We have a lovely bed of roses at our front door. When in bloom they are, of course, spectacular. My husband takes good care of them. Weeding. Watering. Pruning. Getting rid of the pests. And in return they reward us in sight and scent.
I only mention it because each year in the pre-spring, as the roses lay dormant, something else happens (I would argue just as beautiful, maybe more.) Without our knowledge or permission, without our planting or care, a bouquet of wild tulips pops through the earth in the corner of this sleeping bed. So confident. So strong. They have the audacity to bloom orange at half the height of their soon to be red-headed neighborhood. Seemingly without comparison or worry, they open each morning to the sun.
It’s easy to envy the roses of this world. But I think for me, I am more than happy being a wild tulip. If I can wake each morning, petals to the sky, grateful for what I have, and bloom, bloom without need of praise or vase, bloom merely in hopes of gathering up the sun, then my life will be so much more than a bed of roses — my life will be — is — beautiful!
Just before leaving the Mall of America, I tried on one last dress. I twirled a little in front of the three way. I put my hands in the pockets. Looked to the side. Over my shoulder. Floated out to the main area of the store. Dominique said it was pretty. I smiled. Saw myself in summer’s south of France, and gave one last spin. Put it back on the hanger. And we went back to our final night by the airport.
We used to do it all the time. Just try things on. My mom and I. We had everything when we were together, but for extra money to spend. But that didn’t stop us. Standing waist high, the tag of her dress dangling in my face, I looked up at her at her three reflections, and knew she was a princess. A queen. She tucked the tag in and gave a twirl. Dancing with all four of her, I was sure she was going to buy it. She took it off and gave a smile of “maybe next time,” to the clerk.
We went on to another store. She was swinging her hand in mine, like she was really happy. I was confused. “But you didn’t even buy it…” She bent down. “It’s better to look pretty in it, than to own it. Anyone with a few extra dollars can do that.” I nodded. “I want to try,” I said. And we never stopped.
Of course she bought things. Of course I do. But the real treasure was, and still is, the experience. With anything. Everything. How we feel, will never be surpassed by what we have. I, we, cannot own this day, but we would do well to swing it by the hand, and enjoy it for all it is!
I bought a Bat Girl t-shirt at Ragstock yesterday. I like to give myself super powers. Wearing my sunglasses, I summon my best Anna Wintour. My gloves, Ava Gardner. I know it’s all internal, but I like to give it a name. Maybe we all do.
We went to Down in the Valley, the record store near Ragstock. It felt like a Time Machine. I thumbed through stacks, just like I did when there was nothing but time stretched far ahead of us. When we bought full albums at full price. Played it on the stereo. Lying heads beside giant speakers, feeling each note, each lyric as if it were written just for us. Wondering if our lives were soundtrack worthy. Willing to believe they were, and would be ever.
My husband bought two Kris Kristoffersons. One for himself. One for his best friend from those days of lyrics and promise. I watched the man behind the counter place youth’s super power in the bag and hand it to Dominique.
The afternoon sun bounced off of Highway 55 and we drove, each a little lighter, armed with nothing shy of super.
The music was playing loudly in the studio, Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Boxer.” She came to see me paint, my soon to be mother-in-law. Both being brand new, me to this language and she to sharing her son once again, we struggled to find something to say. I was so delightfully surprised when she joined them in the chorus. “Lie-la-lie, Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie…” She clapped along. Whirled her hands in a motion to tell me to play it again. I did. Twice. She touched my canvas (the nearest thing to my heart) and smiled. She made a motion like one would asking for the check at a restaurant. I gave her a pencil and paper, and she went back to the house.
I found a note on my desk later. She wrote it in her best English. The words are mine, but I will tell you she welcomed me to this family.
It was only a few years later. We weren’t prepared for things to be brand new again. I suppose one never is. Losing her memory, she needed the special care of assisted living. It was still new enough that she could tell the difference. She knew what was happening. Tears fell like drops of paint down the canvas of her face. I took out my phone and played “The Boxer.” She smiled, not with joy, but enough to say, “the fighter still remains.”
