The first 7 hour time change means, for me, two blogs in twenty four hours. Arriving in Amsterdam, on no sleep, and one double espresso, it seems like a lot to ask of my brain, but as always, my heart starts typing.
Even the tulip stands are not open, so inspiration must come from within. (But then, doesn’t it always.) People have asked me through the years, “What inspires you?” There is always a pause because I’m laughing at the answer I want to say, knowing it isn’t the answer they want to hear – nothing and everything. I’m reminded of when I was gifted a fancy mixer. As I was unboxing it, my husband asked, “What does it make?” “It doesn’t make anything,” I replied, knowing that by itself, it really does nothing, but with it, I can make bread and cookies and cakes, everything! Nothing and everything. Just like with art. Just like with writing. Just like with life. We have to, not find the inspiration, but be it!
And so I type, without sleep or tulip, and the story arrives. Right on time. Waiting for the next flight home, I have everything.
There are the usual suspects — tulips, tulip bulbs, chocolates — but sitting in the Amsterdam airport, all I really want to find is a bit of my Grandma Elsie.
She could fall asleep anywhere. Anytime. She could take a nap mid-bake, and never burn the cookies. She could fall asleep while you were taking your turn at the card game or dice game on her kitchen table. Dreaming of becoming a UPS driver, or a girlish romance behind the Alexandria motel, while you strategized, only to wake up and beat you every time. In a chair. On a bus. In a car, (even once while driving us home from Jerry’s Jack and Jill, just after the sugar rush of toasted marshmallows) she could easily fall into complete slumber. While the coffee brewed. After drinking the coffee. During the commercials of Days of Our Lives. She slept. She had perfected the Power Nap before it was even called as such.
I always envied this ability to let go. This is something I don’t possess. To fall asleep on a plane, in an airport, seems unimaginable. But I am not in discomfort. I am not without rest. I am gathered in. I imagine the flowers on her apron. Were they tulips? Possibly. As I rest in the memory of her welcoming aproned belly, they are tulips. I smile. I have taken my Grandma to Amsterdam, not all dreams require sleep.
I know we could have purchased tulips, but they brought these to us, from Amsterdam. Native tulip bulbs. Spectacular. We dug little rows in the ground with the tiny rake and shovel from our greenhouse. Of course I was smiling, not just because of the gifted tulips, but because I had been here before, in the spring of kindness.
I was five when I saw it wrapped in the garage. Easter morning. Not chocolate, or a bunny of any kind, but a tiny set of garden tools, just my size. In the brightest of colors. A green shovel. A red hoe and a yellow rake. Colors so shiny, they were spring itself. They were bright and simple.
Not all the days to follow would be like this. Something in my heart told me to hang on. Something in my heart told me that this is what would carry me — moments of kindness. The shiny moments of people who care, and dare to show it.
We placed the bulbs in the ground. Four to five weeks it said on the box from Holland – that’s how long it would take. I laughed to myself, knowing, in my heart, they were already in full bloom — the spring of kindness.
In 2019, we went to the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam.
I don’t want to gloss over anything in that sentence. We were traveling – oh the glorious days of travel. Van Gogh, after Cezanne (I live in Aix en Provence, so I want to, and am slightly obligated to profess this) is one of my favorite artists. Amsterdam – it never ceases to amaze me the places I’ve been able to see – truly.
So, that Spring of 2019, the museum was having an exhibition “The Joy of Nature”, featuring David Hockney alongside Vincent Van Gogh. David Hockney has always expressed a fascination with Van Gogh. They both paint in full movement with visible brush marks. Hockney says, “When you’re drawing one blade of grass you’re looking and then you see more. And then you see the other blades of grass and you’re always seeing more.”
That’s what I want – to always see more! This is the joy of learning from those who went before us. Then taking that knowledge and expanding it, creating beyond it, becoming that blade of grass for someone else. A few years ago, I created the book, “I’m not too busy.” It’s all about taking the time to see everything and everyone around us. I illustrated each page with blades of grass. If you’re not paying attention, you will miss that the grass is growing on every page, until you reach the end, when it is in full bloom.
I don’t want to miss anything. I want to enjoy every moment.
We were walking back to our hotel after a full day in the city. Seeing, eating, exploring, laughing, drinking – there’s a lot to do – and of course by the end of the day, your feet do get tired – your whole body gets tired…but as I put each foot in front of the other, it occured to me this simple thought, “I’m walking in Amsterdam.” I said it over and over. I was no longer aware of my feet, but my steps. Each step was magical. I was in a new country, a new city, a new life, wasn’t that amazing???
When I’m done typing here, I’m going to go for a walk around our house. (Covid restrictions do apply). But I will not say, I am in quarantine. I will not say, but we could be going places – doing things – why can’t we… NO… I will say, the sky is blue, the grass is green, not every blade, but most – and I will look at them all, and joyfully know, “I’m walking in Provence!” (And isn’t it amazing!)
