fifth grade, during an orienteering field trip, my team, after completing the wrong course, and also backwards, was awarded with our “Wrong Way Corrigan” certificates. I’m sure this is not the sole reason, but I have been making my own path ever since.
That’s not to say that I’m completely flockless. I have come to rely, appreciate, value and enjoy a wide array of people. And I know that I belong, but that doesn’t mean I always “fit in.” Fitting in asks you to change yourself so others accept you. Belonging asks you to stay true to yourself no matter what. This is what I encourage you to (forgive me) flock to.
So if you see me in the trees. In the sky. I’m probably the one wearing the beret, playing the violin, as most of the others sing. But isn’t it all music? Beautiful, sweet music teaches us, you don’t have to blend to belong.
I finished the book Pachinko yesterday. When I went for my walk in the afternoon, I started listening to a podcast about the World Creative Director of Disney. He began the interview by saying that if you have read the book Pachinko, you would understand his history. (Sometimes the universe is quite obvious in letting you know you’re on the right path.) There was no one else around, so I smiled to the birds in the sky, thinking surely they, too, must feel a part of it all.
I don’t know that I really believe in coincidence. I think the more we put ourselves out there, the more vulnerable we are, the more we connect. All of this knowledge, this exposure to others, to books, and art, and music and science and creation — perhaps these are the feathers that lift us. The wings that give us a better view.
It was a joyful walk. It seemed to pass more quickly than usual. I remember smiling, but I don’t recall the ground beneath my feet.
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?
The things I worried about on a random Wednesday night seem rather ridiculous now, but to my Elementary self, they felt nearly insurmountable. I suppose it’s ironic that the very library feeding my imagination could bring about so much anxiety. Rereading the books that I had checked out for the week, I interrupted myself with a lot of “but what ifs…” I’d ask my mother — But what if they don’t give us enough time to search the shelves? What if the book I want is already checked out? What if they didn’t get in anything new? She always answered the same — “Give them a chance to surprise you.”
I’ve tried to keep that answer close at hand, tucked inside a heart pocket. It’s easy to assume outcomes. To imagine how people are going to act, to respond. To live out the conversations before they even happen. I’m as guilty as the next person. But some of the most joyous moments have come when I have allowed people to surprise me.
She was known in town, almost feared, as a hard person. My mom had worked with her. At an event, when she began thumbing through my cards and books, I held my breath. Braced. Ready to defend the heart on my sleeve. But she began to smile. She laughed in the right places. Teared up in the raw moments. Clutching her imaginary pearls in both. What a welcome surprise!
I hadn’t changed her. Only given her a chance. And I was given a gift that’s still with me today.
The thing is, we think we know. We think we know how everything is going to turn out. With others, even our own life. But how many doors (hearts) close down in all that certainty. I’m trying to get better. To let it all unfold without a manufactured outcome. Because I don’t know. And that’s ok. It’s good even. I open myself up. Hand in heart pocket, I give this life a chance to surprise me!
I’m more of a poet than a sailor, but I can see the romance in both. I have friends and family who love to sail. Passionate about it. And I gravitate to the love of loving. And that’s what I think connects us — not the uniform of stripes — but the vulnerability. Whether you’re exposing yourself to the open sea, or the open word, you are open! And that’s what allows us to connect.
I think some may fear that it is a sign of weakness to be vulnerable. I think nothing is stronger. More beautiful. To brave it all with heart wide open is to hero the day. To bare your cracks of heart, your stripes, is the purest form of strength that I know.
So I match the wind with pen and paper. With brush and paint. And wear my stripes proudly. Waving to all the heroes ready to set sail.
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.
