Last week we had the good fortune of revisiting the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. Located on theLeft Bank of the Seine, it houses the largest collection of Impressionist and post-Impressionistmasterpieces in the world. Painters include Claude Monet, Édouard Manet, Degas, Renoir, Cézanne, Seurat, Gauguin, and Van Gogh. It began as a railway station in 1898. By 1939, the short platforms became unsuitable for the newer, longer trains, and some considered it useless. There was even talk of tearing it down. But because of the vision of a select few, it was saved. And it is now one of the most beautiful and visited museums in the world. I suppose it’s always been human nature to give up. Supplied with life’s hammer, we have a decision to make, again and again. To build or destroy. Standing on the left bank once again, I know my decision is already made. The first thing I see each morning is this painting. The children by the sea. There is wonder. There is joy. This can never change. I put down my hammer, and pick up a brush. There is beauty to be made. Still.
Each year before the plant, my grandfather had to walk the fields and pick the rocks. A painstaking, back breaking task. I only walked along once. Dirty and exhausted, the streaks down my face could have been tears or sweat, most likely both. I marveled not only at the work, but how he did it, without complaint. “It has to be done,” was his only explanation. I wiped my face and knew something would grow from all of this, and it would be me.
Yesterday we visited du Palais Idéal du Facteur Cheval. In 1879, this 43 year old mailman, stumbled on a stone and it changed his life forever. It awakened the dream inside him, and he would devote the next 33 years of his life to building his palace, alone, stone by stone.
The details are breathtaking. Amazing. Poetry carved within. Inspired by the postcards and magazines he carried, he built this world, each day after his route. 10,000 Days, 93,000 Hours, 33 years of trials, he pushed his wheelbarrow full of stones and built a dream we still walk through today.
I’ve spent several years writing this blog. I used to keep track of the days. I suppose my face has even changed with the tear tracks and ones of laughter. Perhaps these words are my stones. But nothing feels heavy when lifted with joy. The sun rises and my heart and I wheelbarrow in the day. I don’t know what your dream is, but I do know this, to really live, it has to be done.
It seemed easy to make friends in school. They sat you next to about 30 options. Gave you subjects to talk about. Offered common enemies like rules and detention. Supplied the games and gyms. Put you in pools and on buses, all together.
And that was enough for most. But it seemed like there should be more. “Wasn’t there more to it? Wasn’t it all supposed to mean something?” I asked my best friend in my yellow bedroom on Van Dyke Road. Cindy thought about it. I mean, she didn’t laugh, but really thought about it, and I suppose that’s why we were friends. We understood each other. Even in our preteens, we sought more than they could possibly offer at Washington Elementary, or even Central Junior High.
We both agreed that there had to be more. But how did you get it? That was the bigger question. I searched for years. I can’t tell you the exact moment. They came in whispers. Small bits. I wrote words for my mother. And we connected deeply. A poem for my grandfather’s funeral. And I was a part of a family. I began to expose my heart. I suppose I stopped looking for what could be offered to me, and began to offer what I had. And it was bigger! Better! It meant something! It meant all and more than I had dreamed of in shades of yellow. This is how I would connect. How I still connect.
He said I could pick out anything from his wood pile. Maybe that doesn’t sound like much, but for me it was priceless. A way for us to connect. And I had a long way to travel to catch up to this life-long friend of my husband. He helped me load the back of our car.
I cut the first strips of wood to stretch the canvas. No plans yet of what to paint, that would come. It always does if I just give it a path. I gessoed the canvas. And began in blue. The sea and sky and sand opened before me. The boats and nets and the fishermen — all daring greatly.
I searched my newly attained wood pile for the longest, straightest pieces. Sanded each length. And sanded again. And again. I cut them to length. Nailed them with the rusted hammer — once belonging to my husband’s father. Squared. Stained. Sanded again. Cut the strips for the backing. Placed the painting inside. It should also be mentioned that Michel, the man who let me pick freely from his pile of wood, was, for the majority of his life, a fisherman. A fisherman, I pause and smile. The blank canvas knew, perhaps even before I did. And this is how we connect. Connect our hearts. Our stories. By doing the work.
There is more. There is always more. But it won’t be given. We will have to search and throw our nets out to sea, continuously doing the work, ever daring greatly.
