She asked me how I chose the bird for each portrait. “They simply fly in,” I said.
I suppose I’ve always believed in the pure randomness of it all. That it could happen to anyone, at any time. Pain, happiness, confusion, even love. And there’s comfort in that. And if it does, simply fly in, I have to remember that one does not outweigh the other. If I can shoulder happiness, then I can do the same with the next challenge carried in.
Sometimes I wonder, what if her kindergarten nap mat hadn’t been placed next to mine? What if she had transferred to Lincoln Elementary, from our beloved Washington? Would we still be friends? Would she still fly across the world to see me? And then we exchange emails on our current reads. Talk about the lemon boats at Roers’ bakery, our gym uniforms…and joy lands gently on my shoulder as wonder flings away.
And isn’t it all barely more than air? Whatever the day may bring, this winged moment, all will be shouldered. Even, ever, love.
It was my mother’s best color. Of course she looked good in it, but there was more to it. We didn’t have google to ask why. It was enough to simply feel it, the power of turquoise.
“Use what you have to get what you need.” I tell myself this daily. But how do you get an afternoon with your mom, when she’s not here? What do I have to make that happen? I have paint. I have time. I mix the blue and the green. The calmness of the blue, settles and gathers and the green promises the growth of all things to come. And wasn’t that what I longed for, the hug and gentle release of my mother. The open window tells me it’s all still within reach. And I sit in the power of turquoise. And I am saved.
I watched her at the kitchen table in complete fascination as she snapped open the yellow containers, L & R. She wet her fingers with the solution and placed the tiny disc between her thumb and middle finger, rubbing them clean perhaps, but more likely, I thought, working up the courage to place it in her eye. I held my breath as she balanced it now, her hand slowly rising. With her left hand she held her eye open, bringing the other closer and closer. Of course they had made her do it at the eye clinic, but this was her first solo flight at home. Would she do it? Could she do it? She blinked furiously, leaving her right hand under her chin in case a catch would be needed. But it stayed. Her blinking slowed. She smiled and I smiled. Holding in our victory lap as she plucked the other from its case and placed it. I blinked along in solidarity and cheered with both arms raised. She was my hero. My astronaut. My ever “I’ll go first, but I’ll never leave you behind.” I always made sure that she knew how I saw her.
I suppose I’m still doing that. Daily.
In the blink of an eye, it was all gone. That table. That house. But not the love. That remains. And I will always let her know.
I’m continuously reminded while painting, that black is never just black, and white is rarely white at all.
I won’t give away the whole piece just yet, but if you look at her “black” coat, it would be nothing without the shadows, the light, the movement — all arriving in shades of living. It’s the same with her hands, her “white” hands are pinks and purples and grays and more.
I used to love to roam through the constant assembly of coats in my grandparents’ farmhouse. Of visitors and helping hands, they hung equally. I wouldn’t have seen it, had I not rubbed my face through sleeves. From afar they draped in winter drab, but up close, they were every color — altered by work, by wear, rain, sometimes snow. Through holiday and honor, they offered a palette that said, (no not just “said” but lured), “come in, see the colors of what is being felt, from face to heart.”
I suppose I’m still getting the call. From heart to canvas to word. I have to answer. If not, what was their entry for?
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.
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.
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 three of us were best of friends in first second and third grade. Maybe it started with something as simple as the jump rope. Jan and I needed a third, otherwise we were just spinning. Shari jumped in from off the monkey bars, and that was all it took. We were friends. Every recess we took turns. We sang the rhymes to each swing of the rope. We laughed off the trips and twirled again. Something was said in the summer of our third year. Standing in Shari’s driveway, I could hear them arguing. Half the rope raised in my hand, I somehow knew. I looked at the opposite handle lying in the dirt and thought, “but we weren’t finished.”
We didn’t gather again until we all began playing the clarinet. It was only in band, but we still spoke. After graduation, we all went our separate ways. I read on Facebook that Jan died. I saw a picture of Shari for the first time just the other day. Typing today, I can still feel my hand on the jump rope.
I don’t know why people worry about being forgotten. The first image I see when I wake up is the portrait of my grandfather. Not only has my love for him not diminished, it’s quite possible it grows stronger each day. I suppose that’s the way with love.
Half way through, I stopped to take a picture of her. I think she’s beautiful — being unfinished. Would that we could allow that for each other, for ourselves. Because it is beautiful, isn’t it! These lives and loves we’re giving, they never really end.
I have things to do today. We all do. What a pleasure it is to be unfinished. Beautiful!
In a large gathering, I couldn’t really tell the difference between a Hvezda and a farming neighbor. Looking up from the height of their waist, I could see that we were all pretty much the same as I weaved through pant-legs and nylon stockings.
I can’t tell you the moment it changed. Maybe it was in small spurts, like my growth. One day though, I remember thinking nobody could possibly understand. Because surely I was the only one to feel this way. And the irony, I suppose, was that in all those differences, everyone else seemed to be having that very same thought.
It’s funny that it takes so long to see them, the thoughts nesting atop our heads, but once we start talking, sharing our experiences, we find that we’re really not that different after all. “Family” or not, we are all related.
On runways and red carpets, they like to play, “Who wore it best?” — pointing out how the same dress curves around the different women. And unfortunately, we seem to do the same with feelings. Judging who grieves better. Who recovers more quickly. Who wins (or loses) with the most grace. And I’m guilty of it too, and then I feel it, the flutter of those nesting thoughts…and I think maybe, just maybe, we’re not that different after all.
