Living in an apartment most of my young life, I didn’t really understand the basement of my grandmother. The room at the bottom of the stairs was stacked with glass jars filled with fruit and vegetables. She “canned.” I didn’t really know what that meant. No one really explained it to me. I’m ashamed to say, I wondered if we, they, were poor. Did we have to save this food in these jars? Were we preparing for something terrible to happen? I didn’t know – and I was afraid to ask.
I loved my grandma. She had a twinkle that came from some inner assuredness, so my worry didn’t last long. And I forgot about it. Peaches have begun to pop out on our front yard tree. Each year when they blossom and then give fruit, it feels like a tiny miracle. They are beautiful. A melding of orange and yellow and red. I imagine the tiny angels that come in the night with brushes and release all the colors, just for us to give a wow in the morning sun!
In a few weeks, I will pick these peaches and peel them. After I take the skin off, the fruit is almost without color, a pale yellow at best, but then when I boil them, they release into the most glorious color of, well, peach! It is stunning. And the magic continues.
As each jar is emptied, over fresh baked bread, or brioche, or just by the spoonful, I am taken on a sticky hand trip, across the ocean, chubby fingers locked in my grandma’s, walking down the stairs to her glorious basement. “I see it now,” I tell her. “It’s magic and it’s beautiful!”
My grandma came last night with the other angels. The peaches fill the tree and the morning air says, “Wow!”
There was a slowness of time that gathered at the farm. We raced with youthful legs – legs that spun underneath us like on the cartoons – and yet the day seemed to last forever. Legs that carried no weight of worry, but only the sticky pink of dripped watermelon. My grandfather didn’t play with us. He had work to do. The farm demanded it. And he did it. He didn’t join us for birthday parties. I don’t imagine he ever wrapped a present. But he gave me a gift I still open, almost daily. He didn’t say much, but when he did, you listened. Pipe in one hand, the other smoothing out the line of his overalls. He spoke slowly. My father was gone. My mother was sad. My legs gave way to the weight of it all. “Focus on someone else,” he said. Someone else??? What was he talking about? My legs couldn’t move. “Give your attention, your time, anything, to someone else. Trust me.” How did he know? Maybe because he gave his hands to the soil. Maybe because he had nine children. He knew. I can get overwhelmed. Easily. And it can swallow my attention – me, me, me. And then I remember, I open the gift. That beautiful gift. Focus on something else. Someone else. And I am saved. My legs are strong today. Strong enough to run beside you under the sun of this possible June day. Strong enough to give.
There is something about an open book that invites you in. I saw a bookstand online and I knew I had to have one. Anything worth having is probably worth making. So I did. I don’t have all the “proper” tools, but I have tools — tools, if used in my own clunky, but effective way, can get the job done. Now this treasured book of art sits wide open, inviting you in. I think the same is true for me. I don’t have all the “proper” tools to survive in a different country. I speak this new language in my own, clunky way, and know that anything worth having, like a life, is worth making. So I make it with all of my homemade (heartmade) tools, and I come to it wide open. Today, there is a scent of freshly cut wood in the air. A scent of work, and hope, and possibility. Inviting me! Inviting you!
I arrived in Sedona, Arizona in the dark of night. I couldn’t see any of the surroundings. I went to bed and woke with the sun. I opened the hotel drapes, and almost fell over. The view! I had never seen anything like this! The red rocks. Spectacular! All this was there in the darkness, and I didn’t know it — but the light beamed from rock to rock, yellow mixed with red to create an orange that said, I’ve been here the whole time.
Waking in Italy for the first time, I saw a sky draped in elegant clouds, allowing the sun to still dance across the water. This yellow, this blue, and this playful white that invited me to dance along. I’ve never looked at clouds the same. (Maybe, like Joni Mitchell, I didn’t know clouds at all, until this very morning.)
This morning, I open yesterday’s shutters on yesterday’s house, and I feel a brand new day. The air is fresh, and the birds are singing today’s song. It is a comfort that says, I’ve been here the whole time, and a song that welcomes me to the adventure of this dance.
The view from morningtime — spectacular!!!! Let me always see the gift.
I’m so grateful that I had to walk to the library, search through the card catalog, follow the Dewey decimal system, find the books, read every one to get the one quote I needed for my paper — instead of using Google.
I’m so grateful that I learned to write in cursive, and not emojis.
I’m so grateful that I had typing class, using all of my fingers, and not just my thumbs to text.
