I have had this canvas for about 15 years. It has transitioned and traveled with me through abstraction and country. The last painting was here in France, a seascape of sorts. But I can’t tell you exactly what came before that. I know it’s still there. Underneath. Behind, within this woman.
If you ask me who she is, prepare yourself for the underpainting. She is the curve of every woman.
She is my grandmother whose hands never stopped. Hands that I watched in amazement and wrote, “If she did worry, it never showed in her hands. She held. She gave. She touched.”
She is my mother. The posture of grace. In an apartment kitchen filled with more worry than nourishment, she lifted a hand, and gently directed me in the dance.
She is my friend, long past her days of professional dance, who still walks in the garage as if onto the stage.
She is another friend, deep in grief, (a depth that only comes with love) who dares the dance of my mother, and releases, again, and again, with the curve of a woman.
When I look at the sides of the canvas, I see these bright and dark colors. Not who she is now. Not who I am now. But I see the lines of the underpainting — the embossing and debossing of all that paint (the experience) that has come before. And it adds pattern to her dress. Movement to her hands. Strength to her feet. And opens the sky. Opens her heart. My heart. Your heart. Wide open.
And would I have known the difference, had I not opened a winter door in Minnesota? Had I not braced? Had I not lowered my head for impact as if the cold were not just a feeling, but an immovable object? Maybe. But I did. And I do know. I will always know.
I will always be grateful opening a summer morning door. Head high and sure that the way is clear. My bare legs think they are wings, untouched, simply a part of sky.
This is what love can do. When the cold comes. And not in the form of weather. To have the embrace, that requires no bracing, this is what gets you through. My mother was that summer sky. My grandparents. They kept my head, my heart, high and sure. They still do.
I open this morning’s French door, with the ease of being loved.
Dining outside yesterday, alongside an urban, but calm street, the beams of sun, just like the cars, hummed gently, no need for brake or throttle. And I felt simply in it. There was life and motion, not to throw but inspire. A slow dance of body in air. And would I have felt different, being a blade of grass? Reaching. Among. Within. About.
How do you capture a sunny day? I’ve been trying. Foolish, I suppose. To be a blade afraid of winter. When all there is, is green.
And isn’t it the same with love? Not lost. Even in its final winter, there will be spring. I feel the hum of those who have passed. Music in my heart. No need for brake or throttle, it stays alive within me. My ever green. My sunny days.
For some it’s the cardinal. Others a butterfly. Others still, a hummingbird, a dragonfly, a feather, a stone. All symbols, messages from a loved one who has passed. The beautiful thing is, the list can change and grow, and can never be wrong.
I suppose it has always been the case, we see what we want to see. And it has me thinking, if I can see the beauty of those in my life who have gone before me, if I can see their goodness still, feel their love still, in a random flutter, or a lifeless object, then certainly, wouldn’t it make sense that I, we, could see the goodness in each other? That we could see, before the flutter, mid-stumble, a beauty still, of all those around us.
Because certainly the ones we loved were never flawless. Never without mistake. But oh, how we love them still. How we would forgive any flaw to hold them again. I’m not saying it would be all that simple, but I’m thinking, I’m hoping, what if I could get to that point with everyone near and far? Give them the grace I allow my cardinals, my butterflies. Love them with all of my heart.
As they sing and say, “I suppose I’m a dreamer…” but I’m going to give it my humble attempt. And in my humble failings and flaws, maybe you will see the love in me as well, as I stumble before the flutter.
