St. Patrick’s Day will always bring me back to Chicago. A green river flowing. Stumbling Irish of every nationality, fueled with beer of the same color and a hope for Spring, brave the cool March breezes that visitors often mistake for the wind of the “windy city”, kick dirty patches of left over sidewalk snow as if to rush along the promise of the warmth to come. Maybe it was easy to believe in the seasons, in each other, all draped in emerald, as if named from the Wizard of Oz. There was an assurance that we (a we that was all inclusive) would rise up. That the blue and yellow of this almost spring sky made us all one. Green. In the Emerald City.
Somehow the curtain always gets pulled back. The great reveal of the 18th. And everyone goes back to their own colors. But maybe we’re all a bit closer for the moment.
We can choose, you know. To be together. As one. Maybe it’s never been so “windy.” Maybe we’ve never had so much to brave. But couldn’t we? Shouldn’t we? Gather in the green of the day, and just be? Together?
To be clear, my mind often wandered and wondered. Maybe that’s why when the clues came, they did so in the brightest of reds to get my attention.
Standing on the wood gymnasium floor, not really feeling the need to disappear, after all, what was to notice? My no brand tennis shoes? My misshapen JCPenney gym uniform? My unsettled hair, still damp from the morning shower? And yet, when I wondered, as I mentioned I often did, whether I was lovable or not, whether the blurred red tailgate of my father’s truck had left forever, whether these boys, these near men in our combined gym class once a week, would imagine my hair blown dry and curled, my heels lifted off the ground, whether they could ask me on a date, and love me with no thought of trucks, or tire tracks or leaving of any kind — red was the answer that came racing for me, in the form of a big Cardinal on his gym sweats, holding a red leather ball to be hurled and smack the wonder out of my soon to be reddened face, with the answer NO.
I don’t know when I took back the color. Gave myself a new answer. But I did. It’s funny how the same place you can be lost, is exactly where you can be found.
Would I have done it, if I hadn’t seen my mother do the same? Place her red badge of courage on rubied lips behind her own YES? Behind the yes of worth and joy and love. I’ll never have to wonder about that.
I put out a little bowl of red candies in front of her Christmas photo. She stands in front of giant red-bowed lion and wrapped gift in front of the Art Institute in Chicago. And in this season, I am reminded the greatest gift of all, may be to simply start with yes.
Shopping Michigan Avenue, my mom and I wanted it to never end. We went in every store. Up and down. Miles and miles of Chicago’s “magnificent.”
We weren’t big Nike fans, but the store itself was gorgeous. We feigned affection. Running our fingers against t-shirts and track suits (long before leisure wear, that’s what we called them.) I don’t know who stopped first, but we stood in front of the poster and read. Words could always hold our attention. There was a woman running on a country road with these words, “There are clubs you can’t belong to, neighborhoods you can’t live in, schools you can’t get into, but the roads are always open.” We both smiled, and ran along beside her.
The places we traveled in that truth! I still do.
I’m still sometimes thrown by Mondays in France. Nothing is open. Yesterday morning, I told Dominique that we were out of treats. Before he finished asking, “Where would you like…” we both realized the Mondayness of the situation. By mid afternoon, I was able to travel to Chicago in order to find that my French kitchen was always open. Monday didn’t stand a chance against my molasses. I made the cookies, and may I say, they are magnificent.
I pride myself in finding a way. My mother saw to that. She’s still guiding me through Monday. Tuesday is here. Wide open! Let’s run!
If I were to play the percentages, the chances of me having a good dream are few and far between. And I remember all of them. The details especially clear in the early morning ones. Yet, 4:30am is too early for me to get up, so this morning, I dared the clarity and went back to sleep. This morning’s reward was worth beyond the years of risk.
