My husband saw a bright yellow parakeet in our yard. I was out walking and I missed it. I wonder what our gaggle of regulars thought. They had to have seen it — the pigeons who waddle in the driveway, almost too heavy for flight; the magpies in constant search of the “other”; the doves in between cooing… Surely the woodpeckers perked their heads with the flash of yellow. Even the little bush hoppers that flit in and out so quickly must have caught a glimpse. Because a yellow would pop! In these spring greens and pinks that cover our yard, yellow will always shine. And if they did see it, this bright yellow bird, it hasn’t stopped them from singing. From flying. From hopping around our driveway. From dancing in the water that collects on the freshly sprinkled grass. They seem just fine. Joyful even.
As humans, it can be hard to follow “the nature of things…” I’m trying to get better. To celebrate those around me. To know their yellow doesn’t take anything away from my beige. To understand there is room for all, hopping, flying, stumbling even.
People often ask, “Do you paint self-portraits?” Daily, I think. Never parakeet- pronounced, but I’m there, in each painting. In each tiny, joyful, unobvious bird, I’m there — waiting, grateful for every glimpse of color that hovers by.
I suppose it is when I am most certain that it’s necessary to loosen the grip a little and just perch.
I can reach a conclusion pretty quickly in any situation. But I’ve learned that giving myself an extra hour, sometimes a day, or longer, to really think it through, is quite useful. Most often the solutions are a little less dug in. A little more flexible. A little more reasonable.It’s no secret that I love to paint birds. But it was only just the other day that I saw it. I had to put it on paper to really get it. I love the way they perch — just lightly place themselves on the branch. Never burrowed in with false certainty (which is usually just pride in disguise.) That doesn’t mean a lack of commitment. No, just a willingness, a readiness, to adjust to the situation. Giving themselves a chance to do what they were meant to do — to really fly!
I won’t be perfect at it. But I think in the attempt, I will get better. I am getting better. And that in itself lifts my spirits, lifts my wings. I guess what it comes down to, (or up really), is I’d rather soar, than be sure.
I don’t know what the day will bring, but I’ll see you up there!
Long before I knew the months and numbers of the year, I could tell the changing of time by color. At the arrival of pastels, I knew my birthday was soon to follow. With each wink of pink and pop of yellow, I got more excited. Sure, I knew about Easter. I knew it was for everyone. But there was a little part of me, with each jellybean siting, each baby chick and colored egg that graced the storefronts, that took it as a sign, just for me.
I didn’t have the words for it then, but I was learning there is a grand difference between selfishness and self care.
Whether my birthday came before or after Easter, my mom always gave me a little plush duck. I named the first one Selma, and each one after. With baskets of candy all around, I held her yellow in my chubby hands and asked, “Is she just for me?” Yes, my mother said. And every year, I always asked, and I even when I had come to know the answer, believe the answer, it was still nice to hear the yes.
We are not alone. We have the privilege and the responsibility to care for others. But there is nothing wrong, with each sun that rises, to reach up your hands and hold a little bit of the day’s yellow, just for you. I carry the pocket of pastels in my heart, and it always answers yes.
Like a bird surrounded by shiny objects, I could often get myself overwhelmed with choice. So many things to do. So many possibilities. Too much, and I would render myself immobile. I’m not sure why it took me so many years. My grandfather had given me the answer early on. Standing, almost dangling from the perch outside my grandmother’s second floor sewing room, struggling with the choice, he simply called up, “Jump, or go inside.” He saw things so clearly. I jumped.
Even now, there’s a little part of me that will argue the point, “yes, but, what if…” and I catch myself dangling. So I break it all down. Give myself the option, this or that, sometimes even the smallest of choices, and then I jump. Oh, and I stumble. I fall. I walk away. Nothing is perfect, but I have found, always found, even the hardest of choice has always been better than dangling.
And being the distracted bird that I am, the universe has to remind me, often and again. Walking in Cottagewood the other day, I saw the signs nailed to the tree, again and for the first time. One arrow pointing to “Beach.” One arrow pointing to “Store.” My grandfather would have liked this directional tree, just as if he planted it — and I suppose in many ways, he had.
Today’s path may not be clear, but my heart is, so I greet the sun, and jump…
I had to stop wearing my little pinky ring. I need to have surgery on the finger that has held that ring for decades. It waits for me now, in a tiny little bowl. I know I will wear it again. And it’s not so much that I have faith in my finger (which I do) but I also have faith in my ring. It knows the way home.
Years ago, I was filling large orders for framed art work. It was just after the New York show, so I had product and packing everywhere. My hands were in a constant blur of activity. It wasn’t until after making a haul to UPS that I noticed it was gone, my little ring. I checked my apartment. The garage. My car. Nothing. I had more orders to fill, so I kept working. My thumb often reached to give it a phantom twirl. But my brain said it was gone for good.
Two weeks later I got a misshapen envelope in the mail. I opened it quickly — because mail!!! It was a handwritten address from the east coast. My ring was inside. The note said they found it while unshrinkwrapping my artwork. They took the time to compliment my work, bubble wrap the ring, and send it back to me. The stone of the ring is not precious, but their act of kindness certainly was!
I only mention it because this morning I reached for my permanent necklace (the one I never take off) to move the clasp to the back. Something poked me. Only prongs. The stone was gone. We shook the sheets of the bed. Checked the bathroom. The carpet. It could have been anywhere — even in another state. The possibilities were endless.
On our way to hotel breakfast, I stepped into the fitness room. Looked at the floor between the elliptical machine and the treadmill. There it was. Preciously waiting. It was a tiny miracle really, but not my first.
