I don’t know that one stick is more inspiring than the next, but then again, I don’t know that it isn’t. So I took great care in my choices, as I Magpied my way through the unexpected pile of discarded wood at the edge of the forest. Forever being in need of wood, this felt like a gift just for me. I wandered back home with my arms full. Smiling. Humming. Perhaps the song is correct, “His eye is on the sparrow…”
I suppose it is a bit like nesting, this building of a panel. Creating a home for the next painted creation. I dried the dew-dampened wood. Sanded. And sanded again. Measured. Cut. Glued. Nailed. Sanded, again, until this “nest” was ready for the life to be held. She doesn’t know yet, the woman coming to life in this painting. Maybe none of us do. We only wait for the final results. But there is so much beauty in the wonder. The wander. The time of being Sparrow.
I have to constantly remind myself. To not miss it. To not waste this day. The walk alone. The discovery. The hope in each discard path. The hum that carries us. It is all a part of this beautiful journey. Because it’s never just about the bird, but it’s always about the song.
I don’t remember not having a crayon in my hand. At least one in the pocket of my jeans purchased in Herberger’s basement. An unsharpened pencil (because why wouldn’t I use it?). Paints in the nightstand by my bed. Big Chief notebook pads everywhere. Coloring books stacked in the closet. Inside my book bag. Pencil cases from every theme park within Minnesota and Wisconsin. I suppose the scene was set from the start, in this my first act.
The famous writer Anton Chekhov said, “If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don’t put it there.”
I may never be famous. Nor rich (in the monetary sense). None of this has ever been the worry. But I fire my “pistol” daily. I write. I paint. I create something. Anything. Because I know what I’ve been given. I’ve always known the value. I have peeled the paper from every Crayola and used it to the end. I have sharpened the #2 until my fingers were at risk of getting caught in the sharpener that hung by each classroom of Washington Elementary. I fill the pages. Each canvas. It is my privilege. My duty. My responsibility. My joy.
Whatever it is that you’ve been given, use it. Fire the pistol. Play the piano. Weed the garden. Care for the children. Teach. Reach. Run. Use your gifts. There is a reason that they were put there, on your set, in your hands, within your heart.
I type the words for you this glorious morning. Read them with a bang!
It can be very humbling, an empty space. Sometimes even frightening.
When I first saw the empty cathedral, it took my breath away. It was the location for my first solo show in France. How could I ever fill it? Seemingly miles of endless space. The answer has always been the same. Whenever faced with a void, be it of heart or mind, I return to my story. Because from the hardest of days, to the best of days, this story I’m living, creating, day by day, has always led me to love. So I put it down on canvas and page, and I filled that cathedral.
It’s different every day — the spaces we’re offered (sometimes not even offered at all, but reached for, struggled for, chosen, claimed…). And it’s funny, possibly even ironic, but always true — I have to keep pouring out, in order to be filled. Sometimes it’s merely a tiny scrap of paper. (It’s rarely a cathedral.) I fingertip the tiny apple and it’s enough to complete my day, to keep me whole.
From time to time, I get mixed up. Seeing others as vessels that could never be filled. How could they need so much? Their never ending demands. Their “it’s just not good enough”s. I could never give them enough. It’s just too much. But in a moment of clarity I remember, that it’s not up to me. I give and forgive, not to fill their cathedral, but mine. And with a humbly stumbling heart, brimming whole and hopefuI, I, we, can do anything.
All papers are different. Some work better with water colors. Others, pencil. Acrylics. Pastels like it a little rough. If gessoed, you can use oil. I dance through all of them. Mixing. Matching. Stumbling. One working better than the other. Some not at all. But every once in a while, the color goes on so perfectly, so easily, so accepting of all my imperfect strokes. And the beautiful irony is, this doesn’t lock me in, but sets me free. It dares me to try. To move forward. To experiment. To attempt. To get better.
I had three such “papers” growing up. My grandfather. My grandmother. My mother. All so very different. One stable. One carefree. One dancing between. And when I came to each, of course I tested them as a child will test any paper. Will you love me if…? Each one did. No matter what I scribbled. They loved me.
Even with all this love. This undeniable proof, I’m not proud of the fact that I can still worry. But I learn the lesson, again, and for the first time, daily. In the midst of creation, I forget all of the what ifs, and get completely gathered in the what is — and what is it? — beautiful. Even on the roughest of days, I have to laugh and think, today, I’m a pastel.
