I never thought of gull being slang for gullible. Maybe in not knowing, that’s exactly what it makes me. But I see them, living free by the sea, and if that’s being fooled, it’s a pretty good trick.
We have so many words for it, naive, Pollyanna, but I’m still a believer. And I suppose sometimes, even my own brain thinks of my heart as a white and gray bird near water, and yet it comes along, footprinting in the sand, knowing somewhere in all that belief and misbelief, we will take flight. I guess I don’t know how to live any other way. I have brushed away piles of sand upon sand. And still. I have averted hands swatting in the air. And still. I squawk, when others seem to know the words to the song. And still, I believe.
Because isn’t all that blue, lit by yellow, grounded by sand, isn’t that for everyone? I think so. I still believe. I’ll see you up there.
Waiting to go through airport security, I wondered if I could keep my necklace on through the scan. As people separated their pads from their purses, I asked the attendant, “What do you think about the necklace?” He replied, “It’s a good style, you should wear it.” We can always find a way to laugh.
Armed with his unexpected humor, I must have looked like I had a little extra to give, so it wasn’t a surprise when the man at the gate asked if I would help the troubled young woman afraid to board. “Sure,” I smiled. She was crying, but I assured her I could help. The assistant who got her to the gate told her that “I would get her there.” “To Stockholm?” She asked. “I was thinking more your seat…”
Travel has its challenges for sure, a microcosm of living. But somehow we can find a way. To laugh, to smile, to help. It’s not just the getting there, but realizing, we get to be here!
I am tired, but accessorized, with both necklace and smile.
The first 7 hour time change means, for me, two blogs in twenty four hours. Arriving in Amsterdam, on no sleep, and one double espresso, it seems like a lot to ask of my brain, but as always, my heart starts typing.
Even the tulip stands are not open, so inspiration must come from within. (But then, doesn’t it always.) People have asked me through the years, “What inspires you?” There is always a pause because I’m laughing at the answer I want to say, knowing it isn’t the answer they want to hear – nothing and everything. I’m reminded of when I was gifted a fancy mixer. As I was unboxing it, my husband asked, “What does it make?” “It doesn’t make anything,” I replied, knowing that by itself, it really does nothing, but with it, I can make bread and cookies and cakes, everything! Nothing and everything. Just like with art. Just like with writing. Just like with life. We have to, not find the inspiration, but be it!
And so I type, without sleep or tulip, and the story arrives. Right on time. Waiting for the next flight home, I have everything.
There are the usual suspects — tulips, tulip bulbs, chocolates — but sitting in the Amsterdam airport, all I really want to find is a bit of my Grandma Elsie.
She could fall asleep anywhere. Anytime. She could take a nap mid-bake, and never burn the cookies. She could fall asleep while you were taking your turn at the card game or dice game on her kitchen table. Dreaming of becoming a UPS driver, or a girlish romance behind the Alexandria motel, while you strategized, only to wake up and beat you every time. In a chair. On a bus. In a car, (even once while driving us home from Jerry’s Jack and Jill, just after the sugar rush of toasted marshmallows) she could easily fall into complete slumber. While the coffee brewed. After drinking the coffee. During the commercials of Days of Our Lives. She slept. She had perfected the Power Nap before it was even called as such.
I always envied this ability to let go. This is something I don’t possess. To fall asleep on a plane, in an airport, seems unimaginable. But I am not in discomfort. I am not without rest. I am gathered in. I imagine the flowers on her apron. Were they tulips? Possibly. As I rest in the memory of her welcoming aproned belly, they are tulips. I smile. I have taken my Grandma to Amsterdam, not all dreams require sleep.
When I sent her a photo of me standing on the London Bridge, her first comment was, “Where did you get that jean jacket? The collar pops up so nicely!” London Bridge wasn’t “falling down,” but it didn’t sit high in my mother’s priorities.
Just as Wonder Woman gained the ability to fly using the power of her Lasso of Truth, my mother did the same with the pop of her collar. I saw the magic happen daily. As she finished getting ready for work, I began to get ready for school. Crossing mirrored paths, the last thing I saw her do was pop her collar. She went from an unsure 5’7″ to a confident 5’9″ and out the door she went. Crossing Jefferson Street, her feet never touched the ground.
It’s no surprise that as I flew into my own truth, I did the same. I DO the same. (When the golden lasso is passed on to you, it would be a shame not to use it.) Popping from state to state, country to country, I stand a little taller, not because my mother gave me a map, but because she gave me wings.
On the flight home, from Minneapolis to Paris, we were bumped up to First Class. It was glorious. Of course there was champagne. White table cloths. Bigger televisions. Warm towels. And that was nice, for sure, but really, and we both agreed, the glorious part was being able to lie down. To let out that sigh, that sigh of relief, that letting go of airport stress, lonesome hearts, and weary bodies. Not to be crushed or crammed, but to exhale and just be long.
It occurred to me as I was typing — to belong, is really just that — to be long. I consider myself blessed to have this. With my husband. My mother. And a few close friends. This ability to stretch out my heart, lying in complete comfort, complete rest, knowing it will be safe on this journey. There is nothing more luxurious than this.
So in the exhale of morning, I give thanks for these people — you who bump me to first class, every day.
(This is where the bell dings and we prepare for take-off. The sun shines “welcome aboard.”)
Had I known I was going to be running at full speed, I would have worn tighter underpants.
