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.
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.
Growing up in Minnesota, there was a certainty to change. The weather varied, of course, from season to season, but also from within. Winter could make a humbling final blast in the middle of spring. Summer could hang on for one last hug, even after school began in the fall.
Through them all, there was always a chance of rain.
It was on the ball field, behind the Dairy Queen, beneath the threatening gray skies that I heard it first. Our bikes rested in the dirt next to the dugouts. We nervously checked the skies, holding our metal bats. We were maybe only 10 or 11, but we knew what was important — teams without uniforms, friendship without conditions. The new girl summering in our town said it out loud, nervously, “It could rain…” But it was Brenda, who had been through it all before, who had played every summer, rain or shine, who had huddled within the circle of the Dairy Queen lobby as lightening danced above us — smiling with all teeth and heart exposed, she said, “I’m so happy we’re together.”
And isn’t it still true? Everything, anything, can change from day to day. There’s always a “chance of rain.” But it’s our relationships that hold us. Our friends. Our loves. They huddle us through.
We could blame algorithms, AI, all the usual suspects, but really it comes down to us. I don’t know that much about TikTok. I make little videos of painting progression. Clips from my sketchbook. I don’t pay that much attention to the views, or how they tag the videos. To me it seems pretty obvious of what they contain. But I was really surprised how my obvious was interpreted.
I painted a study of a woman from old portraiture. It was in practice of being loose, and allowing the woman to come to life. A gentle attempt at survival, comfort, in the act of trying to simply be. I was so shocked when I saw the tag that AI had generated for this image — “Women who want to lose weight.” What???? That was not the point at all. Not hashtag sketch, or sketchbook, or painting, or art, or woman trying to warm herself with blankets, nor woman waiting, not even bird. And I was quick to curl my lip in disgust of AI, but then the hard truth became as clear as the Magpie on her shoulder, that AI is only repeating the information that we’ve been feeding it. So telling of what we see. And I guess it’s a harder truth to understand. A harder task to change the way we see things. But soon our humanity will be hashtagged away and what will we be left with then?
I suppose it’s a good reminder though — to be aware of how we look at things. Is this why our country, our world, is so divided? Perhaps if we stopped telling each other that what we see is wrong, and started simply telling what we see, maybe we could get back to our blanket of humanity. Maybe I’m just a woman waiting, or a simple Magpie, but I’ll take comfort in that, loose and simple comfort.
I suppose it’s impossible to find out right away. We make our friends, from the start, in the most joyous of times. We gravitate to the laughter on summer vacation beaches. Buoyed by the play. And between the giggles and the hands held in the sand that we skip upon, we shout to all the blue above, “This is my friend!!!!” And we can’t, for one second, imagine that the moment is not eternal. Until it isn’t.
Perhaps it is here where real friends are made. When the skies darken and the path can no longer be skipped, but only trudged. When the only sound that can break the noise of wind and wave is the close whisper of “I’m still here…and it’s still beautiful.” Maybe the skies can’t hear it then, and maybe they don’t need to, but my heart shouts with eternal joy, “This is my friend!”
It’s not just that she resembled the woman on the magnet I was making — wearing a face from the past, but a smile looking toward the future. And it’s not just that she was the one who first told me, “Slap on a little lipstick, you’ll be fine,” surgery after surgery. It’s not just the fact that she helped cut those magnets – on a paper cutter from Independent School District 206. And it’s not just that she sat on the sofa next to me, sleeving those magnets in plastic, with a glass of wine, mixed with so much laughter that leaked into tears of tenderness. And it’s not just that she stood beside me on concrete floors in Minneapolis and Chicago and New York, selling those created, cut, lived, sleeved magnets. It’s not just that within each of these moments, on couches and concrete, more moments were created that would end up on more magnets, on more paintings, in books, and here – in stories, spread across the internet, moving from country to country, reminding someone somewhere of their mother, their grandma, their friend, who helped them laugh, who helped them cry, and gave them a story to pass on. It’s not just this, but all of this, and more…
I suppose that’s the problem with artificial intelligence. There is no more. Words can be manufactured. Paintings can be painted. Music generated. But then it stops. I want more.
We have a nephew in Kansas City. He is a fantastic musician. And it’s not just that he is creating music that he hears in his heart, in his soul, music that comes from a time when men wore brightly colored tailored suits, topped with matching hats, when fingers were snapped, and jazz wasn’t just played, but spoken. And it’s not just that he is creating that music in a house that his father transformed to make room for him, and well, all that jazz… And it’s not just that they are transforming a new house to create more music, with more creators, in this creative city. It is more. This is the sound of more.
The world is changing. Some want to create it all, with just the push of a button. I want more. May we forever, all want more. These are the better days. WE are the better days.