I’m so grateful that I wandered without GPS.
I’m so grateful I waited for my favorite shows to come out once a year at Christmastime, and couldn’t view them every day online.
I’m so grateful that I learned to draw without my ipad.
Don’t get me wrong. I love all the new inventions. I make books on my computer. Write my blog every day on my ipad. I use the ipen, draw with Procreate, and read ibooks, and I try to learn all the new apps. I watch Youtube and Netflix and rely on my GPS. But I had to learn how to learn, without technology. This I think was a gift. With it comes patience and problem solving. Not to mention the joy of creating.
You can spellcheck and grammarly your way through creating a “correct” paragraph. You can hit the prompted replies that Gmail offers. And Procreate will straighten the lines you draw. But what did you show the world? Did you show the world your heart? your brain? or ingenuity? or just your technology.
Am I old? Probably. But I’m still learning. And that is the joy. Whatever you love, learn it. Get your hands dirty. Get frustrated in the attempt. Search for the answers. Maybe even visit your local library. Then, when you’ve mastered it with your whole spirit – then, by all means, add everything you want to enhance it. Tools are tools, use them all. Technology and all the advancements that go with it can be extremely useful. Just live a little first. Then you will have something to offer. You may not always be perfect, but what you might end up being is interesting.
I have a computer — I can get all the apps — you don’t need to show me yours. Today, let me see your heart and hands, and I will be so grateful!
It being almost spring, and at the New York Library, I had the choice of going in the front doors, like and between the lions, but I chose the quiet entrance, 42nd street (and lamb). I had maybe always entered the library that way. Quiet as a lamb. Shy as can be, I had no certainty in myself, in the world, but for the first time, in the Washinton Elementary library, I felt sure. Sure that the answers were here. The questions. The possibilities. All of it. Here were the dreamers and the doers. And me. The library, any library, had always carried me. Spoke the words I wanted to hear. Knew my name. Held me. Launched me. But the New York Public Library, this almost spring, now that was something extraordinary. It was New York, after all. I placed one foot in front of the other. Quietly, firmly, on hallowed ground. Smiled at the portraits on the wall, up to the first desk. And there she was, in a tan blazer and cowel neck sweater, and matching hat. Still with a glow of pink from the fresh air of winter’s remains and spring’s knockings, her coat of the same color rested on the back of her chair. She looked up from her clipboard and smiled. And suddenly I was flying over open water, years ago, my head straining to see the lady in the harbour, searching for my welcome… wait, there, yes, there she is…seeing the Statue of Liberty for the first time, feeling welcomed, welcomed with complete unknown possibilities, welcomed with dream upon dream, talent and desire, and grit… welcomed with a toughened grace, like I had never seen… and there she was again, on this almost spring day… at the New York Public Library. Welcoming me to it all again. I smiled, wanting to tell her, that she was all of that – she was the welcoming lady in front of a sea of words. I continued to smile, hoping she knew, knowing she must. I only asked if I could take her picture. Now I paint her and that feeling is all around me. Even in quarantine, I am filled with possibility and hope and certainty. Each letter. Each book. Each dream. I still live in the word. Flying above the water, knowing that all will be welcomed again. And again.
The word essay comes from the french word “essayer” which means to try. I guess that’s what I am doing each morning, when I write these essays, I’m just trying, trying to learn more, love bigger, see further, live better. Maybe that’s what we are all doing. I hope so. There is so much beauty in the attempt.
But that’s not to say it’s easy.
Each day before I write, I do my French lessons with Duolingo. Some days, (not many at all), I breeze through the daily goal and get on with my writing. Other days, (a lot of them), I feel like I’m losing weight with each word typed. Nearly every day there is a piece of my brain that says, just quit. Quit already. But then there is a piece of my heart, the one that loves the man that lives in a country that speaks this weight-loss language, and I try — J’essaie.
And every once in a while, I’m rewarded, like when the clerk understands, when I say bicarbonate de soude, that I need baking soda. My husband claps in the grocery aisle. We take our victories where we can. And we wake up and we try once again. Maybe this time with a little more courage, strength, and even more important, a little more empathy for all those who are making the attempt. For all those who are struggling for the tiniest break. For those longing for a round of applause in the grocery store.
Life is a beautiful journey. I think the doctors and lawyers get it right when they say they are “practicing.” Aren’t we all. Today, I wish you the most success in your attempt to learn, to love, to see, to live. “Bonne journée !”
