One of the best compliments I’ve received lately was from a woman who said, while looking at the paintings, “I’ve seen the photos, but these feel alive.” That is the true success of a painting, I think. When the love you breathe in travels from heart to hand and lands gently onto the canvas, it continues to breathe, to welcome, to live.
She used to crawl all over me, with an urgent need to be picked up. It didn’t seem to matter how. Within my arms, clutched in elbows. Balancing on top of my feet that pushed her toward the sky, almost into flight. And then one day, without my knowledge or permission, she passed me in height, but the need to be lifted remains. Now, I simply do it with a brush.
Each canvas marks a bit of time. Serving as reminders that even though time keeps passing, love never does. Never will. Love remains.
She asked me how long I’ve been living in France. I showed her the living timeline. I do not fear the passing of time. Love keeps lifting. (I am, however, going to need more paint.)
Before Herberger’s anchored the mall, it reigned supreme on Broadway. A perfect Saturday was riding shotgun in the Chevy Impala with my mother. I twirled the quarter in my sweaty palm. (No time would be wasted loading the parking meter.) Through the double glass doors, even the gumball machines were not a distraction. I walked, almost skipping, looking back to hurry her along. I reached the grand staircase first. She nodded me to go ahead. I waved, passing the women at the office on the left, then turned to go up the second flight. The fluorescent lights shown brightly over the racks at my height. I was lured to the girls’ dresses along the wall. I can’t explain why, but the clothing in my size even smelled sweeter.
I can’t say how long it lasted, but there was a time when I thought the reward was not to own the dress, but simply to try it on. To play fashion show behind the curtains, in front of the three-way mirrors, was what I longed for while desked at school on a Wednesday.
Holding the painting in my hand, creating the young girl who dreams of wearing the yellow dress, I am in France, but also on Broadway.
What happens next, may be hard to believe, but it is true. I was nearly finished with the painting. I could sense movement from my iPad that sat on the easel keeping time. I stopped and watched the photo app open, flashing through several pictures, then stopping on my mother. My heart caught in mid smile. Some magic is real. Somehow, some way, she had made it up the stairs before me, waiting in the sweet smell of just what I needed, of just my size. And I was saved.
We really had no idea the mountains that lay ahead. From the flat playground at Washington Elementary, we were given the gift of believing most things were within reach.
It doesn’t seem that long ago that we were unfolding the dreaded afternoon napping mat. Reluctantly, lying, waiting… toes curled under to ensure a fast get up and get on with it. Knowing well, that all would be revealed — friendship, love, courage, hope — simply with the release of our hearts into the wild.
When they came to visit me in France, it was the first thing I wanted to show them — my playground. We climbed up the Montaiguet to get the best view of the Sainte Victoire mountain. Once again, the explanations weren’t necessary — all intimacies underfoot were not detailed, but certainly known. And shared. Look how far we had come!
It couldn’t be denied — the view from gratitude is pretty spectacular.
Toes curled, I ready myself into the all of it, the hope, the courage and love of the day. I open the door, and get on with it.
I said, “I know.” But I didn’t know. I wonder why I thought that knowing would dull the information given. As if this claiming to almost be in on it, would make it hurt less.
“The house sold,” my mom said. Not “we sold the house,” like we were a part of the decision making. Like we wanted to leave the comfort of Van Dyke Road and move to a small apartment in town. “I know,” I said, after nearly falling from my bike when I saw the real estate sign in the yard. That cold metal sign with the big “sold” sticker placed across, almost like a smile, like it was laughing at us…so I said I know, not because I did, but simply not to give that smiling vacate notice any more power than it already had.
With the last boxes packed, she said, “It’s going to be ok…good…you can decorate your room.” “I know,” I said. (Neither of us did.)
But the defense of this “I know” gradually turned into reality. A certainty of trusting in each other’s heart. It was no longer for the metal sign, but for us. And with each other, there were so many things that we did know, mostly love, some tears shared, but soon laughter, and the joy of really being anywhere together.
I walk by her picture now. Photographs. Paintings. I can hear her say, “I’m still here.” I smile and whisper, “I know.” (And I do.)
It doesn’t sound like a lot, 15 minutes, but the year they extended our bus route beyond the tanks, we had to get up earlier, or go to school with wet hair. (This was often my choice, and for most of the Norton girls at the end of Van Dyke Road.) I didn’t think of it then, but I’m sure it felt as invasive for the Frier’s as it was for us. Maybe they had been first on their route before. I’m sorry to say I didn’t ask, but merely wished that they would hurry up their own gravel driveway so we could get to school.
It’s funny how we claim things. Our bus. Our route. We were all just trying to get to our destination. To be with our friends. To swing our feet under desks while the teacher read aloud. To laugh at lunch without snorting milk out our noses. To learn, sure. To drop permission slips and backpacks with wild abandon and run into our mothers’ arms.