Just writing the words, “worry less. create more.” — the curve of each letter carries the love that dares me to try.
It doesn’t come naturally to me. Not like painting. Or writing. I usually have to get out the manual each time I wind the bobbin. It always makes me laugh because it certainly isn’t written in my grandmother’s voice. After each instruction they are quick to warn that the rules must be followed explicitly or you could ruin the machine. With almost any direction, my grandma was more of a shrugging shoulder “oh, you’ll figure it out” kind of leader.
Not needing to sew every day, I follow the guidelines and the bobbin spins empty. Then I close the book, trace the thread, pump the pedal, tug at the bobbin, pulling it up just a centimeter or so, and it begins to collect thread. It just needed a little Elsie-ing. I smile at her picture that doesn’t guard the machine, but welcomes me, and I continue the conversation, making a much needed (if you know, you know) bed pillow out of an old mini-skirt.
I show you the picture of the pillow now. But what you really need to see is not in the image. More than a pillow, what I really needed yesterday was a break from a slight worry. It’s silly, I know, but I can get caught in a cycle of repeating thoughts that just gain momentum. I suppose we all can. But I know myself.
It was my grandfather who first told me to focus on something else. And my grandma, with never the luxury of needing something else to focus on, shrugged her shoulders in smiling agreement.
Tagged by them both yesterday, I stitched my way back into all the pleasant that surrounds me. The soft comfort of love that pillows me daily — that welcomes me home.
I don’t know that I was necessarily being so “good,” but that’s how it was interpreted. My grandma used to marvel — “I could just put you down, and that’s where you’d stay until I told you that you could move again — such a good kid!”
I remember her roll-top desk. She plopped me in the chair. I could just reach the handle. It made a little thwapping sound as I pushed it up and then back down. I thought it was the greatest thing, riding this wave, the greatest thing that is until I caught a glimpse of what was inside. Pens and paper and my favorite, the pencil. I loved pencils from the moment I discovered them. The smell of the lead. The feel between my chubby fingers. The newness. Everything was just waiting to be created. I don’t know how long I held the pencil before she noticed me, rubbing it between my fingers as if to will the genie from the bottle, but she wiped her dish soaked hands against her apron and reached the scrap paper from the top shelf.
Tiny squares of white. Some blank. Some with abandoned grocery lists. I covered them all. Scribbles and drawings and near words. I was in heaven. I could have stayed forever. Was I being good? I was being me.
It should come as no surprise, whenever visiting a museum or landmark, my go-to souvenir is the pencil. I have a favorite — from the Pierre Soulages museum. The weight. The feel. Perfection. I use it in my sketchbooks. But truth be told, I often just hold it in my hand for a moment. And on those days when the world, the day, decides to plop me in an unfamiliar place, I hold on. I take comfort in all of these hand-held possibilities, and I smile, because I find myself saying, “I’m good.”
I can’t tell you the exact thought that was stuck in my mind’s auto replay. Something ridiculous, I imagine — those thoughts usually are. I went into the pool. Usually with enough laps I can wash it away, or at least replace it with another. Albeit negative, this thought was fit and able to keep up with me, stroke by stroke. I said the number of laps louder in my head. Trying to count it away. Oh, but it was a good swimmer.
I could see Dominique from the corner of my goggled eye. He was moving the sprinklers. To water the grass along the pool is tricky, and sometimes he ends up sprinkling the pool. I could see the tiny drops splash beside me as I turned to make the next lap. Again. Again.
I suppose timing is everything. I flipped to make the next length. Stretching my arms to fingertips, my toes to tippy. It was then I felt it. Sprinkles of water covering the bottoms of my outstretched feet. Reflex brought me to underwater laughter. Sure, I have been tickled before, but never by water. I kept swimming, but my thoughts changed. Wondering if I had actually ever felt water falling on the bottoms of my feet before. Certainly not the rain. Nor the shower. No, this had to be the first time. What a delight, I thought. Such a strange and marvelous occurrence. Each lap that followed, I tried to recreate that perfect timing. I kept swimming toward the tickle. The spell had been broken.
It’s easy to get caught up in worry. I am not perfect. I know it will happen again. But each time, I know there is a way out. Even when I think I can’t find it, somehow it finds me. That, I suppose, is the beautiful magic of this living. And I want to feel it. Head to toe!