We fill the car with music as we travel from state to state. When Simon and Garfunkel sing this song, I can hear heaven’s clapping “in the clearing.” We head toward the daily brand new.
Perhaps it was because she was “giving us the keys to it,” but when Mrs. Bergstrom wrote the word ‘cast’ on the chalk board and called out to my hand that shot in the air, I yelled proudly, “Castle!” Her hair was pulled back so tightly, her smile was almost permanent, but this was more than that, almost gentle was her grin, “No,” she said softly, “but almost, and it’s a great word.” She let me come to the board and write out my word. Showed me the difference. It was an error in spelling, yes, but it never felt like a mistake. It felt like learning. I suppose that’s the greatest gift she gave to me.
Some of my paintings sell very quickly. Others don’t. They are all my castles. Each has taught me something. All have led me to my current palette. The place that fills my soul, comforts my heart and stretches my creativity. The place I live. It’s a process. I’m not always this gentle with myself. I can be short. Discouraged. Impatient. But I’m learning. And when I remember this, I see her face, smiling beside me, and I feel gentled into the lesson at hand. Some last a lifetime.
I have seen them fenced in. Countless times. But it’s different in the wild. In their house. These bison. My heart beat quickly as we drove through the national park reserved for them, not out of fear — I wasn’t going to open a window or try to pet them — but out of excitement, reverence. This was seeing them, really seeing them. Powerful. Graceful. Perhaps even vulnerable, the kind one allows one’s self in the comfort of your own space. And it was beautiful.
Perhaps we could do that with all living beings. Like humans for example.
As I struggled to find my place in the ninth grade, I wandered from group to group. Sports. Creatives. Nerds. Even loners. Looking back I suppose we all thought we were the only ones without a map. I knew I loved reading. Writing. All things English. I did well in my other subjects. I got A’s in everything, but it was only based in work, not in adoration. So it came as a surprise to me when the math teacher asked if I wanted to join the after school group of Mathletes. I laughed at the proposal. I hope he saw it was out of nervousness and not disrespect. It never occurred to me that doing more math would be fun. “Just come. One time,” he said. “See if you like it.” I didn’t tell any of my other friends. Not the girls from the volleyball team. I wasn’t blind. I saw how they were picked on, made fun of, these Mathletes vs. the Athletes. But I went. I was uncertain which room they met in after school. I walked down the long hallway. I could hear laughter. I could see a light from the open door. Certainly it wasn’t them though, I thought. It was loud. Silly sounding. I was shocked to see it was them. High-fiving each other. Joking. So this is what they looked like, in their environment. No one knocking books from their arms. No one cuffing the backs of their heads. Calling them names. They were completely free to be themselves. I stayed the two hours. And I was happy for them. I didn’t join. It wasn’t for me, all that math, but I was so glad I saw it, saw them.
As we travel the country, there are a million places that I would never want to live. So many people I’m sure I don’t agree with in so many ways, but each town, each city, each place is a lesson in humanity. And what a privilege it is to see it. To see people. I hope I’m learning. I want to learn. I want to be respectful, even when I don’t agree. Kind, when I don’t understand.
Not that much has changed since junior high. We’re all still trying to find our way. It’s a journey. We would do well to see that we’re all on one.
There is a moment in the painting when I see it. It’s no longer just colors. Shapes. It becomes a person, in this case, she. And then I feel it. The responsibility. A joyful one, but still. I’m involved. And I become, well, part of the becoming. And it is beautiful.
Whether we’d like to admit it or not, we shape each other. From one encounter to lifetimes.
When you place a stroke on the canvas, you can’t take it back. Just as with the things we say and do. Oh, we tried in school, at Washington Elementary. “No take backs,” we’d say. We didn’t know how right we were. But I’ve learned not to abandon the canvas. I keep going. Some turn out glorious. Some are worked. Saved. Painted over even. But something always comes of it — even if it’s just another chance to make something beautiful.
