There’s not a lot of glory in the underpainting, but without it, there really is nothing. Time must be spent to prepare the canvas or panel. Gessoing. Sanding. Long before you get to the “garden.” And oh, how eager I am to jump to the flowers. But I take my time. I paint the shadow of black (one can’t go back later and expect to paint it in). Then the layering of stems and leaves. Creating depth. Perspective (that so often elusive perspective). Once I have put in the time, only then can I delight in the flowers. And having spent the time, oh what a delight they are!!!!! As if they bloom just for me.
It’s hard to remember this in the daily rush of things. The furious speed to get over, get beyond, to get through. But when I’m lucky, (which simply means when I’m paying attention), it’s my hands that remind my heart that tell my brain, “It’s only underpainting…the flowers are yet to come!”
I know the furious speed at which you are trying to get over and around. I have traveled that wind and hung on for dear life. But the dear life I found came only in the quiet slowing down. The letting go. No longer rushing to get past, but easing my way through. And the peace. Smiled. Knowing it had always been there, as I whirled. Peace, sitting quietly next to joy, and hope, and OK now. There, there.
My mother was struggling with the row of marigolds she had planted to line our driveway on Van Dyke Road. Water more? Water less? She wasn’t sure. She stood puzzled, garden hose in hand. I stood beside her, confident with the answer, my banana seat bike balanced between my legs.
“You just have to pray more,” I said.
“What?”
“Like Mrs. Musik,” I replied.
Mrs. Musik had the most coveted lawn and garden on Van Dyke Road. The grass emerald green. Each blade the same height. Row after row of beautiful flowers. Every color. One brighter than the next. All at attention. Pushing toward the sky. We weren’t allowed on it. The free-for-all of running across lawns and driveways and through screen doors didn’t apply here. But this prohibition didn’t make it any less beautiful. I often pushed the break pedal of my bike, slowing down, sometimes even stopping, just to watch her, bent over, kneeling in front of the flower bed, hands reaching out, covered in dirt.
“What makes you think she is praying?” My mother asked.
“Because I’ve seen her,” I said and described her on bent knee.
“I think she’s weeding.”
“What’s that?”
“You know, she’s taking out the weeds. Getting through all the bad stuff, so the good things can grow.”
Neither of us quite sure of which word we were describing, I guess I still hold it as my definition. Releasing the bad thoughts, making room for the good things to grow. I garden daily through the negativity of my heart and brain, making room for the bloom. You can call it whatever you like, I suppose, but I know when my hands are dirty and my heart is clean, something good will come of it. Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.
They stand ready in the garden at the bottom of the hill, these two mannequins clothed in silk dresses. Had she been a gardener, my mother would have done the same. No scarecrows for her. And maybe she did have a hand in it. They were never there before. I have walked past this garden for years. It would be easy to explain away the magic. New tenants perhaps, but I prefer my own explanation — both my mother and mother-in-law passed within a year’s time — now, together, they are dressed to the nines in the ease and rest of the bottom of the hill.
You can say it’s foolish to believe such things, but don’t tell my legs. Each day when I see them, the ease and strength that springs me back up that hill can’t be denied. And that’s what I choose to believe in. Maybe that’s what we all choose to believe in — whatever gets us back up the hill.
I have a tiny mannequin behind my desk. I bought it years ago and gave it to my mom as a symbol of the strength she gave to me. Whatever she was going through, she got up, got dressed (beautifully) and faced the day. Who am I not to do the same? Sure I stumble. I get wet, and muddy, and tired, and scraped in life’s bloom, but then I see the signs, I see them, and I am welcomed to the garden.
We have a lovely bed of roses at our front door. When in bloom they are, of course, spectacular. My husband takes good care of them. Weeding. Watering. Pruning. Getting rid of the pests. And in return they reward us in sight and scent.
