I washed the windows in the studio recently, reminding myself that in order to paint the light, you really need to be in it.
People will always be quick to tell you what to do. Even knee deep in the mud, they will advise you on your path. While all the scattering of their “should-haves” and “supposed-tos” merely block the way. And doubt, not one to miss a dim light, will often seize the opportunity and join in the chatter. And so I turn…
I can’t say I love to wash windows. It is work. And the efforts are never rewarded with longevity. You know it going in, this won’t be the last time. But when it hits you, wraps itself around you, nearly lifting with clarity and grace, as sure as a mother’s embrace, my heart says (with no apology for the pun), “aaaaah, I see….”
I missed it the first time checking the mailbox. I went back and read the email. The carrier said it was “delivered to a secure location.” I went back down the driveway. Oh, there it is… I guess for some, delivered to a secure location is simply thrown out of a moving vehicle over the gate and into the bush.
We all have our own definitions.
I don’t know why I called it a bean. Maybe I couldn’t say blanket yet, and certainly not security. It wasn’t big. I’m sure it came with one of my dolls. It had the same smell of their heads, somewhere between plastic and baby powder, and while clutching to my chest, the scent directly went from nose to heart, and I was saved.
There was always a frantic search before leaving the house. I had to have my bean before entering the car that would traverse the gravel of Van Dyke Road. I’m not sure we gave a thought to seat belts, but my mom and I knew that that mini blanket, this would save me.
I suppose it happened naturally. One day it got left behind and I made the journey without it. Maybe it was at the bottom of the laundry. Possibly even in the driveway. Somehow, the security remained. Enough to get me past the railroad tracks, the freeway, the airport.
L’Occitane makes a hand cream with the exact scent. I buy it here in France. It’s funny, with just a smoothing on my hands, I smile. Oh, Bean. I am delivered to my secure location, and I am home.
I could tell she was so excited to be surrounded by all the birds. Standing in my studio she said, (in French) “You know what my last name means…” To be honest, I didn’t even know what her last name was. “C’est Mésange.” (As if that helped.) She pointed to one of the birds on canvas, and looked up on her phone. “Chickadee?” I said. She looked at her phone, Yes, yes, yes. She beamed. Her name meant Chickadee.
I never have any idea what will connect us. But I do know this. People will find themselves, and in turn, you will find them.
It was always the blouse for my mother. Yesterday, the purse in the painting for my friend Sheila. And with each reveal, I learn a little bit more about those around me, just by seeing what they see.
I suppose we’ve been saying it forever. A mile in someone else’s shoes. But I wonder if we’re still doing it…making the journey from Mésange to Chickadee.
It’s a variety of the beignet, but distinctive to the south of France. More importantly, they are simply delicious! As luck would have it, the best I’ve ever tasted come from the boulangerie nearest our home. I suppose I’ve eaten my share, knowing that when I enter the door, either of the two women working there shout out, “Des oriellettes!” And I must say, it only makes them more delicious!
It’s the equivalent of the coffee shop knowing your order. The butcher your cut of meat. The librarian knowing your last read. The person on the walking path waving with an “it’s great to see you again this morning.” We all want to be seen. And what a simple and glorious gift it is! Names and numbers, status and rank, not required. A little eye contact. A smile. It goes a long way.
Sure, the oriellettes are sweet. What keeps me coming back, what tells them to fill up that sachet, is a little glimpse that they see me, maybe even enjoy it, and I enjoy it too — nothing much sweeter than that! My heart begins to dance.
I’m expecting something in the mail today. Even as I’m typing it, I can feel the pebbles of Van Dyke Road beneath my feet, walking out to the mailboxes. It’s not lost on me that it was the place of most of my arrivals and departures. Where I got on the bus for school. Off the bus for home. Where I began my descent on bicycle down the hill. Where I caught my breath after returning. Where I stood silent, waiting for the firefighters, watching our house burn. Where I listened to the carpenters rebuild. Where I sat, ever hopeful, ever looking forward, under the slight shade that the mailboxes offered, having ordered something from the Bazooka Joe comics.
And isn’t it something, I think, to be this far, in time and distance, within all of life’s hellos and goodbyes, to still be hopeful, excited, to be looking forward to.
It was my mother who bought me the plaque from Herberger’s basement — the image of a little girl in front of the store — and it read, “Buy while the purse yet swells with youth.” I can’t say that I knew exactly what it meant at the time, being deep in the swell of it all. But I know now. I even know what that little girl looks like. I have painted her so many times without my knowledge or permission (and isn’t that in itself so “swell.”)
It’s hours before the mail will come. The pebbles jump beneath my feet.
They loved them for different reasons. My grandma’s a bit more practical. She needed her pockets for Kleenex and treats — we needed candy she said, you know, just to be sure. My mother kept her dreams in her pockets, be it skirt, coat or pants, needing a place to coddle them in hand, you know, just to be sure.
