One of the first paintings at the museum was of a tornado. Not the swirling, cows in the air kind, but the dark clouds, brewing…the beginning of the storm. The grass green. The ground calm. The sky graying, moving to black. And it was beautiful. So very beautiful. I wasn’t afraid.
We don’t get to decide what we live through. Which will be our storms survived, but we do get to decide whether or not it is beautiful. We have this choice daily to take our darkened clouds and say, “Look…look what I have done with åwhat I’ve been given.”
Years ago I painted a pair of work boots. Worn weathered. Used. Used on me. I was kicked with a pair like that. I know people would wonder, “HOW COULD YOU EVER PAINT THEM????” But there’s beauty, you see. I took away their power. They are empty. I took away their power and gave it to my own hands. My own heart.
I decide what it beautiful. They can never hurt me again. I am not afraid of the storm.
You may think that is where the story ends. But that was just the beginning. I changed the narrative of that painting years ago. When you buy a print of it, it reads, “My heart is well traveled.” Because this is the real beauty. This is what came from that one decision. And as I can spin under skies of every color, I can say with all certainty, “Look… look what I have been given!”
We pulled the car off of the freeway to the only gas station in sight — the only building in sight. We were in the southern part of the US. Some might call it the middle of nowhere. But I don’t really like that phrase – everywhere is somewhere to someone, and we in fact were there – so I call it the beginning of somewhere. I would say we were lost. Dominique would say that we just weren’t sure how to get where we were going…. In any case, we paid the woman behind the counter for the gas and some random snacks, and asked her directions to our destination. She had never heard of it. That was fine. What’s the name of this freeway right here? Or the number? She said she didn’t know. Perhaps she didn’t hear, I thought, so I repeated, this freeway right here — I pointed. “I don’t know,” she said, “I didn’t drive here.” Baffled by the response, we walked back to the car in silence. There were so many questions. First of which – how did she get there? Where did she live? There were no houses in site. And most importantly, do you really need to drive on a road to know its name — a road that you could reach out and touch if you took two steps?
And I suppose that’s the problem, isn’t it? This lack of interest. Empathy. Knowledge. Have our worlds gotten so small? Our concerns even smaller? It was Maya Angelou who said the most important thing was curiousity. It was the key to everything. Without it, she thought, nothing else was really possible, including love, friendship, education, invention…life itself.
Our favorite travel memories always include the stumbling upon. The surprise of what isn’t on the map, or the brochure. I wish this for everyone. And you don’t have to travel the world – though I highly recommend it if you have the means — but please, please, look beyond your front door. Take the road less traveled, or the road worn to tracks, it doesn’t matter, just take a road. Go somewhere. Learn something. Meet people.
We were taught in school that it was important to “walk in someone else’s shoes.” Maybe that’s frightening to some, so I would say, start by walking in your own shoes. Live your life. Take some chances. Make some discoveries. And then make the exchange — of “shoes” — you will have something to share, and be open to receive. If you want the thrill of “stumbling upon,” you have to be willing to stumble.
We drove down the unknown freeway. Smiling. Packed with a new memory. A new story. Ready for our next adventure.
I suppose there’s an art to everything, and a Google page to go along with it. I was watching a video on how to create a better product photograph. I was intrigued because he said you could create beautiful photos without spending a lot of money on professional cameras, lighting, backdrops, etc. The key was to create texture and depth. I know there are apps to make everything. Dump your product onto the screen and voilà! But true to form, I wanted to be the depth in my photo – the v in my voilà!
I had just finished making the side table/foot stool out of a stump in our yard. Never had I sanded so much. Sanded and sanded. Until I was not just touching the wood, it was touching me. Then I stained it. Got the hand truck and hauled it into our library. Now for the backdrop. “You’ll be surprised to know,” he said on the video, “you already have one of the best backdrops, and it’s in your kitchen.” A baking sheet. A used one of course. And this I had. With the life of every croissant, cookie and loaf of bread that I had baked. I used paper to reflect the natural sunlight coming through the French doors. And, well, voilà!