I only mention it because each year in the pre-spring, as the roses lay dormant, something else happens (I would argue just as beautiful, maybe more.) Without our knowledge or permission, without our planting or care, a bouquet of wild tulips pops through the earth in the corner of this sleeping bed. So confident. So strong. They have the audacity to bloom orange at half the height of their soon to be red-headed neighborhood. Seemingly without comparison or worry, they open each morning to the sun.
It’s easy to envy the roses of this world. But I think for me, I am more than happy being a wild tulip. If I can wake each morning, petals to the sky, grateful for what I have, and bloom, bloom without need of praise or vase, bloom merely in hopes of gathering up the sun, then my life will be so much more than a bed of roses — my life will be — is — beautiful!
If you’ve been a follower, it probably won’t alarm you to hear that we moved Uncle Wally into the back yard. (Uncle Wally is our baby Walnut tree who is not such a baby any more.) It’s not surprising how easily and quickly he outgrew his space by the front door. But we were more than a little amazed at the strength and depth of his roots.
On hands and knees we dug for three days. The impressive tangles crept deeper and deeper. Impossible to just pull. So this is how he did it. Does it. Stands against the Mistral (the winds of provence).
There are times in life when we are asked to do the same. Forced to dig to the very depths of our soul and hang on. And it’s hard and it’s messy, but when you find it, when you get to the roots of your very heart and soul, and see how strong they really are…it’s then you stand a little taller. A little stronger. It’s then you have the strength to not only withstand the wind, but provide a stable force for someone else. Someone still fresh in the dig.
We can do this for ourselves. For each other. I think we’re meant to. Grab hold. Dig deep. It’s nature at its finest.
I found out yesterday that I have been gardening since the age of five.
I certainly never wanted to get my hands dirty. Some of the neighbor girls made mud pies — the thought of it…. no! I constantly checked to see if the outdoor hose was working, just in case.
My grandmother made real pies, but still, her hands… deep in the garden, she pulled and cut the rhubarb. You could see it from the dining room window. And I was fascinated that the day before, or even that very morning, it was in the ground, and now, here it sat, round and steaming, crusted, on the table.
I was asked the other day at what age I started to write, to paint. 5 years old. Did you share it? she asked. Oh, yes! With my mother. I would come out of my bedroom, arms straight out – holding it like the steaming pie I imagined it to be, and presented it. Words and paintings, I thought, were meant to be devoured.
Mid-feast in my newest read, “Our Missing Hearts,” by Celeste Ng, I read that the word “author” means to bring to life, to grow. Like a gardener, I thought.
She asked me if there were other writers, artists, in the family. No, I said, but there were gardeners, farmers — people with hands and hearts, dirtied by life’s abundance of heartache, challenge and joy. Teaching, inspiring, giving everything, with arms reaching straight out — the authors of living.
Each day, ready or not, we will be asked to grow, to give. The sun comes up, and says, “Welcome to the garden!”
The yard will need a lot of work when we get home. Living in an apartment for years, I never really knew what it took to keep up a yard, a garden. There is digging and moving and poking and nourishing and raking and watering, and mowing. It takes sweat and time and faith. And then it’s calm. The peace of the green grass under a blue sky. Serenaded by the birds. Calm. Home.
I suppose that’s what we all want. I thought that’s what we all wanted. Peace. And yet, here we are again — war. As if we’ve learned nothing. And I’m at a loss for what to write. What to paint. Does it make a difference? Does it make a difference if we post the pictures of those suffering, scared, fleeing? And it’s so easy to say “look how wrong they are” and then fight with our neighbors about masks and politics. We have to do better. We know better – don’t we? Please, let us know better.
Spring is on the way. A most glorious time of year. Beauty at every turn. But it expects things from us. It expects us to participate in all this glory. We have to participate. Be sowers of green. Of peace. We have to do the work. With our hands and our hearts. And we can’t give up. We know after each winter, there will be work to be done. And so it is with peace — constant work to be done. I don’t have the answers, but I have hope, and hands and a heart, and I’m going to keep trying. For calm. For home. For us. For all. Peace.