If you need me today, I’ll be out there, in search of the tickle.
Yesterday, after posting my daily blog, I learned something new about one of my friends. The news itself was not expected, but receiving news, getting information, learning with each story told, this is not unexpected. Because, I suppose, that’s what these posts are about — these words, an entry to discussion, a connection to others. Opening doors.
I think I’ve always been fascinated with doors. These symbols of coming and going. The ever changing aspects of life. The letting in. The letting go. The moving past. Moving on. The learning. The adventure launched. The welcome home. Open doors.
I hope with each word that I write, each stroke that I paint, you can feel the turn of the doorknob, hear the creak of the hinge, see the light of the new day, and make your way through. Finding a safe place to share your story, opening another door for someone else. Allowing the sweet breeze of life itself to pass on through.
“Let someone in. Let someone go. After you’ve seen it all, you won’t remember the windows and doors, but who passed through.” Jodi HIlls
Margaux got her first ipad. She’s only 11. Still a little lamb. She adores art. She fell in love with my ipad (middle aged when I got my first one). She loves to draw using the Procreate app. It’s a wonderful application to be sure. I use it. Millions do. And maybe this is where my hesitation comes from. The millions. The sheep.
I want for her to embrace all technology. All that the future holds. Progress is good. Yes. But there is so much more.
The pencil sharpeners we had in school hung at the front of the class at Washington Elementary. Right beside the door. Silver. Heavy duty. Bolted into the wall. The handle made for anxious little lamb arms to circle round and round with all their sweaty might – to achieve that fine point, fit for cursive writing, for cursive drawing. And it was something to go to the front of the class. To step away from the flock and make your own point. We didn’t have words for it then, but it was probably our first risk, our first chance, to bravely stand alone with our Number Two pencil, and prepare to create.
I’m thrilled that Margaux has an ipad. How lucky! But I’m still going to be the one to show her the open fields of paper, and pencils and paint. Of freshly cut wood. Sanded. Of gessoed canvas and stick drawings in the sand. Gently push her to the open door, with tools sharpened, mind and heart wide open. Cheering all the while, as this little lamb is on her way.
I found some scrap wood the other day to make a frame for my new cowboy painting. I found four lengths with hardly any to spare. I knew I couldn’t make any mistakes on the cuts. I slowed my brain down, (not an easy task), took a few breaths, sang a slow song, and cut the wood. Aaah, that smell. They fit together perfectly and gave my cowboys the home they were searching for in love’s west.
There were just a few pieces left from the ends. I cut the angles. Used my homemade square and pieced together another frame. It looked like it might fit the small painting of my two people walking together — “Would it be easier for you if I went with you?” Sometimes the sun and the universe smile together – it fit perfectly. All I needed was backing for it. I found a piece of wood from an old wine crate and cut it to fit the back of the frame. (We live in France — we have purchased a bit of wine :)). It all fit together, as if it were meant to be. And not only that, it had a personality, a life. The grains of the wood aligned with the vineyards, and the movement of my hands, to make a piece of art. Bon Vivant!
I used to go to New York every six months to sell my art. I would fill a pallet with my goods. Arriving at the show, they would bring the pallet, they store it for you during the show then bring it back when it was time to pack up. When they returned the pallet on this, my second show, it came back in pieces. It was connected by a wish and prayer. They laid it in a heap in front of my booth. There was nowhere to get a new pallet after 10pm on a Sunday evening in New York. And no one to ask for help. It was just me and my mom who had made the trip, not to pack, but her role clearly was to pray! I had to make this work. I pulled nails out of walls and tried to straighten them enough to hammer into the pallet. I used string and rope and tape and more tape. I stretch wrapped in circles until I could no longer see, and then just had to believe.
A week later it arrived in Minneapolis. In one piece. A tiny shipping miracle, or proof that, once again, we truly are given everything we need. Some days, it doesn’t seem like it. Some days seem like nothing will fit, and it’s just too hard. But during those times, I open these gifts of memory – the gifts of miraculous pallets, frames made from scraps of scraps, and I know I can make it through. I know there is beauty! I just have to look around. Pay attention. And believe. I have everything I need.
Knowing this, I have the strength to turn to you and ask, “Would it be easier for you if I went with you?”
