There is a painting that walks ahead of me on the trail. Normally I would be eager to pass these aging men, but my anxious feet are overruled and I slow to take it all in. Maybe it’s the hats. Or the synchronized position of hands clasped behind their backs, heading them “heart-first.”
When I’m close enough for them to hear my graveled steps, I pick up the pace. We exchange smiling bonjours, and the day will continue down different roads. I won’t learn their names, these hatted men. Having been in their path is enough.
Maybe it was a different time, but my grandfather wore a hat. There was something trustworthy about it. Elegant, even in overalls. I trusted it — him. I suppose that’s why I trust it still. Because what’s taught is what’s known. And maybe that’s what empathy is, what humanity is, walking in the path of others, heart-first.
I suppose it’s always hard to see how special things are from deep within. I, like all of my cousins, took for granted that Grandma Elsie’s cookie jar would always be full, and the lazy susan in the bottom corner cupboard needed two hands to turn. (And I’m not talking about a little spinning spice rack, no, a lazy susan that could spin a small three to four year old into a dizzied frenzy.) My grandma stocked this beast of a susan with the entire Sugar family — Sugar Daddies, Sugar Mamas, and Sugar Babies. She also included the Black Cows, Slow Pokes, Junior mints, random candied corns and jelly beans depending on the season. There was not a mint or a lemon drop in sight. So when one of the girls in our jump roping gang at Washington Elementary began speaking disparagingly about her grandmother’s candy selection, I couldn’t believe it. When others chimed in, I dropped the rope to investigate further. No Sugar Babies? Not even a Slow Poke? No. Surely she offered you a rootbeer float from time to time. They laughed.
It’s amazing what a little knowledge can do. I never twirled a jump rope the same. There was no need to flaunt it. It was my grandpa who taught me that. After arriving first in a race around the farmhouse with one of those sugar-fueled cousins, I ran to him bragging about my victory. He patted my shoulder. “It’s enough to win,” he said.
Each afternoon recess, I quietly twirled the rope, deep in the knowledge that I was winning.
From time to time, I can still get lost in the ample susan of my life, not seeing how special it is until life comes tripping with its little interruptions. And I see these breaks in fortune for what for what they really are — just little schoolgirls, telling me, showing me how lucky I truly am. I smile, and twirl in gratitude once again.
I can’t say I ever followed boxing. Of course I had heard of him, Muhammad Ali. But my limited impression was mostly bravado. But then in 1996, when he appeared on the Olympic stage, fragile, all in white, I took notice. Arms trembling, he moved gingerly across the stage. No “floating” or “stinging”…but what I saw, what we all saw, was pure strength. I held my breath as the shaking flame tried to grab hold. Seconds passed. And then it took. The flame shot up to the official grand torch, and the sky lit with the power of vulnerability.
We have a tendency to ooooh and aaaah at the fantastic — at human feats of strength. And we should. But the truth is, they are happening all around us, all the time. I suppose the only real difference is the lighting. Not engulfed under an Olympic size flame, but rather within the subtle glowing of grace. Not emboldened by uniform or flag, but inner strength. Those who dare to brave the challenges of heart and body, and face the day with kindness still.
In a couple of days, the Olympic torch will pass through our French city. A grand event, for sure, but it makes me smile, as I look at the pictures of my mother on the wall…my grandfather, my grandmother…the torch has already been passed.
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 think my heart recognized it even before my brain. I was certain you could see it beating through my dress as I stood before Cezanne’s painting. I told Dominique, “It feels like there’s so much blood in my heart — or love…”
“You’ve been there,” he said, smiling. And indeed we had, just a short time ago. We stood in the very place that Cezanne painted. The exact position. The same view. Others were in the museum, but for a few moments, we were inside the painting.
I don’t suppose it’s enough to just live it. It’s so important to share our experiences. Because somewhere, someone needs to hear it. They need to hear it from someone who has been there, been through it. (And oh, how I, we, you, have been through it!)
Being interviewed the other day, for the first time since her passing, I was able to speak about my mother deeply without falling apart. I could feel it – so much emotion – but in this moment, it was love, still, so much love.
It may not sound like much, this moment, but I know, today, someone needs to hear it. Someone needs to step aside from the exquisite pain of love lost, even for just a moment. Someone needs to step inside my painting and feel the hope. Feel the love. And I say to this someone, possibly you, nothing is going to be easy, but everything is going to be ok.
My grandfather was perhaps the first to teach me about color. Each year he planted in the black dirt. He worked under blue skies. Prayed under gray. And with the daily stroke of his hands turned the field from green to gold. It was the most beautiful canvas I had ever seen. Were it not for him, would I have seen it? I can’t be sure.
I often speak of the Sainte Victoire mountain. It rests in our daily view. Cezanne was perhaps the first to point it out to the world. Painting it again and again. Showing its beauty in every light. Dominique was the first to point it out to me as he drove me from the airport. Would I have seen it? Would I have felt it? Would I have painted it without either of them? Probably not.
Georgia O’Keeffe had her own mountain. Her own “Sainte Victoire.” She painted the big mountain (as she called it) again and again. Braving the heat and the cold. The solitude. The doubters of women. All to show us the beauty of what was around her. The beauty of what she saw.
I suppose all of it was unlikely. Seemingly almost impossible at times. But this is what gives me hope. This is what enables me to put my grandfather, Rueben Hvezda, alongside Paul Cezanne. Alongside Georgia O’keeffe. To write about him. To write about my grandmother making kolaches and quilts. My mother dressing in the crispiest of whites, even on her most crumbling days. OH, my beautiful mother! Were they artists? (…a rose by any other name…) They took what was in front of them, inside of them and made it beautiful. Not only showing me, but showing me how.
