I can reach it through the tree line when I’m mowing the lawn, this portal to my childhood years. Pushing up, pulling back and pushing up again, I saw it — the outline, the invitation, of a small chair. I idled the lawnmower to peek through the leaves. There was a tiny table. Two abandoned plastic cups from the most recent party. One of the attendees, a small stuffed bear, obviously warn out from the festivities, was taking a nap in the shade of the table. Without unhandling the mower, my heart maneuvered through the thistled brush, and I, in my white flowered dress from my sixth birthday, sidled up to the table. Everyone came. All of my dolls and stuffed animals. My mom with her extra-frosting cake sat beside me. We clinked tiny cups of water disguised as tea and we spoke in the language of Alice, and danced behind the looking glass. Fueled by youth and love and the belief in all things possible, I finished cutting the grass.
I bake her cookies, the little neighbor girl. In exchange, I suppose, unknowingly perhaps, she keeps the door open.
I have raved through the years about my banana seat bike — the flowers on the seat and basket that could have been delivered from the “Laugh In” set by Goldie Hawn herself. The brightest of pinks, yellows and blues that brightened the gray transition of the end of March, when I received it for my birthday. But I didn’t get there directly from my red tricycle. There was another bike. In between. It looked almost homemade. Perhaps it had been Frankensteined from neighborhood parts gathered in the back shed. It was gray and white. The pedals almost worn down to the stub. It only blurred into the gravel that I was learning upon. Dropped and abandoned in ditches, it still was the one that took me to the brightened glory of the banana seat.
And just as forgettable, I suppose, was the three speed black bike from Sears that in-betweened my banana seat and my electric blue 10-speed. And didn’t I park that bike in the furthest rack away from the playground at Washington Elementary? Not quite ashamed, but close enough that it pangs my heart still.
Maybe it takes awhile to see the value of the things that get us through. It’s easy to celebrate the milestones and forget the random Sundays. Our city is mostly shut down today because of an Iron Man competition. I can lose these hours pedaling feverishly toward Monday, or I can choose to enjoy them as the gift given. I hope I do. I’m going to try. These are the words I’m learning upon.
I recently learned that when birds sleep in a row, the two on the outer edges keep one eye open to protect and allow those on the inside to fall asleep. It doesn’t surprise me, I have rested within that protective watch.
There is a big scientific name for it, which I’ve already forgotten, this act of being able to keep “one eye open” while being in a half sleep — we’ve always just called that “pulling an Elsie.” She had to have been doing the same thing — birding her way through every card and dice game played on her kitchen table. Able to sleep while we pondered over our next move, then waking at the exact moment to handily beat us with chirping joy! And I saw her do it everywhere. In the funeral home where she phone-sat. At the grocery store check-out line (she did indeed check out). Even once in the car. But I was never worried. The speed at which she could belly-jiggle herself awake allowed all of us to rest, to play, to run in a carefree summer, to sleep soundly under her watch.
I suppose you could just rule it all as nature. But I know not everyone was blessed with a Grandma Elsie. So I give thanks. And make my way to the outer edges.
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!!!
