I don’t know how many fallen bird nests I saw. I stopped counting when my mom assured me that the birds did not fall with it. “They flew…” she said. “But were they sad to leave?” I asked. Never one to sugarcoat things, or possibly she knew how close we were to living the same truth, she said, “For a little while, maybe, but then they realized the sky was theirs too.”
Everything changes. That’s life. But it doesn’t have to signify a fall. I’m getting better at noticing it. Sometimes mid flap, but I get there. So many nests get taken away, or are simply left behind. But comfort can be found. Again and again.
We are all given the tools. For me, wings are disguised as paint brushes and letters. Ruffled blouses and open paths. And every day I fly. The sky is always there. It turns out the answer remains — just to look up.
I was a Roadrunner the first time I got my name in the local paper. Of course we didn’t know of things like budgets, but they must have been pretty minimal for our girls’ summer softball league. We were more divided up than chosen into teams, and then gathered around unmarked cardboard boxes, from which we were handed our “one size fits some” t-shirts. It wasn’t befitting of our state, nor the sport, but we proudly squeezed and drowned ourselves into our new “Roadrunner” tees. We weren’t given hats, nor gloves. Some of us even brought our own bats. Mine was golden aluminum. I balanced it atop the wicker flowered basket of my banana seat bike, that held my hand-me-down leather glove, and proudly “beep-beep”ed my way to the designated field each Monday and Wednesday afternoon.
They must have put everyone’s team picture in the sports section of that Echo because we hadn’t won a game all season. But seeing myself, in fuzzy black and white, alongside my friends, it felt like winning. And it was.
I don’t remember each summer’s logo. Eventually we would all become Cardinals in Junior High. And Senior High. Some of the memories get a little fuzzy now, but I’m still friends with most of those “birds.” That news won’t make the papers, but oh, how it still feels like winning.
It doesn’t matter how many times I see it. It always fills me. The Gold Medal Flour. The Guthrie. The Stone Arch Bridge. Anything downtown Minneapolis. Maybe it’s the case for any place you begin, but here, I will always keep beginning.
I never baked bread before moving to France. Flour was merely the golden sign that lit a Minneapolis summer night. Bare shouldered in the warmth of evening, nothing could tire us. Nature’s season of laugher (and youth’s season as well) we could go all night. It’s funny, so many years later, I can still feel it. Not throughout my whole body, but in my heart’s mill, where I keep such pressure things.
Waking this morning after the long flight back home, from home, it’s always a little disorienting. Neither time, nor yesterday seem real. But I make sense of it, mixing flour and yeast, water and salt. Fueled by the sweet light of what was and what will be. Nothing lost. All grist for the mill. Dough rising. And a new day begins.
Waiting to go through airport security, I wondered if I could keep my necklace on through the scan. As people separated their pads from their purses, I asked the attendant, “What do you think about the necklace?” He replied, “It’s a good style, you should wear it.” We can always find a way to laugh.
Armed with his unexpected humor, I must have looked like I had a little extra to give, so it wasn’t a surprise when the man at the gate asked if I would help the troubled young woman afraid to board. “Sure,” I smiled. She was crying, but I assured her I could help. The assistant who got her to the gate told her that “I would get her there.” “To Stockholm?” She asked. “I was thinking more your seat…”
Travel has its challenges for sure, a microcosm of living. But somehow we can find a way. To laugh, to smile, to help. It’s not just the getting there, but realizing, we get to be here!
I am tired, but accessorized, with both necklace and smile.
In my daily quest to swim away my summer days, I never thought of the green lillied lakes as beautiful. How easily I would have furrowed my brow and crinkled my nose, labeled it as a swamp, and pedaled with fury to a clearer body of water. I’d like to think I gave thanks for the abundance of lakes — that when blessed without weed or worry, I stopped crawl stroking long enough, even for just a moment, to simply marvel. Filled with it now, from green to blue, I struggle to explain to my French family and friends. I say Minneapolis, and they hear Indianapolis, and they say racing, and I say no, but racing on my bicycle to the any one of the 10,000, and they can’t imagine even 10, so I name two, Latoka and L’homme Dieu, and they say I’m saying it wrong (my own lake, imagine that), and they’re right actually, but I can’t say it like that, not after this many pedals, and they say but look the sea is so big, and I say there was romance in the small and we realize we are comparing gratitude, and have to laugh, because we’re old enough now to stop spinning and simply marvel.
They renamed (or gave it back its original name) one of my favorites. Lake Calhoun is now officially Bde Maka Ska. When I first heard of it, I’m not proud that I heart stumbled. Did I crinkle my nose. I hope not, but I can’t be sure. I don’t now. The water. The blue. The sun dance upon. It’s all there. Still abundant. And the runners run. And the bikers bike. And the swimmers swim. I see the thanks in it all. And it is marvel-ous!
The Great Gatsby is now being celebrated at MIA for its 100th year. It’s no surprise, as someone whose first perspective drawing in art class was completely backwards, I did enter the exhibition from the second room. But as always, it was the right door for me. Maybe it was the giant farm land picture, next to the clippings of French fashion, that whispered “over here,” or the script from the book that said, maybe we would always be westerners, but I knew I was home.
I suppose the universe will always let you know if you’re on the right path.
For me it’s always been books and art, and a dash of fashion. My maps. So I say to those who ask, “Can’t you read a map?” — “Of course I can, just not yours.”
