It’s very rare. Maybe only three times in the last 10 years. We live in one of the sunniest places on the planet. So when it happens, when the clouds disappear the entire mountain, the Sainte Victoire, it is extremely disorienting. My heart knows it’s there, but my eyes send a wobble to my knees.
Growing up in Minnesota, the seasons were very clear. It didn’t take long. I’m not sure I completely understood in Kindergarten, but by the time I transitioned from first grade to second, I got it, the seasons would change. They would always be there, one waiting to lift out of the next. I probably worried when I was only five. That was my nature. I would have asked my grandpa in the field. Then ran to my grandma in her kitchen. Then nestled by my mother’s knee for final assurance that summer would come again. And it always did.
Each day when I make my morning walk, when I see it, the mountain, I know the love will always be there. Strong. Sturdy. No cloud or change of season can take it away. Oh, I still look, not so much out of worry anymore, no, I still feel nestled…but just to feel it a little more, with heart over eyes I see it. Love remains. Ever.
I have no memory of the apples growing. Each year, they were just there. The branches seemed to go from bare to weighed in just the blink of an eye. And as quickly as the green apples appeared in my grandparents’ trees, we were tripping over them in the grass, loading sack after brown paper sack to give away.
Maybe it’s the way of all living. It goes so quickly. We move from grand point to grand point, missing all the little things along the way. The how we got heres. The growths.
I keep trying to think of her as a young woman — the journey of how Elsie became Grandma Elsie. She wasn’t always in that kitchen. In that yard with an upturned apron full of apples. She once had to have giggled with the girls behind the school. Cursed her parents and dreamed of boys. Imagined a life. A future.
To know the exact details, I suppose, would be like trying to reattach the apples to the tree. But I think it’s enough to know there was more. There is more. So much more to all of us. There are reasons and seasons of how we got here. And maybe we’ll never know all of it, but I think there is empathy in the attempt. Compassion in trying to imagine the whole picture. None of us are just one thing. Maybe in learning that, we come to see some growth after all.
It’s still a lovely piece of work, but without strings, this violin plays no music. The sweet sounds lay silent in the wood. I suppose it’s the same for the heart. It needs to connect.
I understand the meaning of the familiar saying — to give without expectation. And that’s a lovely sentiment, but then I think of the beautiful, melodic strings.
It was Grandma Elsie who first taught us the telephone game. When we asked what it was she simply said, “You know, telegram, telephone, tell-a-hvezda.” We laughed and began to string together the two empty tin cans she supplied. We spent the afternoon, through windows and doors, telling our secrets on our home made phones, Hvezda to Hvezda. Even when the sounds weren’t clear, when we got it all mixed up, we were still connected.
It’s true today. We continue to get the messages wrong. Misunderstand. But we’re still connected. Always. Even with the tiniest of strings. This family. And when I remember, when I believe it, when I let my heart whisper the truth, I hear the sweetest music, still.
After a vacation, I need to get unpacked immediately. I don’t like hovering “between two kingdoms.” With both suitcases emptied, something seemed to be missing — a small candle that I found at a bookstore. I looked through my purchase pile. Emptied the sacks. Nothing. Went back to the closet. Felt through each zippered pocket of the suitcases. Still nothing.
I went to bed that evening, still hoping my jet-lagged brain would kick in the next day. Sleep came quickly, and left with the same speed. Just after 2am my eyes blinked open with the knowledge — “It’s in your shoe!” Smiling, I went back to sleep. It was always with me.
After breakfast the next morning, I checked the inside of my New Balance tennis shoe. And there it was. My beautiful little candle. And bonus, also the tiny Native American vase I forgot about. Both safe and sound.
Going for a walk, the French path seemed brand new. I saw the blooming trees, again, for the first time. My feet steadied the way as my head circled from bird to bird, branch to branch, curve through curve. Years ago I wrote, “I have to believe my feet will take me where I need to go.” I still believe. They still do. Short of clicking my no-heeled shoes together like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I returned home, understanding that I still, and always, have the power within me.
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!
It was the first poem I ever wrote. I was six years old. In Mr. Iverson’s music class.
Houses, houses, houses red.
In it is a pretty bed.
Houses, houses, houses green.
In it is a pretty scene.
And so began my search. My fascination. With home. I would go on to paint images of houses and doors. Windows and shutters. I wrote the stories as if they were maps. Each word opening. Letting in a little more light. A welcome breeze. Until one day, one moment, one heart beat, in the warmth of that sun whisking through cracks, it became so clear that there was no “there,” only “here.”
We have been traveling for several months. I have been asked handfuls of times, “Are you excited to go home?” I always smile, in the slight breeze of my answer.
Sitting at the breakfast table, in a friend’s house, a country away, my husband is drinking coffee from one of my cups that reads, “Come in, you and your heart sit down…” I’m already here. I’m always home.
I bought the dish towels in France. Gave them to my mother. My hands to her hands. Each trip I would cook for her. Use the towels to clean up. She would wash them. Use them. Hand to hand until we returned again. Never out of touch.
I didn’t imagine I would see them again. Until I opened the UPS box from my sister-in-law. It was that pause that your brain makes, perhaps letting your heart catch up, when I saw them. Familiar, but new. She made the towels into pot holders. She joined her hands to the chain of touch, sewing each seam beautifully. They will be in my kitchen now. Touched by my French family, as I cook for them.
Things change. Evolve. Time changes everything. Even our relationships. Even the familiar becomes new. But the seams will hold. If we allow them. If we change along with them, and keep reaching out. Hand to hand.
I have often wondered, still at times, without my mother do I still belong to this family? Do I still belong to this home town? I run my hand along the seams and hear a whispered yes.
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.
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.
I wasn’t even sure they were real, these pelicans racing across the lake. They looked like little boats, moving so quickly. So still and beautiful on top, but the paddling that had to have been going on beneath — it must have been extraordinary.
My mother was the face of ISD #206. And even in her hardest days, she gave them a good one. Not one teacher or administrator entered that building without her smile or direction. By 7:30am each day, after sleepless nights, she was lipsticked, coiffed, dressed – impeccably. And she wasn’t faking it — she loved her job. Her people. But for a select few, they never saw the paddling.
I suppose we miss it with most people. We never really know what they are going through. Struggling through. What waters they are holding their heads above. And I’m not sure we need to know everything. See everything. But we could be kind. Can be kind. Empathetic. And it goes for everything. Sometimes we see successful people and think, oh, it’s so easy for them, not seeing the hours of practice, effort, sweat.
So today, at the grocery store, the coffee shop, the office, or bank, wherever you go for your daily swim, maybe we all could just be a little more aware of the paddling.