Am I good at it? If you mean do I love it, do I do it often?…then, yes! If it is judged by some other standard, then, I guess, I don’t know. But why would it be judged? I’m singing. It’s like if you asked me, are you good at breathing? I sing. I sing, I sing, and I sing. I think, I hope, I want to sing because I’m grateful. I’m so grateful that I get to sing. That I get to sing alone, and I get to sing along. That I get to hear it. That I get to feel the joy in my heart, my throat, and then in the trees. Joy is nothing to be judged, just enjoyed. I think if I questioned it, I would suck the life right out of it. I sing. I live. I love. I hope I can be grateful for all the amazing experiences. I hope you can too. Because it’s all pretty amazing. Look around. Just look. Just listen. This is not a bad day. This is life. This is joy. Just sing.
In fifth grade we went orienteering. There was nothing in our history that said we would be good at orienteering. Most of us, in our 10 or 11 years on this earth, had never even heard of it. But off we went. Handing in our signed parental waivers as we filed into the big yellow school bus, perhaps as unaware as livestock heading off to market. We stopped in the middle of the largest forest we had ever seen. Surely this was the beginning of a horror film. We stomped into the wooden cabins and waited. Of course we would wait for dark. That’s exactly how it would read in the script. We were assigned teams. We didn’t pick teams like in sports. No one had any idea who would actually be good at this, so it would have been hard to choose key members. There were brief instructions. No one listened. We assumed, as in our monthly fire drills at school, we would march out, and somehow march back in. We were given compasses and charts and courses. Each team was to finish a specific course, mark it on the maps and return to base camp. Teachers waited up in the trees, to watch us, or to frighten us. I imagine, as with any disaster, perhaps a plane crash – just before the point of impact when people start wishing they had listened to the preflight instructions – we began questioning each other, “does anyone know how to do this?” We didn’t. There was something about stars, I think. Maybe these compasses. And suddenly it became very clear that it was dark, and we were in the woods. We started running. This made the most sense. We picked any check point we could find. As fast as we could. And later than anyone expected, even with the running, we miraculously found our way back to the cabins. In 1938, Douglas Corrigan made a flight plan from New York to California. Twenty eight hours after taking off, he landed in Ireland. He got out of the plane and said, “Where am I?” To the amusement of both sides of the Atlantic, he stuck to his story of a malfunctioning compass. He was given the name Wrong-Way and written into the history books. Up until then, he had been merely a footnote. The chaperones came down from the trees, and avoided being “up a creek,” as we were all alive and safe. While no team exceeded expectations, our team ended up doing the wrong course, in the wrong direction, with the slowest time. They gave us paper certificates, clearly made from the cabin’s photocopier, with the Wrong-way Corrigan award (or citation). We were no longer footnotes of the fifth grade. At some point we all have to find our way. Some of us need to follow the wrong path beforewe find the right one. Perhaps most of us. The wrong job. The wrong love. The wrong town. Sometimes you have to get lost in order to find your way. Sometimes you have to take the wrong path. Draw the wrong perspective. Then things can become clear. I have done all. I have stumbled over my own heart and path, every day. But both are mine. Mine to walk. Mine to share. There’s no compass for that. There’s only faith. And the stars.
I’m enjoying this practice of sharing a story each morning. It has become part of my routine. I had thought of doing it for a long time, but I was a little afraid of the process. How would I come up with a new idea each day? There are challenges, for sure (it’s not coal mining hard, but it does take some effort.) The key for me has been this, the art of noticing. It sounds simple enough, and it actually is, but you do have to practice it. And once in the practice, you will (forgive me) “notice” how easy it is to notice things.
But it can’t stop there – noticing is the key to gratitude.
This morning I was awakened by the sweetest sound – birds singing. And oh, how they say. So joyful. I woke up smiling. Thank you birds. Thank you morning. Thank you “not waking up to an alarm clock.”
Gratitude alone, though, can become complacent without action. So I painted the birds that sang to me this morning. I put the bird paintings on my computer so I can share them with you. And with a piece of luck, this yellow will make you smile. This smile will brighten your face, which will brighten the face of the person next to you. And we start a chain. A chain of gratitude.
Some of you will share the story that this brought to your mind. This yellow, this bird, this awakening. And your story will make me think, hey, did you notice the… and we’re off again! Thank you for that. Thank you for this chain.