In my dream —-
Dominique and I were visiting the Chicago Art Institute — one of my favorite places on this planet. The security was extra vigilant. Dominique was less patient than usual. He got through before me and was out of sight as I continued the struggle with my passport and the guard. Annoyed and alone, I climbed the large staircase to get a better view. Surely he hadn’t gotten far. I scanned the crowd. Nothing. No one. I turned to the sound of the elevator doors opening beside me. Every breath, every worry, every “every” left my body as I saw my mother standing there with Dominique. She wouldn’t have needed the balloons in her hand to complete the surprise, and she must have thought so too, because she released them instantly and grabbed me in her arms. I can feel her still. The same hug with skinned knees at five. The same hug on a Tuesday morning before a test at school. The same hug as boyfriends disappointed. As on weekend visits. As birthdays passed. As Christmases held. As springs promised. As love continued. Continues. I was held in the folds of her ruffled white blouse. And I was saved. The balloons kept rising. —-
Would I chance every bad dream for another moment. Of course. I do. I will. Because the love never dies. It lifts. It carries. And leads me. To books. To the page. To the canvas. To the path. To the living. To all the love around me, ballooned, and ever rising.
Perhaps my most equestrian act is pulling in the reigns of my excitement for the upcoming Christmas holiday.
I don’t take them off of my musical playlist, but for a good nine months, while painting in the studio, I skip through the Christmas songs. A few days ago, my hands covered in paint, (which is always the case so it’s not really an excuse), when Frank Sinatra declared he had in fact “heard the bells of Christmas Day,” I let it play to completion. Up on the horse, in full trot.
Visiting recently, she asked about the horse painting in the bedroom. She wasn’t sure if I was a rider. I explained my reason for painting it. She looked surprised when I began, “One of my favorite restaurants in Chicago was the RL — Ralph Lauren restaurant…” I continued the explanation. “All of the walls were covered in the warmth of these beautiful paintings and photographs. As I sat with my mom, pre-Christmas, sipping on a glass of wine after a full day of shopping on Michigan Avenue, the large horse on the wall watched over us, promising to keep the joy of Christmas alive for every year to come.” I suppose it sounds silly, but if you felt it, that warmth, if you were gathered in that love, that promise, I guarantee you would do the same — create anything to preserve it. That’s why I painted the horse.
I suppose that’s what art is, for me anyway, this preservation of warmth, love. And it’s not living in the past — I don’t want to go backwards. It’s more of a celebration. A celebration of a moment with my mother on Michigan Avenue. Or capturing the kids beachside, in a state of wonderment. Gathering in the freshness of laundry on the line — the promise of summer. Allowing the Christmas songs to remain in the playlist year round.
I guess it’s official, I have let loose the reigns. It’s time to feel it all! I walk out of the morning bedroom and proclaim — Let’s ride!
The announcer said, “Today on the podcast, Beth Stelling…” Suddenly my French feet were on a Chicago sidewalk, entering the coffee shop on the corner. I called her Bethy then. She was so young. Fresh faced and hopeful, even after spending half the night at a comedy club. She made my vanilla latte extra-hot like I liked it, like the Chicago winter demanded. We were all going to be something. Comedians. Writers. Artists. Actors. We sat in front of laptops and sketchbooks and scripts. I scratched out her portrait in charcoal. The men, uniformed in blue, on their fifteen minute break from the construction site across the street were plotting over their coffees. Just as it should have been, all dreams were being caffeinated.
It has been years since I held one of her flyers in my hand. Since I walked into the coffee shop the morning after it had been vandalized, just a hole where the door used to be, with a sign on the broken window that read, “Well, we’re open…” We always found a way to laugh. And here she was, on one of the best podcasts in the nation. I was so happy! Happy for her! Happy that she is doing so well! Bravo, Bethy! Beth!
I only mention it because it feels good to be happy for someone. To celebrate the joy of others. What if we all did that today? Whether we are talking about our candidates, our religion, our jobs, our families, towns, work…what if we found the joy, the pure joy in others, and in ourselves?!!! As the song says, “you may say I’m a dreamer…” and I am. Proudly. Still caffeinated with hope, with the possibility, that we all could be that something worth believing in! I tape the sign on my heart and mind, “Well, we’re open!”
He is probably best known for his golden colors. Brilliant yellows. Vibrant flowers and fields. This is Van Gogh. But yesterday, it was his simple drawing at the Chicago Art Institute that got into my heart more than most. Entitled the Christmas Prayer, it is an elderly man, with folded hands, giving thanks for what most would call “very little.” He writes to his brother, “I have a feeling of belief in something on high even if I don’t know exactly who or what will be there. I like what Victor Hugo said: religions pass, but God remains.”