So maybe they weren’t that different after all. They just found their way to comfort through different pocketed resources. And after all, didn’t they both love the autumn candy at Walgreen’s.
We have no candy corn in France. No mellowcremes, or Autumn Mix by Brach’s. Yet, my pockets remain full, with the same magic as the heart, I suppose.
We get to decide the magic that we carry. The love we hold on to. The hopes and dreams and comforts that fill our pockets. Sometimes I find myself leaning up against a French wall, and rolling it all between my fingers, you know, just to be sure.
A painting will dictate what it wants for a frame. Or some will not need one at all. But once in a while, the sequence reverses, and I will paint an image for a frame. That’s what happened with this little one. It was alone in the thrift store. Empty. But not for long.
To see a need and fill it, before the asking, it’s nice within my artistic world, but my sincere hope is that I can do it in real life. With real people.
I was told once that when someone near you is going through a difficult time, you should never ask them “What can I do?” Of course it is well intended, but now you’ve only added to the situation – given them another problem to solve – how you can help. It’s never easy, or a sure thing, but I suppose the best thing is to just do something. It may not be the thing to solve the problem, but doing something nice can never be wrong. And you can always do another thing.
In that spirit, I’ve painted several small pieces for this frame. They can always be switched out. Mostly it serves as a reminder for me to just keep doing. Keep trying. And I’m not going to lie, it simply feels good. It fills me at the same time as the frame. So I smile and point the question, not outwardly, but inwardly, “What can I do?” And I do something. And that should be celebrated.
It’s Grandma Elsie’s voice I hear. When I sold my first original painting, I told her about the gallery, the people, the price. She clapped her hands in front of her heart and said, “Isn’t that something?!!!!!!”
In my current read, the woman’s name is Sparrow. She is lost in the woods of Maine. Deeply lost. I know she’s just a character in a book. But I also know that the world is filled with those looking to be found, searching to find their way.
I can’t traverse the world on foot. Above twig and under branch. So I paint. I paint a Sparrow. In hopes that they see. (That you see.)
Growing up, I didn’t have a forest. But I did have a North End. Untamed. Unbuilt. At the edge of Van Dyke Road. The perfect place to lay down your worry. Secrets and fears could be left in the piles of dirt, the water’s edge, leaving no direction home. Even unburdened, I still had to find my way back. It would have been so easy to get tangled in what I wanted to leave behind. To get roped in. My heart would race. Beating in my ears. And the birds flew overhead with all of my envy. And then I would hear it. The opening of a garage door atop the hill. Car wheels on gravel. Anyone’s mother, calling every child home. Reminding me that I could fly. And I was saved.
“I meant no, but it came out yes.” — This was the first card in which my mother appeared. And then she began popping up with great frequency. “There are no operators standing by…” And of course, “I was so tired yesterday, I could hardly think — thank God I was at work.” Certainly the entire poem of “I saw the truth about you…” (because I did). And “Hit by a train…” (because she was). And she wore it like a badge of courage, a badge of grace. My greatest thrill was to watch her at an event, when someone would pick up a card, or print and say, “this is so me!” And she would clutch her imaginary pearls and say, “Well, actually…”
There’s only one way to the canvas or page, and that’s through my heart. Dominique stood in front of the portrait and said, “I feel like I know her…” And I had to smile, because surely he did, somehow. Certainly there are traces of all of his (now our) family, and friends, that pump through my veins. Love cannot unsee. And it can never stop growing, as it picks up the pieces of each other again and again.
Starting the new painting yesterday, I had to stop and smile, because I could see who was coming.
So if from time to time you see yourself here, then know that you too have been seen. You may clutch your pearls and say, “Well, actually… I have been loved.”
It was rarely destinational. And that’s why we simply called it a bike ride. It was purely for the ride itself. For the wind in hair. The pumping heart that matched the pedaling feet. The blur of field passed. The daring of handlebars let go! The thrill so big, that when riding with a best friend (it was so easy to get to best), you had to reach out to grab their hand, to feel the pulsing of their, too, grateful heart. And for just a few seconds in the balance, (knowing but not caring that it wouldn’t, couldn’t last) your clasped hands said “can you believe we get to do this!”
I mention it because isn’t it the closest we come to love?
Yesterday, I finished a painting and a delightful book at the same time. Oh, the missing of the ride! And maybe, within all of this letting go, it became so obvious to me that she wasn’t there in the evening of our family reunion. And I thought of how she would have cooed at the newest arrivals. Squeezed cheeks that weren’t ready to be kissed. How she would have talked faster and louder over the other French pedaling sisters. My mother in law — she was good at the ride.
But it wasn’t sad, this letting go of painting, book and Lucy. I knew it going in. And I will joyfully, eagerly do it all again. And again.
The morning is calling. How easily the race begins. The best!
