In the “Age of Innocence,” (if there were ever a time), they used to say, “I didn’t think they’d try it on,” meaning, I didn’t think they’d have the guts to do it. Some may have said that about my mother, but not me.
I’m not sure she ever really knew how brave she was. I know she wanted to be. I guess I knew first, because my grandfather told me. Standing in the kitchen, opposite the sink – grandma in elbow deep – in front of the window that framed the stripped and hanging cow from the tree, he told me I could turn in, or turn out. That I could armored like my Aunt Kay, or be open like my mother. He didn’t mark either as good or bad, both would be difficult, it was just a choice. My mother returned from the other room. Broken, she had the guts to still be ruffled in white. I had already made my choice. To be wounded, but still believe in love, I would ever be “trying it on.”
It was years later, I relayed his message to her. She hadn’t known that he saw her. It wasn’t the way. I suppose it was thought, “Well, it goes without saying…” but mostly I think that means it simply goes unsaid. I can’t let it be one of those times. Ever ruffled in ruffles, I come to the page, to the canvas, to you, wide open, daily. And on those days when you think you don’t have the strength, the courage, the will, you will think of these words, these images, see my mother’s face and heart, and you will find yourself “trying it on.”
Perhaps if you were to call it an eggplant, you wouldn’t give it such a frame. But l’aubergine, yes, an aubergine could hold its own, and perhaps even more, be the one not supported by, but wearing the frame.
Hearing my name called now, it comes with a French accent, an English one, even German…so isn’t it funny that I always hear my mother’s voice. The familiar long o, so long it sometimes didn’t even have room for the i at the end, it simply wrapped itself around and ended with the d. Framing my heart, not just with love, but with a responsibility. In that drawn out o, I knew I was to keep becoming.
I try every day. Offering up the words and the art. Would she find it worthy of how she framed me? The light in which she wanted me to be seen. My mother. I hope so. I think so. I keep trying. Because didn’t she bat away the ordinary? Try to clear the path? Shrug off and roll her eyes at purple? Yes, yes, yes…Joyfully, I was led to believe that I was aubergine.
Shopping Michigan Avenue, my mom and I wanted it to never end. We went in every store. Up and down. Miles and miles of Chicago’s “magnificent.”
We weren’t big Nike fans, but the store itself was gorgeous. We feigned affection. Running our fingers against t-shirts and track suits (long before leisure wear, that’s what we called them.) I don’t know who stopped first, but we stood in front of the poster and read. Words could always hold our attention. There was a woman running on a country road with these words, “There are clubs you can’t belong to, neighborhoods you can’t live in, schools you can’t get into, but the roads are always open.” We both smiled, and ran along beside her.
The places we traveled in that truth! I still do.
I’m still sometimes thrown by Mondays in France. Nothing is open. Yesterday morning, I told Dominique that we were out of treats. Before he finished asking, “Where would you like…” we both realized the Mondayness of the situation. By mid afternoon, I was able to travel to Chicago in order to find that my French kitchen was always open. Monday didn’t stand a chance against my molasses. I made the cookies, and may I say, they are magnificent.
I pride myself in finding a way. My mother saw to that. She’s still guiding me through Monday. Tuesday is here. Wide open! Let’s run!
There’s probably a path worn from my daily trek to the hills of the Montaiguet. But I can tell you, I have never walked the same way twice. (Sure, if you’re going to count by tread marks, but my travels are led (or whisked away) by imagination, and are more like the darting of the birds to the stories just behind the trees.
I suppose I started on Van Dyke Road, dragging a wagon full of fellow wanderers — more than willing participants in the sunlit adventure of the afternoon. No rules or fences, only wonder. “I wonder if my hand could fit in there?… or if my doll could reach that highest limb? If the elephant I won tossing rings at the Douglas County fair missed its friends, and were they waiting in the North End? Could we all survive on one can of Chicken Noodle soup? Could the wagon actually take flight if pushed fast enough down the hill? How do you get grass stains out of a baby blanket? Is there a secret land in Hugo’s field? Could my mother always find me?”
My feet may not be as quick, by my mind is still as wistful as the wondering wren. The sun comes up, and I flutter.
It might surprise you to know that the best croissant we’ve ever had, was not in Aix en Provence, nor Paris, but San Francisco. We congratulated them. French butter, they said. It was perfection. Nothing added. No cookies or chocolate stuffed in the middle. No pistachio cream. Just a simple butter croissant. When things are done well, no additions are required.
And isn’t it the same with living? The best that we can offer is often without flare or fanfare. An open door. A seat at the table. An understanding that doesn’t require explanation, only a place, a presence.
We all know people who are struggling. Sometimes I think we imagine that we have to offer an answer. A solution. Most people really only want to know that you care — they want to taste the richness of your simple French butter — to step into the warmth of your heart’s kitchen, and simply sit down.
I could play a semi-recognizable version of “Michael Row The Boat Ashore”, when my guitar lessons were cut short by an arm breaking crack-the-whip incident at the fifth grade Washington Elementary ice skating party. With my plastered arm, I could no longer hold the guitar. Band lessons were about to begin in our gymnasium. I could somehow still hold the clarinet. I joyfully honked once a week under the direction of Mr. Iverson. When they sawed off my cast, I suppose I could have returned to the guitar, but I stayed with the one who saw me through.