I write about daring to embrace the beauty of all the imperfect lives around you, what better way to display it? Today, if you’re taking a photo, or just glancing in the mirror, don’t forget to see the the beauty in the imperfections — don’t forget to be your own V!
Everything can be explained away. But why would you want to?
I was walking down the gravel path in Aix. There is a specific sound to footsteps on gravel. Almost a gathering in and a crunch. I know this sound. I grew up on a gravel road. Now, if you google it, it says that Softer surfaces like gravel reduce the force of impact with your running stride and may allow you to recover more quickly from the workout. Plus these softer surfaces require you to use stabilizing muscles that may grow lax on the road or sidewalk. I’m sure all of that is true. For me though, it’s the familiar of it all that helps the most.
Yesterday, desperately in need of this “softening” and “stabilizing,” I set out on our gravel path. Half way on my journey, I saw a sign — painted in yellow on a giant rock. Now I’m sure it can all be explained away. Perhaps it was put up for a running group. Directions for their race. But all I saw was the word “Ivy.” My mother’s name. Ivy. My heart smiled. I was home.
I guess we all choose to see what we want to see. Choose to feel what we want to feel. And for me, today and everyday, I am going to believe in the magic of it all. I’m going to believe in my feet, my heart, and the love that is always out there, leading me on this, sometimes rugged, but always beautiful path.
Maybe it was fun, for a few minutes. Or maybe it was out of pure necessity – I mean, what was the alternative? If we didn’t go out in the wintertime, we’d lose nearly half the year. So we did it. We bundled. From head to toe. Sweaters and snowsuits. Hats. Mittens. Hoods wrapped in scarves. At this point, not being able to bend over, our mothers would force our twice socked feet into our older siblings’ boots, and open the door.
The cold air felt like a slap to the only exposed area around our eyes. We blinked as our eyelashes doubled with frost. We winter-waddled through the yard as long as we could. Hoping to stay out at least as long as it took to bundle. Rolls of snowmen heads were started, then abandoned, and soon we ran (like penguins) to the nearest door. I guess for me, this is what it was all about – that full body sigh of coming in from the cold. Into the warmth of my mother’s arms. Warm kisses on red cheeks.Brought back to this world, mitten by mitten. Boot by boot. Sock by sock. I was home.
And I would do it again. And again. I suppose that’s what love is. Coming in from the cold.
What a thrill. What a blessing! To know this. To carry this warmth in my heart. As harsh as this world can be at times, I would, I will, brave the elements of whatever the day may bring, knowing, certain, my heart has a place to come in from the cold.
I have told the story before — picking rocks in the field with my grandfather on his farm, but sometimes, I, maybe we, need to hear it again, and again. The following is an excerpt from “Something will grow from all this”:
“Each rock seemed to give birth to another. I was so tired. But Grandpa didn’t seem to be. He just kept picking those rocks, one after the other. He seemed to get stronger. There was precision in each movement. I watched carefully. It was like an oil pump that didn’t have a beginning or an end to its motion, but just kept going. I had been throwing the rocks with anger, but he moved them with purpose…and that was the difference. That’s how he could take such a mess and later make something grow out of it. The black that surrounded us would turn to green and gold. It amazed me and I wanted to be a part of it. It was hard, but that was ok. I did want to stay. My lip stopped quivering and I placed another rock on the trailer.”
There are so many challenges. It’s easy to get angry. And that’s ok if it thrusts us into doing the work, but that’s where we always need to get to – the place of doing the work. I have thrown my share of rocks with anger, but I want to move them now – move them with purpose. Make a difference. Make something grow. Just like my grandfather.
The sun is coming up. It is not the beginning, it is not the end, it is the time to do the glorious and sometimes unglamorous work. I give thanks for the opportunity, smile, and place another rock on the trailer.
