Working between two screens, sometimes my cursor gets stuck in the opposite one that I want. (Like my brain doesn’t do that all the time.)
It’s so easy to think, “Well, I always did it this way…” Whether I’m talking about different countries, different languages, loves, relationships, even my hairdresser. And I catch myself swiping madly on the wrong screen.
Change is never easy. Neither growth. But both are so necessary. And it doesn’t mean you have to give up everything in the letting go, the moving on…You keep the lightest of things, like joy and hope and love — none of these will ever weigh you down.
Too often I’m unaware. It’s barely more than air, the little birdie that tells me things. But when I’m paying attention, really paying attention, all the truths that move between who I am and who I want to be, chirp seamlessly between my heart and my brain, and I am saved.
To be so filled with life that it has to flush from your very pores. Cheeks ruddy and ever ready. I suppose we all think it will last forever — sure that our feet will keep the deal that youth has made. But maybe it’s the heart that takes over. (Or maybe it led all along.) Maybe it’s the heart that drags us from spring’s mud into summer’s bliss. Maybe it’s the heart that races through grass’s morning dew again and again, and lifts us up from green knees when we fall, ever promising to keep our cheeks flushed through autumn. Through winter.
Every time I paint a face, I feel the colors in my own, flowing through my hands. And the corners of my mouth rise up, smiling, so happy to be a part of youth’s reddening still.
What will you do today, to remain in the race of summer?
It was one of the greatest mysteries to me, the perfection of the rows in the fields. I knew nothing about farming, nor even driving, when I asked my grandpa how he did it. “I just see them,” he said. “But how do you not run over it all when you turn the corner? Or get out of line when you take a sip of coffee from the thermos between your feet?” “I know where I am, and I know where I need to be. It makes it very clear.” “That’s a lot to see,” I said, still not certain that I would be able to do it. “Will I be able to do it?” “This, probably not, but you’ll see what you need to see.” “How will I know?” He got on the tractor, and showed me.
I don’t know the exact moment it happened. How I found my row. My place. But I did. It all became so clear on the page and on the canvas. People ask me all the time — How do make them so real? How do you bring them to life? The truth is, I just see them. And it is my hope, that they see what I see, and others too… then they will know they are beautiful. That’s why I paint the portraits.
I can’t tell you how it happens. So I simply hop on my daily tractor, and write and paint, and I know, somehow, we’ll all find our way.
In Rome we rode a white Vespa. I thought it was so romantic. Until the cobblestones. And even with that bumpy knowledge, only the romance remains.
I don’t know who’s in charge, but I’m sure they work together, the heart and the brain. Because it’s the same with the gravel road I grew up on. All those pebbles in knees. All that elbowed skin left behind. The ever present rock in shoe. And still, what I carry is the freedom of the breeze. The lifting from the neighborhood. The launch on foot and bicycle from all that gravel.
Maybe once again I’m just romancing the stone. So maybe my heart is in charge after all, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. If it were different, I’m not certain I’d walk the steep gravel each day here in France. And oh, I’ve fallen here too. I have the additional scars to prove it. But my heart’s memory is so strong — remember the view it says, the two foxes yesterday, the flowers, the birds, the butterflies and sweet jasmine’s scent. The repeat of freedom’s breeze gives youth to my legs and they scoot as if the mountains were Van Dyke Road. And I am without worry. Without time.
If I have any advice at all, whatever challenge or opportunity lies ahead, by whatever name it is called, ride the Vespa.
Van Dyke Road separated the two worlds. It was so magical how far crossing one small stretch of gravel could take me. The back of our house faced a sea of grain — Hugo’s field. And in a way, it was like swimming, running through the stalks at full chubby- legged-speed, arms stretched to each side, creating a golden wave. Across the road though, behind Weiss’s house, was a lake. Not a big one. Nor a clean one, of the 10,000 our state touted. We didn’t swim in it. So what was the allure? It had to be the dock.
Florence and Alvin had a big yard. Bonnie, the daughter, was so much older, that to me, she was just another adult. So there were no arms of youth waving me over to play. I would sneak along the shrub line. Roll down the manicured slope to the lake’s edge. I could hear the dock before I saw it. The wave rocked wood cracking gently. I took off one bumper tennis shoe and placed my lavender-white toes on the sun warmed plank. It was extraordinary. I have no memory of being a shoeless baby, but I imagine at some point some uncle or boisterous neighbor blew their warm breath on my rounded feet, and I knew, standing there, barefoot on Weiss’s dock, this must be exactly how it felt. I giggled like that infant and took off my other shoe.
I braved each crack to the end. My body craved what my feet already had, so I lay down and let it gather in my arms, legs and back. My fingers danced at my side in the tiny puddles of cool water that gathered in the wood’s unevenness. I don’t know if I saw all the beauty of these imperfections, but I’d like to think I did.
Who knows how long I stayed. Summer afternoons felt eternal. I guess in a way, they are. I can still rest in that warmth.
I have written so many times about swimming – in actual lakes. Lake Latoka was only a bike ride away. But just out my door, front and back, oh, how my heart and imagination swam. Daily. And maybe that’s what home is after all…this ability to dream in the comfort of shore.
I see them from time to time on social media. I experience them daily, out my front door.
They are seeking new talent, these establishments with their “open calls.” Looking for dancers and artists, comedians, performers of all kinds. It is an opportunity for so-called unknowns to have a chance. A chance to become. Be something. Someone!