My “instruments” have continued to change throughout my life. By choice and chance, I have had to let in, and I have had to let go. But I’ve always had my voice. How freeing it is to know. Some things can never be taken away.
I don’t keep that clarinet in my French home because I still play, I keep it as a reminder. A lesson of change. Of adapting. Of finding joy when the whip has been cracked.
Perhaps it’s why I speak of the bird song so often. Maybe it’s a bit more refined now, but it all began with a honk, a glorious and joyful honk.
I saw my first Mona Lisa, (some might say only), at the Louvre in Paris. It was not my second, nor even third siting yesterday, but there she was, at a restaurant in Stillwater, Minnesota. She made me smile, returning hers, coyly, knowingly, which may be the whole point after all.
We’re very quick to evaluate each other’s experiences. I am not proud of it, but I’ve certainly done the same. Thinking how my travels are more real. My pain more devastating. My love deeper. And it’s just not true. I’m trying to get better. Not to judge, but simply acknowledge. There is no need to keep score.
I was certain that no one could have loved their mother more. No one could feel the loss more deeply than I did. Than I do. But I saw her there. Entering the party. I gave her my smile, my slight turn of lip, my knowing what she was going through, and her return, drenched in tears, told me the truth. The loss of her mother — “her easeled Mona Lisa” was no less real than mine.
The thing is, we think we know. We don’t know. The best we can do is to care. Keep caring.
I will go walking soon. Wearing my Mona Lisa sweatshirt from the Louvre. Not to tell you that “I’ve been THERE,” but more to say, “I’ve been there…”
I suppose it’s always easier to see it in others when you’ve worn the same face they are wearing. He was waiting for the school bus. Clearly it was the first day. All the clues were there. Just after Labor Day. His hair parted and combed. Book bag empty and pristine. Clothing ironed. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Clearly he had been standing on the sidewalk for a while. Early on this first morning. He turned his head from side to side. Quickly, as if he could have missed a glimpse of the big yellow wheeled beast in mid turn.
Empathy is a powerful force. I’m certain he had a lump in his throat, because I could feel one in mine.
It’s funny how uncertainty works. Because I didn’t begin that way. My first days of school I easily flung myself out to the end of our driveway. Wet hair in the wind. Racing to a bus I knew would be there. A bus I knew would wait for my scurry. A bus I knew , if I were running really late, would go down the road, pick up the wet-headed Norton girls and turn around and stop for me again.
I suppose it was my father leaving that rolled uncertainty, like a river, into everything I had known for sure. I went earlier to the bus stop. Would it be there? On time? Would I trip? Would it know that I needed it to pick me up, now more than ever?
Because it did, every day. Because my mother was as reliable as that big, yellow bus. Because she flung her doors wide open for me. Waited for me. I became certain again. I stood strong on two legs. Filled with the knowledge that things, people, could be counted on.
I slowed down long enough yesterday to tell the young boy, “It’s coming.” He smiled. We both stepped into the certainty of the day.
We were just young women. Fresh out of college. Out in the world of our first jobs. My friend and I had a standing joke — “I know we’re friends, because you could receive flowers at work, and I’d be like actually happy for you.” We’d laugh, but it wasn’t that far from the truth. We’d see other women get flowers for the occasional holiday or birthday, and we’d roll our eyes and give the half smile and nod. Maybe we were just too young. Or maybe it was because those same people worried about if we took five extra minutes for lunch, or laughed a little too long in the hallway. It seemed to be a culture of if you get something, that takes something away from me.
I suppose it was maturing, or working on my own, but I did seem to grow out of it. Thankfully. I rarely give it a thought now — this who has what. Probably because in those extra long laughs, the loves around me, around me still, I know I have everything.
Walking through the park yesterday, I stumbled upon two different weddings. They were taking photos beside the lake, within all the greenery, amid the wild flowers and under the yellow sun. My first thought was, what a lovely day for them. They were all smiling, and I couldn’t stop smiling. I didn’t know any of these people, but I laughed out loud when I thought, “I’m like actually happy for you.”
It’s a good reminder to myself. I hope I’m always doing, but I’m not sure. And shouldn’t we be? Happy for each other? All of us? Not just on special days, but every day.
I hope this day brings you something special. Flowers even! And if I see you, mid-bloom, I’ll be smiling.
I see the Sainte Victoire mountain every day. It always catches my breath. On the halfway point of my daily walk I get the best view. I try to drink it in slowly. It is the latte I order extra hot to make it last longer. It is the tentative first sip of familiar and spectacular against my lips. Delicious.
Sometimes I wonder if I would have noticed it. Would I have just gulped it in and moved on? It was Cezanne who led me to it. Painting by painting. Image by image. In books and museums. Telling me again how worthy it was. How beautiful. And I believed it before I stood beneath it. Before I climbed it. Before I painted it.
That’s what we can do for each other. It’s why I love a latte, I suppose. Because of each one shared with my mother, with my friends. Each sip an experience. Of laughter and tears. An extension of a meal. A way to make the afternoon last longer. A gathering of love, sip by sip.
And the thing is, we can do it with everything. When we share what we love. The things we find important. When we show each other the view from our hearts, it can be the familiar turned spectacular. I mean it’s just a rock, a giant rock, this Sainte Victoire. So if we can turn that into a “breath-taker” — just imagine what else love can do!
It’s time to show our hearts. Look at things differently. Open our minds. And just see!!!!