There are lights all around us here. The city is decorated for Christmas. And I love it so much. Trees twinkling. Lions wreathed. Reds and greens. Goldens shining. But it’s not the real reason I love Chicago. I love it for the black and whiteness of it all. The strong shoulders of buildings that welcomed me long ago, when I needed it most. When I needed the strength and certainty of it, to become.
And so it is with people. There are some in bright and shiny colors who will take you to the party. And then there are some who will simply take you home. And sit beside you. In gratitude.
Perhaps we would all do well to remember it at this time, and throughout the coming year. To sit beside so little, and know we have everything — it is here where all the colors will remain.
The muted wave of the El train from behind the thick windows of the hotel sounds like the ocean.
I started coming to Chicago just after college. We were comped hotel rooms on Michigan Avenue from the magazine in which I placed ads. Of course I brought my mother. The magnificence of this mile was meant to be paired with hers. Shopping was our exercise and our entertainment. Everything was tried on — including this life where we could be anyone. I suppose that was the greatest gift of all. No past to lament. No dream left unspent.
When our three day excursions would come to an end, we would walk to Lake Michigan and release any lingering worry not left in the steps of the Magnificent Mile to the wave, return to our car and our lives, just a little lighter.
It’s hard to explain to those who don’t love it, to those who hear only the noise of the El train. But when you get past the rattle, into the wave, what a ride! And maybe it was easier for us…having survived the wrecking clatter of our lives — the noise and shake of uncertainty — this here, was beautiful. Lyrical. Musical. And oh, what a ride!
After losing my mother, I must admit that I can sometimes get caught up in the rattle of it all. But she wouldn’t want that. She was laughter and beauty and survival and grace. And so I hear it. The wave. The beautiful wave that tells me to enjoy it all.
The train keeps rolling. The waves are calling. I feel a little lighter. It’s time to ride. Magnificent!
We always made one last trip to the lake, my mom and I, after running along the Magnificent Mile for two days. In measured steps, we walked the quiet Sunday morningsidewalk. Past the water tower. The drowsy Drake hotel. Then under the street. Up to the beach. There it was. Lake Michigan. Always important. Never urgent. And we breathed. Offering thanks, with the slow reverence it deserved. Both of our wrists still marked by the weight of shopping bags, we held out our hands and waved, not goodbye, but in recognition.
Some days, I still try to urgent away the emotion. I could vacuum. And dust. Ironing needs to be done. And I could write lists of more things to do. But then there is the important. Calling. In waves. So I take out my sketchbook. My paints. Tape off a square. Imagine the calm. And with blued brush, I gently put it on the paper. And I feel it all. The tender of memory and time. I smile and breathe in the important, and watch the urgent roll on by.
We were in an elevator in Chicago. The Lenox House Suites. I was just out of college. My first job in advertising. The magazine I placed ads in had comped rooms at this hotel. Twice a year I would take my mother. We stayed for free. More than that, I suppose, we were free! Free to be whomever we wanted. Free from the knowledge of our pasts. Free from judgements or any “should-haves” or supposed-tos”. We were brand new. As new as the city after the great fire. (And we had lived through our own.)
The small elevator was filled with eager visitors — ready to hit Michigan Avenue. It was always slow, but this ride seemed a little more clunky. It lurched its way to the ground floor,and then fell about a foot or so lower. The doors opened. Everyone froze. Should we move? Were we safe? Murmurs of “someone should do something…” “should we call someone?” “someone needs to do something…”
I heard my mother say quite loudly and clearly, “Not me,” as she elbowed her way from the back of the elevator, clearing a path for her and me, and she hoisted herself above the gap, turned back for me, and we were off.
I suppose that’s what I love most about her. She decided. (Still does.) When her world was falling apart around her, she decided, “not me.” Just like Peggy Lee, she seemed to ask, “Is that all there is to a fire?” “Is that all there is????” We were dancing on Michigan Avenue before the others even left the elevator.
Today, I, we, hoist ourselves above the gap, and keep dancing…