I hope I can see it with the people around me. And those around them. And beyond. I suppose we’re all just trying to become. Moment by moment. If we could see that, wouldn’t it be, couldn’t it be… isn’t it, just beautiful.
I don’t imagine I thought so at the time, but one of the best gifts my hometown gave me was one channel. Channel 7. No time was wasted chasing the choice. I didn’t even have to turn on the television to know the programming. The schedule was memorized. The options were clear — this lucky number seven, or outside. Most of the time I chose the latter.
We have special names for it now. People make vision boards. Read The Secret. Fill their planners. I smile, because I think we knew it all along. These laws of attraction. On Van Dyke Road there was an empty lot next to Dynda’s. To start of game of softball, or kickball…any kind of ball… one didn’t run from house to house slamming on screen doors, or calling out names. All you had to do was go to the field. Bring your ball. One by one, (or faster if the Norton girls came all at once), the ditch would be filled with abandoned bikes and the grass with players. We were well advanced of the “if you build it, they will come.”
I mention it only to remind myself, and maybe you. What is I want? How do I want to spend my time? And with whom?
I met my cousins for the first time at my grandparent’s farm. I wanted them to like me, so I ran after them. Nipped at their heels. They screamed. Cried. I didn’t understand. I sat alone on the front stoop. My grandfather, who saw and knew everything, but said little, handed me a rubber ball. “Bounce it,” he said and walked away. I was sure he didn’t understand, but I did it anyway. Thump. Thump. Thump. They came from around the corner of the house. First Shawn. Then Kalee. Even little Patrick. We played for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes even with the ball.
There are so many options out there. Often too many. When it gets too much for my brain and heart, I remember the things I love. The people I love. I stop chasing, and attract.
Most people don’t associate seagulls and farmers, but it was the first time I saw one, with my grandfather, in Florida. It was among so many firsts. Not just my first vacation with my mother, but actually my first vacation. My first time on a plane. The first time seeing the ocean. The first time seeing my grandfather in shorts. I had never actually seen his legs — only overalled on the farm.
They rented a condo on Cocoa Beach, my grandparents. My mom and I went to stay with them for a week, during the winter break of my seventh grade. It was so strange to see my grandfather at the gate of the airport. I had never seen him out of context. He grabbed our luggage and we drove off into the dark warmth of the Florida air. What was that noise, I asked. It’s the ocean, he smiled, as we pulled up to see grandma waving under the porch light. Every sensation was on fire. The next day, my lavender mid-western skin would be as well.
I raced to the beach in the morning sun. He was right behind me. The seagulls hopped all around. I kept looking back to see if he saw what I was seeing. By his smile, I knew that he did. As the wind blew at his shirt, I could see his tan was still that of a farmer. His shoulders as white as the sea gulls. And even with all these firsts, I felt the comfort of home.
I suppose we always take it with us — the things that make us care.
Sitting in a new hotel. At a new desk. Sometimes I have to look at the keycard, or the pad on the desk to even remember where we are. But then I paint the white shouldered bird, feel the love that I have been given from the start, believe that he stills sees what I am seeing, and know that I am home.
The star attraction on the playground of Washington Elementary was the jungle gym with the giant green dragon head. I could hear the call from the street level where the bus dropped me off. “Climb me!” It shouted from above. I raced up the stairs. Dropped my homemade orange corduroy book bag and rung by rung, began my ascent. Up and around. Getting higher. Closer. Of all the gifts they gave me in school, and there were many, this one, beginning each day at the top, was one of the finest.
As we wander the country, I can still hear the call. From the World’s biggest Bowie knife, to Longhorns frozen by the river, or horses statued and waiting for Wee-chi-tah! Their words ring in my heart’s ear, and I have to climb!
I suppose that’s why I write every day. Each word a rung. Maybe today I will turn that perfect corner, step up just a little, climb the perfect sentence, and reach higher. I owe them that, the teachers that gave me the chance, the desire. I owe it to myself. Not to waste any of it. Some days I may only ride the small pony. But one day, the tallest dragon! There will be joy in it all! And so I climb…
