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.
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.
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.
Being blonde and from Minnesota, it was exotic to braid one’s hair. And even more so when it was wet. To sleep in the kinks to come upon morning’s release. Probably the most daring of all, was to do it before fourth grade picture day at Washington Elementary.
I was horrified when I saw myself in the mirror. Flat on top, and then a sea of crinkled mane, then straight once again at the ends. It wasn’t a hairstyle so much as a triangle. I brushed and brushed. As if the faster strokes would release me from this nightmare. There was no time to shower. The bus had already made one pass on its way to Norton’s and would soon be coming back up the hill.
I was tall for my age. Always in the back row. My only hope was that the inexperienced photographer had no light training and I could hide in the shadows. In my stocking cap I apologized to Mrs. Paulson, who’s skirt was ironed and blouse was bowed. I pulled it off of my head. She wasn’t an expressive teacher. Not overtly emotional. She touched my shoulder that day, for the first and only time. Her fingers pressing in with “an everything will be ok.” I’ve never seen that photo again. But her kindness remains.
I never braided my hair again. Never really thought about it, until I painted this girl yesterday. But I have written about Mrs. Paulson so many times since then. Because she made a difference in my life.
To be so filled with life that it has to flush from your very pores. Cheeks ruddy and ever ready. I suppose we all think it will last forever — sure that our feet will keep the deal that youth has made. But maybe it’s the heart that takes over. (Or maybe it led all along.) Maybe it’s the heart that drags us from spring’s mud into summer’s bliss. Maybe it’s the heart that races through grass’s morning dew again and again, and lifts us up from green knees when we fall, ever promising to keep our cheeks flushed through autumn. Through winter.
Every time I paint a face, I feel the colors in my own, flowing through my hands. And the corners of my mouth rise up, smiling, so happy to be a part of youth’s reddening still.
What will you do today, to remain in the race of summer?
Certainly they were treasures. And I’m just as certain they weren’t expensive. But back then, (and I pray it’s still true today), I, we, didn’t associate value with money. I recognized beauty when I saw it, and these books were beautiful — these compilations of classics, bound in leather, blue, red and green, on my mother’s bookshelf. Too young yet to even sound out the words, I simply ran my fingers over the titles and somehow they got in. And this love of words has never left me.
The most likely scenario is that she got the books through a fidelity program in the grocery store. Just like we got our set of encyclopedias. And didn’t it make perfect sense, this feeding of body and soul. I devour them to this day. I can’t get enough. My fingers are currently tasting the appetizer of my newest book’s embossed title. My mother taught me that. About value. Beauty. She got in. And I know she will never leave me.
She was not unlike most of the super powers that I watched on Saturday mornings. All were contained in the tightest of fashion. It’s why, I imagined they could move through the world so easily. And so it was with Mrs. Bergstrom. She stood in front of our first grade class at Washington Elementary. No loose ends. Her hair slicked back in a perfect bun. Her black pencil skirt smoothed without wrinkle, making it impossible to see where the chalkboard ended and her waist began. That’s how all the words got in, I thought. This seamless transition. And wasn’t that her superpower, all those words that she spelled out, sounded out, drew out. I wanted some of that power. Just to stand in all that “super” for even a moment. I leaned forward in my desk. Pulled up my neck. Straightened my back. Reached one leg behind the chair to make myself into the straightest line. To create a path for all that knowledge she was passing our way.
It’s easy to let a day go by. To let the passage of time slouch us over. To drape in the fray of worry and get caught in every dark moment. But that wasn’t how we were taught. Not how I was taught. So I wipe the chalk from my hands and smooth them down my skirt and I stand. I stand tall. “Gather it in,” my heart tells my brain — be taut — despair can only slide down, slide off. And it occurs to me how similar the words are. This taut and taught. And it straightens me. Lifts me. Letting go the fray, I Bergstrom to the front of the morning.
Grandma Dynda (no actual relation to me) was the first old person that I knew. I mean, that I actually talked to. I was minding my own business, running through their white sheets that hung on the summer clothesline, when she peaked through the screen door asking if I wanted a cookie. It took a minute to get used to the rhythm of her voice. It was slower than a Norton girl. Slower than my mother’s. But I took comfort in the fact that everyone’s was a bit breathless. Some from youth. Some from responsibility. And hers, simply from time passing. Being breathless, too, from all that running, I said sure, and weaved my way to the door.
About the same height, we both struggled to get on the counter stools. Smiling at each other upon summit. She apologized for not baking as she opened the off brand blonde sandwich cookies. I like these I told her. And I did. We each turned them, and ate the frosting from inside. And for the next 15 minutes we were the same age.
Time flies as quickly as the turning pages of my sketchbook. I suppose I could let it flutter in the worry, but it seems better to choose the joy of simply feeling breathless.
I run through the swinging screen door. And hold it open, for you.
All field trips were welcomed. Turning in the signed release form from my mother was always a bit exciting. Seeing the curve of her “I”, still ignites a feeling that something good is just a bus ride away.
That giant yellow box on wheels took us stomping the bog up north. Crawling through Crystal Cave. Orienteering is some forgotten forest. To the zoo. Knute Nelson Home. The baseball stadium. And then one day, without my knowledge or permission, straight to the door of my first love, The Walker Art Museum. I bought two pencils from the gift shop and saved them like pressed corsages from a high school dance.
I suppose you never forget your first love. It changes you. Not only the love you receive, but finding out the love you are able to give. This infinite supply that says you will always have a reason to board that bus. To try new things. To believe in them. To see the beauty all around you. Ever. Still.
That’s what The Walker in Minneapolis did for me. Does for me still. Even a country away. I pulled out my most recent purchase from last year’s visit. I read the back of the shirt. Minneapolis, MN — the World in New Ways. I couldn’t have imagined what that would mean. And I couldn’t love Minneapolis more than I do now.
My mother was always right. Something good is coming.