I suppose, in something of this very chance, I was scrolling by one this morning on Instagram. It was an open call to be an artist in residence in the south of France. Be inspired, they said, by all this beautiful country had to offer. The history of artists before. The museums. The opportunity was priceless. I had to laugh as I saw the location. There was no need to audition. I was already here.
As humans, we are quick to play the “if only” game. If only I were here, if only I had this, or was able to do this, or given something, or offered that… When actually the real opportunity lies just outside the opening of our front door. For years, in my mind and heart, I have labeled it my open call — the birds singing in the trees as I begin my walk each morning. Maybe that’s why I love to draw them, to paint them. They remind me to not wait for happiness, but open myself to it, daily. The birds in Aix en provence, and all around the world, are not auditioning, they simply sing. Who am I not to join in?
As I fill my new sketchbook page I don’t listen for the cheer of the audience, I’m already called within, wrapped in the opportunity of the bird song.
Maybe everyone who saw the otters that morning went home and played Wordle and thought that it was made just for them, but it still made me feel special. Imagine that, a little word like “otter” could make me feel a part of this big, magical world! It made my heart spin just like the seemingly Disney characters right there in the water.
The thing is, we never know what will connect us. I wrote it so long ago, but it holds true, and I try to remind myself daily — “If I’m not happy in this time, in this place, I’m not paying attention.” And when you start to see things, it becomes, well, easier to see things. Easier to point them out. I had a teacher tell me once, it can be as simple as changing the article. From “the” to “a”. Here’s an example: If I were to say, “I was wandering down the road,” – that sounds pretty ordinary, “the” road makes it sound like I travel it every day. Now, if I were to change that to “I was wandering down a road,” — oh, the mystery that arises! Which road is this? What could happen next?!
And isn’t that just like life? It’s always the small changes, I suppose — the little observations, the different perspectives, that can give us a whole new view. I suppose the cynic would call my otter to otter experience, simply a random force of nature. I’m sure they could evaluate the statistics. Show me the graph. I don’t care. For me, it was magic. I will always choose the joyful splash of magic!
It’s a new day! I’m going to wander down a road!!!
There were “grab bags” at the counter of the antique store yesterday. Of course Grandma Elsie would have bought one. Or perhaps she had them placed there from heaven, simply to answer my question, “I wonder if Grandma had ever been here?”
I don’t know where she got it from. I never knew her parents. But she had it as long as I knew her, this feeling of possibility. She was, as she often said, “so close to winning!” No mail-in sweepstake went unanswered. No “Crazy Days” was ever missed. Ben Franklin and Woolworth’s always had the grab-bags. She bought one for herself, and one for me, even when I said, “Oh, you don’t have to, Grandma,” (just as I did, when she offered to make me a root-beer float) — but either way, before I knew it, there was a paper sack of dime store leftovers in my hand and a root-beer float melting on the kitchen table.
I suppose that’s where I get it from — this believing that my next painting will be the best. Hoping my next story will be a grab bag of words that no one can put down. And why, when traveling through the smallest town in Arizona, stopping only for a bathroom break, I am lured to a counter in an antique store lined with grab bags and I believe it is a sign from my Grandma Elsie. Even in this place, so far from anywhere, I am so close to winning!
I was a little about halfway through my workout when she came in and got on the treadmill. For thirty nine minutes more, I climbed the imagined hill of the eliptical machine. I hopped off to grab the spray cleaner and a towel to wipe down the machine. In my mid step she said, “You know my brother lives in Dallas.”
There it was! The nugget I wait for each trip. We always get at least one. People are delightful! I imagined her putting the words in her “holster”…just waiting for me to pass by. She was not going to miss her chance. I like to think of the words brewing as she took each step.
And me, I wasn’t going to miss the chance either. “Dallas, you say…”
“And they have more snow than we do.” And we were off. Mid conversation. No warmups. Two humans. Let’s go! “We don’t have much here,” I said, as I cleaned up my station. “And his neighbor, only a few miles away doesn’t have any.” “The world is upside down,” I returned. I let her talk about that brother, those snow-full and snow-less neighbors, for 10 minutes. The only rush I felt was wanting to get back to the condo to tell Dominque of our new treasure — our new opening line — “You know my brother lives in Dallas.” I’m still smiling.
What are we here for, if not to engage with those around us? And why wouldn’t we begin mid conversation… with everyone. We are all humans on this planet. People will still vote for someone you don’t like. Fires will rage. Snow storms will never last beyond spring. And this moment will pass in a blink, so I encourage myself, you, to always jump in. It’s what we learned isn’t it? On the school playground? No matter who was swinging that rope, no matter what song they were singing along to the swing, we jumped in. I want to be that little girl, armed with joy, and ever jumping in.
There was her story– just right in front of her– and this time, she wasn’t going to miss it.
I have to admit, (physically and metaphorically) I’m shooting most of my photos in the wind. As I walk along the gravel path, the wildflowers seem to pop up, blooming as proof that it can be done, even in the strongest of winds that race directions through the hills. Some barely petaled, they still have the audacity of hopeful beauty, and I think, if I could just catch them mid sway, it would be like capturing the wind…and if I did, in fact, capture that wind, it would find its way into my heart, spreading limb to limb, and even against all forces of the natural and unnatural, I too, would dance.
So even as the sun blinds the screen of my phone, I point and shoot, not knowing until much later what will appear. Looking at yesterday’s photos from the comfort of home, I have to swivel in my chair. I smile at the blurred backgrounds — the forgotten hardships — and see the dancing petals. So fragile. So strong. So beautiful. And I smile, knowing today, it just might be me, who flowers in all of this wild. Me, barely petaled, who dances in the wind.