Late that same afternoon, I drove to the Barnes and Noble in the area. Emptied and dark, I began to panic. It’s never just a book store. I ran to the store next door. She didn’t know much, but something about “moving to an Office Max, maybe open, or going to,” — she didn’t know. I knew of two abandoned office supply stores in the area, one a former Office Depot and the other a Staples. I asked her if it was by the Trader Joe’s, or the Whole Foods. She didn’t know. “I only get off the freeway and come to work,” she said. (We all have our own maps.)
I didn’t need more books. My suitcase already full. But I did need to know that it was ok. That the books were living on. So I drove to the first one — no. I drove to the second location I had in mind, and there it was – signed and open – calling once again, “over here.” I wandered in the words until I was secure. My heart map folded, fitting perfectly behind my mother’s blouse, once again, still, I am home.
We’re no longer allowed to do it at the airports — run to the gate with open arms to greet the new arrivals. But thankfully, there’s nothing to stop us in our daily lives. And why on earth would we want to reserve it for just random visits, when we could do it on a Thursday?!
Yesterday, I was gifted, twice, with such a greeting! Wondering how we would find him in the crowd, my thoughts were quickly erased by his run across the parking lot. Those few seconds of someone racing to get to you, of someone saying with the speed of their feet that “I just can’t wait a moment longer,” with arms open as wide as toothy smiles — these moments are timeless, priceless, and endless. And there was no need for the airport, we both knew of our journey, how lucky we were to begin together, and how lucky we were to begin again.
Joy, never one to be contained, came running on the next footsteps, and I saw her racing across the parking lot straight into my embrace.
Loaded with these weightless gifts, we went to our next destination. Her years wouldn’t allow the run, but I could feel her racing just the same, as I was running to her. All gifts are meant to be shared.
I don’t want to live frantically, that’s not what I mean, but I never want to live timidly. I want to be bold in gesture. In living. In loving. Whether I’m racing toward or welcoming in, I want to be of open mind and open heart. Joy will lead the way.
She would have felt badly today, hearing the news of Robert Redford’s passing. Truth be told, my mom and I loved him more for the Sundance catalog than any movie. It was an event, receiving it in the mail. We would go to the nearest Caribou, get extra-hot skim vanilla lattes and sit in the largest of lounging chairs. After the initial sips, one of us would open to the inside cover letter. The rules were simple. If you were the one holding the catalog, you read the letter, inserting a greeting to the other —“Dear Ivy,” — and of course closing the letter with “Love, Bob.” Our lattes rested between us as we clutched our imaginary pearls to contain the heart laughter. Each turn of the page would include complete discussions on who would wear what and when. How we could have styled that better. How we could create that outfit with our own closets. Must buys. Must haves marked with sticky notes — a catalog more filled than a freshman’s introductory guide to literature. Trips were planned to the store as if an RSVP to Bob himself.
I mention it only because of the transformation. You see my mother wasn’t always that bold. For a long time, her only certainty was that she wasn’t worthy, even in our small town. Not even a letter from Robert Redford would have convinced her. But she grew into her confidence. Perhaps outfit by outfit. But they were really only the symbols of her inner strength. Her inner beauty. And being a first hand witness, my heart smiles can’t be contained.
So in her ruffled blouse today, I write a new letter. “Dear Bob, say hello to the giggling beauty at the gate — that’s my mother! Love, Jodi”
Coming out of the restaurant she told me, “I love your hair! You look so sassy and smart!” The thank yous were still tumbling from my smile when she said, “But I guess that comes from the inside, doesn’t it..” My heart was smiling too.
Now, I consider myself pretty good at giving compliments, but this was something! She took “beautiful inside and out” to a whole new level. And she seemed as happy as I was, to give it. Bravo to the lady outside Martina’s Restaurant.
My mother was the first to teach me how to give a compliment. (And just by being herself, she gave me ample reason to want to.) She also taught me how to receive it, as the gift that is given.
It’s curious, we wouldn’t do it with a regular gift, refuse a birthday present let’s say. We wouldn’t put our hands out and say No! So why do so many do it with a compliment? “Oh no, not me,” or “not this old thing,” they’ll say, while backing themselves away. When really, thank you, is all that is needed. That is the reciprocal gift.
I’m still receiving this offering in the morning mirror. (Never underestimate the power of a compliment.) And I think the bar has been raised. So I challenge myself. I challenge you. Today, let’s give the compliments freely. (Even to ourselves.) And accept them with joy — so much joy that we have to bundle it and give it away again. Would that make us sassy? I don’t know, but it would make us smart!
It made me laugh. Thinking of how I’m always trying to straddle two worlds. She was sitting at the outdoor cafe when I walked by. She was reading her English translation book, while eating Sushi and a bag of potato chips.
I suppose we never leave behind one place to get to the next. We carry all of our experiences. Some as rocks in shoes. Others as perfectly worn tread. Both gifts.
I’m reminded of the saying, “walk a mile in their shoes…”, but I wonder if that’s really necessary. Do we have to experience everything to be understanding? Isn’t it enough to know we’re all on a journey? Our victories and losses along the way will vary. But certainly, being human, we possess the wherewithal to know we’re all having them. Can’t we connect without “trading shoes”? (Because I don’t think we’d do it anyway.) What if we all just gathered in the skips and the stumbles? Shared the path…
I have been lost in translation too many times to count. In my own French way, I’ve ordered the “potato chips with the sushi” – just to try to fit in. Knowing how easily that door can close, I have to leave it open for others.
I don’t know if my smile relayed all of that as I passed by, but I hope so. She smiled in return. A little always gets through.