So I make the pictures with paint and words. Each daily stroke, with brushes of Rueben and Elsie and Ivy — my open fields, my sturdy mountains. What are we here for, if not to show each other the beauty? The beauty of living.
You have something. Right here. Right now. Live it. Something beautiful will come. The world is waiting to see.
I’ve often wondered if Cezanne hadn’t seen the beauty in fruit, in the mountain, would I have seen it?
My grandma didn’t have matching dishes. I don’t remember the table ever being “set.” We knew the contents of the cupboards, and we grabbed what was needed. A plate. A fork. A glass. As children we drank out of these multi-colored aluminum tumblers. They were indestructible. You could dig a hole with it in the dirt to bury a treasure, wash it out with the garden hose, then fill it with milk and Nesquik – chunky style because you didn’t have the patience to keep stirring. The color of tumbler chosen worked as our first “mood rings.” Blue was sad. Red, you had a temper. Green was kind. Gold, surely a winner! They could be swapped, dropped, thrown, and fit perfectly into our sweaty, chubby hands. So much adventure. So much beauty.
I’ve seen them now, these tumblers, in antique stores. Over priced, surely, but never overvalued. I smile because I did see it. We saw it together — before anyone told us it was beautiful, that they were beautiful.
My grandma never went to France. I doubt that she knew of Cezanne. But make no mistake about it, long before I studied in school, she taught me about art appreciation. How to see the beauty of everything. My real education.
When I paint the most simple still life, (my long lost treasure uncovered) I think, yes, I would have seen it. Not because of Cezanne, but because of Elsie. My grandma Elsie. I hang the painting, my heart knowing, she did make it to France after all.
To date, being only six years old, it was probably the furthest any of us had seen, looking out over the surrounding plains of Inspiration Peak. It was our debut field trip as first graders in Washington Elementary. True to its name, we did feel inspired, gazing at nature’s finest (within busing distance of Alexandria, Minnesota.)
Then Mrs. Bergstrom sent us down the steep hill. Wait…what? Before I had even decided I was swept up in the descent. Once a few of the boys began tumbling down, we all seemed to fall like dominos. Nervous laughter filled the air. Bumper tennis shoes above our heads. Dirt in pony tails. Skirts flying. Arms flapping. “Had I gotten the word wrong? What was the meaning of inspiration?” I thought as we clumped together at the bottom of the hill.
Mrs. Bergstrom waved her hand, beckoning us back. Some flew up the side like gazelles. Others struggled. I remember thinking, “this isn’t so bad,” as I reached the 90 percent mark. I could see Gerald Reed sitting on the top edge. Maybe I relaxed too early. He was saying something and I slowed to listen. I began to slip. I spun my legs faster. Like a cartoon character, I remained in place while my legs circled frantically beneath me. The only thing rising was the dust. I could see his mouth still moving. “Why was he talking???? I was fighting for my life here!” Others passed me. I was so close…why wasn’t I moving??? With each breath I sucked in a little more dirt. Gerald cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Sloooooowwwww Dowwwwwwwnnnnn!”
In all of our classroomed days, he had never lied to me, so I stopped. Surprisingly, I didn’t fall. I put one foot in front of the other. Slowly. Firmly. And reached the top of the peak. He shook his head and smiled.
It may not come as a surprise, but I can still work myself into a panic. Getting caught in the whirl and twirl of the day. Kicking up way more dust than necessary, I remind myself, “a little less fighting for my life, and a little more living it, please.” I smile. Brush the dust from my legs. And breathe. The view from gratitude is always inspiring!
I didn’t even notice it when I took the picture – how the bamboo tree photobombed my most recent painting.
I don’t know that I was aware of the speed, strength and resilience of bamboo before moving to France. We have a tiny forest of them in our backyard. It’s not like you can actually see them growing…but almost. For the most part, we have kept them contained to a single area, but this one somehow snuck much closer to the house.
I was never really one to paint landscapes before. I had only lived in the city. But I am surrounded by nature now. I walk through it daily. It seems I permanently have a rock in my shoe, every shoe, and a call to wander. It’s in my heart now. And as with all of my paintings, they have to travel through there first. I paint the landscapes. I live in this new palette. And I can see it. The growth.
Maybe I didn’t notice it while it was happening, but I have bambooed my way into this new palette — this new life. I suppose that’s the way it is with all growth — strong, resilient, and oh, so surprising!
It’s summer in Aix — our peak tourist season. We were just walking through town – going to Dominique’s dentist appointment. I wanted to feel what they were feeling – the tourists. I started looking around. Wow. It really is beautiful! I took a few pictures. The houses, the churches, the scent of the pink flowers — I saw it all again, for the first time.
We decided to stop at the fish market. We bought some sea bass (loop de mer) for the barbecue. And some vegetables for the plancha. Some rosé wine for the imagination. We ate slowly in the summer air, and I fell in love, again, for the first time.
The world is pretty extraordinary. But we have to decide to see it, every day. I suppose that’s why I paint. In these moments, I have to forget all the “well, I’ve seen this before…” — all the “it’s just another day…” — forget the noise of “but this… and this.. and my…”. I have to just stop, and see something for the first time. Look at the flower. It’s brand new. It’s waiting just for you. I stop a bit of time, a vacation from my brain, a tourist in pink.
