There was a time when “hold still” meant something unpleasant was going to happen. A shot from the doctor. A peering dentist. The brushing of tangled hair. Even the application of unwanted socks.
I can’t say the moment it changed. It could have been gradual. But as with most things that turn with time, it felt sudden. And without my knowledge or permission, I often begin sentences with “Wasn’t I just…”
And as I struggle to hold still the squirming memories of loves passed, I have to laugh and acknowledge, that I was never one to do it. And in the recognition, I think, maybe we are never meant to stop any of it, but simply keep dancing through. All of it. Partnering with the comfort and the uncomfortable — the warmth of sitting in mother’s lap as she wrestles through the nest of your hair.
Time continues to change meaning and tempo, but love remains, not still, but strong. So I keep dancing…
I hadn’t noticed it until the other day. I brought the painting of Charly inside from the studio. I set her beside another painting. It wasn’t until the next day I thought, “Oh, Charly is with Chuck.” And then I realized that Charles was just below them downstairs. These three sharing a name couldn’t be more different — not similar in age, gender, nor hobby, yet they were all connected. (A rose by any other Chuck…)
I was on a painstakingly long phone call with the bank. We went through my account number, my social security number, my PIN number, the code sent to a separate phone, and then finally she asked me, “What’s your mother’s maiden name?” Deep in the annoyance of trying to prove my identity, there I was, still connected to all that I loved the most. My grandparents. My mother. I laughed, and spelled it, nobody ever understands the silent H of Hvezda.
I don’t know if Charly, Chuck and Charles will ever meet. But I’d like to think they know. I’d like to believe they feel something bigger than themselves. A connection with a silent C, but connected just the same. Perhaps we all are… roses.
I’ve always loved paper. Even before the freedoms of learning to ride a bicycle and then a car, there was something so liberating about the writing of words. The clarity of question, thought, and answer, right there at the end of a #2. We all knew it. I suppose that’s why we passed the notes in class. All feelings could be declared or denied, with the simple checking of a box. Do you like him? Check yes or no. Where are you going after school? Check practice or Hardees.
Maybe it’s why I continue to write — a simple checking of yes to the day. It’s still so powerful and clear. A way to remember. A way to forget. A letting in and a letting go. Simply with words.
My #2 is often replaced electronically. But it will never replace the feeling of holding it in my hands. The questions. The hopes. Dreams. The story.
When I tell you mine, and then you share yours, it is the pedaling of banana seat bikes and wind in our hair. It is the release of laughter ridden into. It is an open car window on a summer’s road, releasing music from an AM radio – KDWB 63. It is the exclamation point of a giant X that goes beyond the edges of the yes box.
Humans were made to connect. I ask myself daily — Can we do this? Can we do this together? Can we feel the freedoms of connection? I know my answer. Are you checking yes or no?
I washed the windows in the studio recently, reminding myself that in order to paint the light, you really need to be in it.
People will always be quick to tell you what to do. Even knee deep in the mud, they will advise you on your path. While all the scattering of their “should-haves” and “supposed-tos” merely block the way. And doubt, not one to miss a dim light, will often seize the opportunity and join in the chatter. And so I turn…
I can’t say I love to wash windows. It is work. And the efforts are never rewarded with longevity. You know it going in, this won’t be the last time. But when it hits you, wraps itself around you, nearly lifting with clarity and grace, as sure as a mother’s embrace, my heart says (with no apology for the pun), “aaaaah, I see….”
It wasn’t obvious. Nor was I looking. And I wasn’t supposed to. I only saw what a child needs to see. A root beer float.
There were no visible sharp edges to Grandma Elsie. She was round and approachable. She was the scoop (or two) of Schwan’s vanilla ice cream in her frequent afternoon root beer float. I can see it now — that it could have been more than just a sugar craving. It was simple. An easy decision with a consistent result. There were no maybes or what ifs to it. And didn’t she need that? In her world of uncertainty — all those kids (because even old they were) and grandkids tugging, and the farm, would it rain, would it sell, would he ever make the walk from field to kitchen — all umbrellaed under the certainty of a root beer float.
I never liked the combination. I always no-thank-you-ed out of it. Grabbing a pack of Sugar Babies, or a Black Cow from the Lazy Susan — a whole corner cupboard of my own certainty.
Without my knowlede or permission, I adopted the habit of giving myself an easy decision. Some days I can tackle a whole portrait, others, simply a tomato. Both victories. There is comfort in that. In a world of how could this possibly be, to simply hold something plump and round and sure is a gift. It is the soft edge of an afternoon scoop, the embrace of a grandmother’s plump and generous love that ever holds. Of this I’m certain.
I missed it the first time checking the mailbox. I went back and read the email. The carrier said it was “delivered to a secure location.” I went back down the driveway. Oh, there it is… I guess for some, delivered to a secure location is simply thrown out of a moving vehicle over the gate and into the bush.
We all have our own definitions.
I don’t know why I called it a bean. Maybe I couldn’t say blanket yet, and certainly not security. It wasn’t big. I’m sure it came with one of my dolls. It had the same smell of their heads, somewhere between plastic and baby powder, and while clutching to my chest, the scent directly went from nose to heart, and I was saved.
