I saw the black and white feathers in the lawn. It’s funny how you can tell the difference between something let go, and something torn apart. While I don’t want anything to hurt our backyard birds, my first thought was, I hope it wasn’t another Magpie.
It’s ironic I suppose, the closer you are to someone, the less you see it coming.
But the resilience of the heart and brain. To keep trusting. To keep loving. It’s so beautiful. And isn’t it even more beautiful that I don’t think about it. That I have to be reminded of it, by feathers in the yard.
I walk through the vacation of our summer yard. Nearly bare of clothes and worry. The birds flutter and sing, and I know we all have it. This youth of spirit. To forgive. To barefoot again upon love’s green, beneath the chatter, the hope of the Magpie.
The small wicker and wood chair that we sit at to open the pool broke under Dominique the very day I was feeling close to doing the same. (Oh the world and its pressures.) For a moment I actually hated that chair. Instead, I decided to take the wood and make something with it. It was surprising, with only one cut on each side, the wooden frame turned out perfectly square. That almost never happens. And after stretching the canvas over it. Stapling it. I measured again. Still square. I could hardly believe how cooperative this wood was being, when just moments before, beside the pool, it was so unforgiving.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my hurt feelings disappeared as the woman came to life on the canvas. Nothing changed in the situation that for a moment I found so desperate. But I had something new to focus on. Somewhere to put my attention in the most positive way. And I suppose that’s what forgiveness really is. It took me years to learn it. And clearly I’m still learning it. It really isn’t about the other person at all. You’re not “letting them off the hook.” I think it’s about releasing yourself from the situation. I guess if there are any “hooks” at all, it’s the ones you release from yourself. And what a glorious feeling.
Today my heart is light and I have a new painting. (The bruise on Dominique’s backside is also fading.) Oh the world and its gifts!
If you’ve ever stood in front of a painting and felt “moved,” perhaps it’s the sweet passing of forgiveness. Let it flow through you. And lightly begin again.
Knowing that I haven’t missed a day of blogging in 837 days, it’s not lost on me, sitting within some hurt feelings, that I’m told to “just forget about it.” For better or worse, remembering is kind of my thing. But even as I type this, it does make me laugh, well, at least smile anyway.
And then I start to think about all the numbers. I know we were told that you are supposed to keep forgiving. Not just seven times, but seven times seventy. And for a minute my brain thinks “If I was hurt yesterday, and I still feel hurt today, then does that count for two?” Math is hard, but it does add up quickly. And I smile a little more.
The thing about feelings is they don’t show like a broken leg, or a sprained wrist. Most people don’t even know they hurt you. And the phrase I heard for the majority of my childhood from my older siblings repeats in my head, “Well, if you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.” Now I actually laugh.
I guess they all have to be healed from within. And we all have our own methods. Of working through. Of letting go. I begin by counting the words. Maybe the strokes. Perhaps the laps in the pool. And soon the numbers fade and I’m just in it. In the doing. The living. And I actually have to look up the numbers that are recorded in the blogging application to see how many days it has been. Because the number doesn’t really matter. I do it because I want to. I started for different reasons and now it has evolved into my living. I00 likes or 10, 800 days or one, it doesn’t really matter, this is how I live. I guess it’s the same with feelings. I’m not going to change because sometimes I get hurt. I am going to feel everything. It’s just the way I live. And that’s the real reward.
I’ll leave you with one last number. It’s going to be 109 degrees here today. Time for some countless laps in the pool. I feel better already.
Yesterday I was watching a short video on Youtube. I clicked on it because it was a beautiful, elderly woman, in her eighties, painting portraits. She was wearing a lovely scarf and skirt and smiling, with eyes and mouth. And it had the most interesting title – “All cats are black.” She had one of those voices that immediately drew you in. She began, “I’m just going to say it, I wanted to be beautiful…that’s all I wanted, there, I said it.” She went on to explain that she wanted to be beautiful because then she thought maybe her mother would love her. And, oh, how she wanted, needed to be loved. Just a mere baby, she was sent off to boarding school. On a visit home, still a baby, she was in the back seat of their car, driving home at night. She said to her mother, “I think I might look pretty in this light.” Her mother replied, “All cats are black at night, I suppose.” I will pause here to let you catch your breath. I know I needed to. What a horrible thing to say! My heart broke for her. Just a string of eight words. A string of eight words that slipped so easily off of her tongue. Slipped so easily off her tongue and (you might think I will say “broke her daughter’s heart) weighted on her daughter’s heart. I say weighted, because broke would be too simple. Broke means maybe you can fix it. Repair it. But weighted. Weighted is constant. A continuous burden. And she carried this burden for 65 years. A string of words for 65 years. Finally, through life, and living, and constantly searching for beauty, through painting portraits, she started to see it in others. See the beauty, even in herself. And she let it go. She let it go…. What a relief to save yourself. And she did. I suppose this is what first caught my eye – this was her beauty!
There are so many things I could say here. About how lucky I was to have a mother that always made me feel beautiful. Who still does. What a glorious gift. I could offer the warnings of how hurtful words can be. How we have to choose them so wisely. How easily we can hurt others. I could speak of the need to always be searching for and recognizing beauty in ourselves and others. I could speak of forgiveness, for that is really all forgiveness is, just letting go. Maybe it all comes down to weight. Each day a decision has to be made, perhaps moment after moment in each day, deciding to be the person who lifts, or the person who brings down. Wings or weights. As one who has seen the height and depth of each side, please, please let me be the wings, let us be the wings. Let’s choose to be kind, and fly!
“She learned to look at things more softly. And even when the gift wasn’t returned, she had received her own.”
It’s a funny thing – forgiveness. Maybe one of the hardest lessons to learn. And it’s not like a recipe from which you can get the same results every time. That would be too easy. No, forgiveness wants, needs, to be learned and relearned, over and over.
I used to think it was like a debt, you were letting someone else off the hook. And that felt so wrong. Like to forgive was to say it didn’t matter. But that’s not really it — partially though, the letting off the hook part is right — but it’s not the other person, it’s you. It’s releasing yourself. Giving yourself freedom from the hurt, the anger, the torture of reliving the situation.
But even in knowing this, it’s still hard though. Sometimes I find myself replaying a conversation in my head, oh, I should have said this! How could they have done that??? And everything tenses up – I can feel it. I can actually feel my face get harder. That can’t be pretty. And it takes a few beats before I think, what am I doing? What a waste of time. And I learn the lesson again.
Someone told me once, if you’re nervous, like going to the doctor for example, to wiggle your toes. I tried it during an exam, and it worked. For some reason, it’s hard to tense up when wiggling your toes. I could feel my cheeks get softer, and in the softness, I began to smile.
I didn’t have a story in mind when I started painting her portrait. But the softness in her face gave me the story, gave me the gift. The ease of her coming smile. That’s the grace I wanted, still want, every day. That was the gift. I pass by her face each day. I give thanks. (Maybe even wiggle.) And I let go. Softly.