I was only 5 or 6 when I went out into the field with my grandpa. Maybe the sky was bigger then, but it seemed endless. Nothing but blue above and black dirt below. I couldn’t see the house from where we were. I began to panic. I wanted to go back. I didn’t want to be here. How would my mom find me when she came from town to pick me up? She would drive up the gravel and we wouldn’t be there. She would swing open the screen door and call my name, and I wouldn’t hear. She would be sad and scared. And she might cry, I gasped between my own tears. And I felt terrible because I had begged to come with. I had been warned that we would be out a long time, most of the day even, and yet I pleaded. Now the tears that tracked black down my dirty face wiped with dirty hands wanted nothing else but to see the way home. He didn’t argue. Didn’t make fun of me. Didn’t “I told you so,” or “I warned you,” he just took me home. Gently. Easily. “We all find our way home,” he said, dropping me off in full sight of the farm house, in full knowledge that my mom, too, would find her way.
I put the gemstone into my husband’s pill case. Safe. Sound. Another pocketed miracle.
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.
There is a hollow space beneath my left set of ribs. After they removed my body cast, I noticed it. I guess six weeks of the plaster wore it down.
Today I swim. Walk. Run. Exercise. All the things. The space remains. I don’t know why I saw it yesterday. In the mirror. Showering after my workout. I almost never think about it. I rarely even see it.
Maybe the universe thought I needed a little sign. A reminder, not of the pain, but of the living. I’m certain while I was in it, I thought it to be endless. Probably felt trapped. But I have no feeling of that now. Only a small hollow space that serves me well. A space, that if it had been immediately filled, I wouldn’t have it as the proof of strength, survival, of life itself.
Maybe that’s where we keep our most precious gifts, in those spaces. The tiny hollows left by life lessons, wayward paths, even love.
I miss my mother. But forever I keep a space open, just for her. Where memories have room to giggle and weep. To hug and wonder. To roam. And forever love.
I look in the mirror. I smile. Not weighed or worried by the hollows. I carry them with me, as light as joy.
It’s not like we were told, but I think we all assumed we had to pick one. By October in each school year at Jefferson Senior High, we fell into line. Jocks, Hoods, Preppies, Nerds, Geeks. Some of us tried to hover between band, the gym and English class, but the differences were clear. Sometimes even uniformed. The only thing I was sure about was that everyone seemed so sure in their roles. Perhaps they thought the same about me. I wasn’t.
I suppose it takes a long time to build a soul. A life. Along the way you discover parts. Tiny sparks of color that make you feel a little bit more like yourself. You grow and change. Adaptations often more regular than choice (maybe these adjustments are the real choices).
Looking at the palette that makes up my latest creation, I smile. A dab of this. A stroke of that. This collection — this beautiful mess of colors that make up my life. Yes, I am an artist. An author. But I dip my brush and I bake. I dip my brush and play yard sports with the kids. I dip my brush and travel. Play fashion show. And read. And build. And change. Stroke by stroke, I am given my wings. Not confined by stereotypes or assumptions. I am my own blend of feathers. And one way or another, I am going to fly!
I really didn’t want to be scared, but still I begged to watch it — The Birds, by Alfred Hitchcock. I had heard some of the other kids at Washington Elementary say they were going to watch it. Several boys had said they even had watched it the year before, claiming it was nothing — only babies would be afraid. This sealed the internal deal for me. “But I love birds…” I whined to my mother. “That makes it even worse,” she said.
She was right about both.
I watched behind fingers. Watched repeatedly within my Raggedy Ann bed sheets. Bad dream after nightmare. I was afraid of the winter birds. Those I had so admired for their strength against the cold, I ran from to get on the school bus. I shied away from their spring songs. Timidly in the summer sun I ran under trees. In ballparks. Among friends. And one day, moments passed. I didn’t worry. Days passed. And I skipped. I biked. And I wasn’t afraid anymore.
I suppose the same thing happened with love.
I paint birds. A lot of birds! I never stopped loving them. Each one I paint reminds me, not of the fear, but of the love. We will all get hurt along the way. Be frightened. And it is worse when it is someone you love. But that doesn’t have to ruin love itself. Love will always find a way to soar. I will not miss any more seasons out of fear. One way or another, I am going to fly!
I wanted to ask him what I was supposed to do now. Why wasn’t he saying anything? He should know. Him with all the answers. The plans to each season. I kept watching him. Silent. Taking in all of my mother’s broken words. My heart screamed into my unopened mouth — say something!!!! I knew he had liked my father. I knew it wasn’t only my mom and I that felt the break. There isn’t just one crack when a family splits. But he was the shoulders — my grandfather, her father, this farmer that stood beside the kitchen table. He was the master of dirt. Changing it into green and gold. Why wasn’t he changing this?
I kept staring out the window. He said a few things to my mother. I don’t know that she felt better, no, better would take time. But I could see relief. Relief of weight. Of story. Some words aren’t meant to be carried.
I was still waiting. Waiting for my “few.” His worked hand cupped over most of my shoulder and part of my back. He leaned in. “It’s not it,” he whispered, “you get to decide.” My heart was not yet even green, but I knew better would come, in my season.
Stepping out of the shower yesterday in Mississippi, I reached for the stack of towels I had asked for from the maid in the hall on my return from the gym. The top towel — a bath mat. I threw it on the floor and got out. Second towel. Third. Bath mats. She had given me nothing but bath mats. Cold and trying to wrap in the impossibly small cloth, I started to laugh. I ran to my iPad and wrote down the words, “Nothing but bath mats.” I decided it was going to be a great day.
We don’t always get to chose the words we are given, but make no mistake, we decide the story.