There was always a frantic search before leaving the house. I had to have my bean before entering the car that would traverse the gravel of Van Dyke Road. I’m not sure we gave a thought to seat belts, but my mom and I knew that that mini blanket, this would save me.
I suppose it happened naturally. One day it got left behind and I made the journey without it. Maybe it was at the bottom of the laundry. Possibly even in the driveway. Somehow, the security remained. Enough to get me past the railroad tracks, the freeway, the airport.
L’Occitane makes a hand cream with the exact scent. I buy it here in France. It’s funny, with just a smoothing on my hands, I smile. Oh, Bean. I am delivered to my secure location, and I am home.
It took a while to enter my palette. I grew up in a different shade of blue. The 10,000 lakes of Minnesota, while even different from each other, are not the same as the blue specific to Provence. And maybe it’s more a reflection of me, these blues… There was a wet-flung wildness to my lakes of youth. A daring. A “get past the buoys” kind of test. All part of the building of this confidence, I suppose, that it would take to embrace another blue, an unfamiliar, and call it my own.
I stuck to painting Americana when first arriving here in France. Oh, I snuck in a Sainte Victoire, or two, but I was careful, cautious. Would I, could I, be so bold as to say, not just that I see it too, but declare with heart and brush, this is how I see it.
And this blue, that powders between sky and sea, is in my heart now. No longer asking for knowledge or permission. It simply lives within and travels through to brush and canvas. With a heart as open as morning shutters, I greet the day, and call myself home.
It’s a variety of the beignet, but distinctive to the south of France. More importantly, they are simply delicious! As luck would have it, the best I’ve ever tasted come from the boulangerie nearest our home. I suppose I’ve eaten my share, knowing that when I enter the door, either of the two women working there shout out, “Des oriellettes!” And I must say, it only makes them more delicious!
It’s the equivalent of the coffee shop knowing your order. The butcher your cut of meat. The librarian knowing your last read. The person on the walking path waving with an “it’s great to see you again this morning.” We all want to be seen. And what a simple and glorious gift it is! Names and numbers, status and rank, not required. A little eye contact. A smile. It goes a long way.
Sure, the oriellettes are sweet. What keeps me coming back, what tells them to fill up that sachet, is a little glimpse that they see me, maybe even enjoy it, and I enjoy it too — nothing much sweeter than that! My heart begins to dance.
I gained balance pretty quickly on my two wheeler bike. It was the stability that I had to work on. Not the staying upright, but the finding my way home. Luckily, I had all the tools (maybe we always do). I had a wicker basket on the handlebars and enough possessions to fill it. A stuffed animal. A doll. A baseball glove. An oversized coloring book. Anything to leave a trail as I set out on my journey. The neighbors were used to the abandonings in empty lots and ditches, so I’m not sure they paid it any mind, this careful placement of goods — my direction home.
I moved the large painting of the girl with the bird in her hand. She’s the first thing I see when I enter the studio, telling me, I already have everything that I need, and just enough to wish for. She is the calm. She is the hope. She is the place from where I venture, and the place that welcomes me back. And isn’t that, I suppose, what home has always been, will always be. Still, it’s good to be reminded.
My heart basket is full. Today’s adventure begins.
I thought I must be surrounded by the smartest people in the world. Imagine my grandfather, farming, alone. How could he possibly? (And I also had every “W.”) Who tells you what to do? What is that for? Why do you get up so early? When is it finished? To everything he simply answered that he knew. And once I got my arms around the fact that he gathered in all the information, I was still surprised at his discipline. No one told him the hours to keep or to finish that job on that day. I asked him if he let it go until tomorrow, who would know? I would know, he said. I walked in the certainty of his overalls that shadowed a path to an open field.
I asked the same of my grandmother, as she placed the empty bag of toasted marshmallows on the counter to pay at Jerry’s Jack and Jill. Certainly there were no camera’s at Jerry’s. No one even paying attention. Who would know? I asked. I would know, she said. I started to see a pattern.
Without event or occasion, my mother dressed. Put on her make-up. Faced each day with the scrutiny of the unproperly lit bathroom mirror in our basement apartment on Jefferson Street. Even for a driveway toss of the frisbee on a quiet Sunday afternoon. You already know her answer to the question. But no one is going to see us, I said. She smiled behind her lipstick.
It’s an old table. Most would probably say unworthy of the effort. And I just saw the latest influencer praising the inexpensive IKEA table. And it crossed my mind. But it’s the only table I’ve ever had in my studio. So I began filling in the holes. Strengthening the right bottom foot. Sanding. Filling. Resanding. Painting. Sanding. Painting. I love it. Not many will see it. It will be overshadowed by displayed books and paintings. When I move them to do the work, it will be ready. It will feel the weight of wood and canvas. The pinch of clamps and the splattering of unintentional paint. And I will feel special, because I get to know. Not this arrogance of “Oh, I know!” — but it’s what I had been shown, had been living in — the privilege of getting to know, being involved in the truth of the experience. I got to know them… I had the joy, the work, the breathless chasing, the tender tears, the heart in lap resting love of knowing them.
I won’t photograph the table. But I will stand in its certainty.