Yesterday’s adventure began in Marseille. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Checked our bags. Got yelled at by the girl at the coffee shop — “anglaise,” she said with disdain – meaning English. Sure I had a few tears, and then threw the coffee away after three sips because it took her 20 minutes to make two lattes and we had to get through customs.
But the flight to Paris was uneventful. We waited on the tarmac for 40 minutes. Dominique’s back is extremely broken at the moment – so we had reserved assistance to cross the airport for our connecting flight. 40 minutes of our 90 minute layover had already been used up. They would be boarding soon. The walkie-talkies were humming and finally we got the wheelchair and the woman took hold of it, looked back at me – as I felt the rush of her orange vest, I heard, “Run Mother F####r!” And she was off. Yes, in full sprint! I, wearing a dress, because I still refuse to wear what some dare to call lounge wear on the plane, grabbed a hold of my underpants with one hand, balanced my sack with my other and ran! And ran.
I caught my breath on stairs as she navigated the lifts. One bus and two shuttles later, we were on the flight, just as the captain announced a thirty minute delay.
In air, we wrestled with the usual subjects — movies we would never watch on land. I read most of a new book. We stretched. Laughed, replaying our airport run over and over. After landing, we realized no one had taken the time to yell the same encouragement at the baggage handlers — our bags were still in Paris.
But Minneapolis! This! Empty handed, full hearted, we were here – we ARE here. We stopped at Walgreens to pick up a few supplies for the night. Toothbrushes, etc. I got a little make-up – yes, my mother taught me well. Water. Hair brush. I was only hoping for one more thing that I couldn’t find. I asked the clerk in the aisle – “Do you have underpants?” She looked at me strangely. “Do I?” she asked. Realizing her hesitation – “No… the store – do you carry underpants?” Her relief was palpable. “Yes, in the back corner.” Exhausted, we were given, once again, the gift of laughter.
Home has never been perfect. But it has always welcomed me. It has always taken me by the heart and made me giggle. So yes, I will make that run – again and again! I will take that journey home!
I was more following it, than chasing it. Fluttering really. Doing my best to keep up. My grandfather didn’t really imagine that I could catch this butterfly, so his warning was light, but effective. “Don’t touch the wings,” he said. Me, still imagining my chubby legs were a match for these wings, questioned, “But why? They’re so pretty!’ He explained something about the powder rubbing off…they could lose their ability to fly. “You don’t want that to happen,” he said. Of course not. But just a bit of that desire remained. A bit of that doubt.
I didn’t have google at the time. Nothing to fact check. He had never lied to me. So I just kept fluttering.
When I reached school age, I learned more. The challenge of the caterpillar to “become.” It seemed unimaginable. Unbelievable! How did it survive — and not just survive, but turn into something so incredibly beautiful? I read it in books. Saw the images. But really? How could this be?
I counted the sleeping pills on my mother’s nightstand. She was so sad. I didn’t know how long a human could cocoon. Nobody taught me that.
But somehow, there would be proof in her wings. And I got to flutter beside her. And she beside me. Nothing more magical than that.
The fragile colors came to life in my sketchbook yesterday. Each with a hope and prayer that we could all be that gentle with one another. We could flutter, and flatter, and lift, and love. We could give each other the time needed to change. To grow. To become. We could give each other the chance to fly — just a smiling thought this morning, as I flutter by.
I painted a new bird this week. I love to paint birds. For me, one is completely different from the other (and I’ve painted a lot of them.) Some might ask, “Don’t you get tired of it, painting the birds?” To this I would reply, “No, do you get tired of feeling good?”
Because I do, feel good, when I paint them. I love how they are always looking. They were given wings, the chance to fly, and it doesn’t seem like they want to waste it. So playful in the sky. Stopping for brief moments on branches, then looking, knowing, the next flight awaits. The goal is not to finish, but to continuously become!
I’m launching a new website today. A new flight. It’s exciting! I feel perched, but ready to fly again. What a glorious feeling to become. To know my story isn’t finished yet.
If you are reading this, your story is just beginning as well. Today is the branch that will launch you into the sky. A sky filled with beginnings — if you dare to take them. And oh, I hope you take them! Please take them! I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, “One way or another, I am going to fly!” I’ll see you up there!
“It was so windy that day, I couldn’t stand up straight. It blew my hair this way and that way, and sucked the tears right out of my eyes. It was so windy that day, I tried to tell you I loved you, but you couldn’t hear me. Deaf to my cries, your ears heard a different calling. It was so windy that day. On hands and knees I crawled to your side. I reached up to you, begged you to hang on. I closed my eyes with visions of our hands joined, like they were before the storm. The wind shook my insides, leaving me hollow. I opened my eyes and you were gone. It was so windy that day.
What used to blow through me, now gives me wings.” Jodi Hills
I love to paint birds. Perhaps because the woman who raised me is one – a bird. A beautiful, delicate, resilient bird. And it seems so obvious to me, to represent strength in this form.
It has been so windy here for several days. And not just breezy, I mean wind. Stronger than Minnesota wind. Stronger than Chicago wind. WIND! Even the giant pine trees in our yard succumbed to the pressure of it all. We woke to find giant branches lying across the lawn. And these weren’t old brittle branches, these were strong, still dampened with the hold of youth, lying in defeat on the ground. But the birds are still singing. I hear them. Living through it all, these tiny little birds, still vibrant, still singing.
I guess it’s a choice, every day. You can fight the wind, like a branch, or ride the wind, like a bird. I know this song… it has called me for years, lifted me. I’m not afraid. I’m flying.