There will always be roads and worlds between us, but the road that runs beneath us, this remains the same.
I wait at the top of the hill. Mailboxes at my back. Gravel beneath my feet. Ready to share the ride.
There was a time when “hold still” meant something unpleasant was going to happen. A shot from the doctor. A peering dentist. The brushing of tangled hair. Even the application of unwanted socks.
I can’t say the moment it changed. It could have been gradual. But as with most things that turn with time, it felt sudden. And without my knowledge or permission, I often begin sentences with “Wasn’t I just…”
And as I struggle to hold still the squirming memories of loves passed, I have to laugh and acknowledge, that I was never one to do it. And in the recognition, I think, maybe we are never meant to stop any of it, but simply keep dancing through. All of it. Partnering with the comfort and the uncomfortable — the warmth of sitting in mother’s lap as she wrestles through the nest of your hair.
Time continues to change meaning and tempo, but love remains, not still, but strong. So I keep dancing…
I’ve always loved paper. Even before the freedoms of learning to ride a bicycle and then a car, there was something so liberating about the writing of words. The clarity of question, thought, and answer, right there at the end of a #2. We all knew it. I suppose that’s why we passed the notes in class. All feelings could be declared or denied, with the simple checking of a box. Do you like him? Check yes or no. Where are you going after school? Check practice or Hardees.
Maybe it’s why I continue to write — a simple checking of yes to the day. It’s still so powerful and clear. A way to remember. A way to forget. A letting in and a letting go. Simply with words.
My #2 is often replaced electronically. But it will never replace the feeling of holding it in my hands. The questions. The hopes. Dreams. The story.
When I tell you mine, and then you share yours, it is the pedaling of banana seat bikes and wind in our hair. It is the release of laughter ridden into. It is an open car window on a summer’s road, releasing music from an AM radio – KDWB 63. It is the exclamation point of a giant X that goes beyond the edges of the yes box.
Humans were made to connect. I ask myself daily — Can we do this? Can we do this together? Can we feel the freedoms of connection? I know my answer. Are you checking yes or no?
I thought I must be surrounded by the smartest people in the world. Imagine my grandfather, farming, alone. How could he possibly? (And I also had every “W.”) Who tells you what to do? What is that for? Why do you get up so early? When is it finished? To everything he simply answered that he knew. And once I got my arms around the fact that he gathered in all the information, I was still surprised at his discipline. No one told him the hours to keep or to finish that job on that day. I asked him if he let it go until tomorrow, who would know? I would know, he said. I walked in the certainty of his overalls that shadowed a path to an open field.
I asked the same of my grandmother, as she placed the empty bag of toasted marshmallows on the counter to pay at Jerry’s Jack and Jill. Certainly there were no camera’s at Jerry’s. No one even paying attention. Who would know? I asked. I would know, she said. I started to see a pattern.
Without event or occasion, my mother dressed. Put on her make-up. Faced each day with the scrutiny of the unproperly lit bathroom mirror in our basement apartment on Jefferson Street. Even for a driveway toss of the frisbee on a quiet Sunday afternoon. You already know her answer to the question. But no one is going to see us, I said. She smiled behind her lipstick.
It’s an old table. Most would probably say unworthy of the effort. And I just saw the latest influencer praising the inexpensive IKEA table. And it crossed my mind. But it’s the only table I’ve ever had in my studio. So I began filling in the holes. Strengthening the right bottom foot. Sanding. Filling. Resanding. Painting. Sanding. Painting. I love it. Not many will see it. It will be overshadowed by displayed books and paintings. When I move them to do the work, it will be ready. It will feel the weight of wood and canvas. The pinch of clamps and the splattering of unintentional paint. And I will feel special, because I get to know. Not this arrogance of “Oh, I know!” — but it’s what I had been shown, had been living in — the privilege of getting to know, being involved in the truth of the experience. I got to know them… I had the joy, the work, the breathless chasing, the tender tears, the heart in lap resting love of knowing them.
I won’t photograph the table. But I will stand in its certainty.
As a child, sometimes more than once a day, I would have to gather and push all of my swirling thoughts out the front door of our house on Van Dyke Road. It was there on that cement stoop that they could breathe. All of my hopes and plans. My dreams and curiosities. They felt free, like summer toes in green, dew-damp grass. They tumbled without spotters. They grew without restriction. Voices were given to dolls and animals. I planted my future in Hugo’s field. Dared my existence in the North End. Outraced my worry over popping gravel behind my banana seat bike. And in all that release, I felt complete. Full.
I still try to allow the space for the swirling. Letting it loose on canvas and paper. Roaming up the hills of the Montaiguet. Splashing in the pool. I don’t think any of it was meant to be contained. Not imagination. Certainly not love. So I give it space. Room to tumble. And on the stoop of all that feeling, all of that letting go, I am saved.
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!
