For years, I thought that the Horton family from Days of our Lives lived exclusively in the large television cabinet in my grandparent’s living room. It was the only place I saw them. Grandma Elsie seemed to know them intimately, calling each by name. Wrapped in the coil cord, talking about them on the party telephone line for hours while cooking in the kitchen. And why wouldn’t it be possible? There were countless people who dropped by that farm house. Sat at the table. I thought we were all related. I didn’t differentiate between blood connections, neighbors and soap opera characters. Often stories of real happenings were more extravagant than those taking place in Horton’s Salem.
When we gathered for Christmas, there were the usual suspects — all the cousins I summered with in golden fields — but I found the additions the most interesting. Ruby, married to Mac who secretly worked in the CIA, (but then how did we know?). Several Loies. Aunt Kay’s newest husband. Did they all live in the television too? And how did they get here? Certainly there was magic in the air. All under the glow of large multi-color bulbs on the Christmas tree. Sure there were packages, ribbons, bows, but so much more was being opened. Arms and stories and magic.
I guess they are still my favorite gifts — love’s surprises that show up and are ever welcomed home. Finding me still, a lifetime and country away. The magic, if we truly believe, never ends.
Coming out of the restaurant she told me, “I love your hair! You look so sassy and smart!” The thank yous were still tumbling from my smile when she said, “But I guess that comes from the inside, doesn’t it..” My heart was smiling too.
Now, I consider myself pretty good at giving compliments, but this was something! She took “beautiful inside and out” to a whole new level. And she seemed as happy as I was, to give it. Bravo to the lady outside Martina’s Restaurant.
My mother was the first to teach me how to give a compliment. (And just by being herself, she gave me ample reason to want to.) She also taught me how to receive it, as the gift that is given.
It’s curious, we wouldn’t do it with a regular gift, refuse a birthday present let’s say. We wouldn’t put our hands out and say No! So why do so many do it with a compliment? “Oh no, not me,” or “not this old thing,” they’ll say, while backing themselves away. When really, thank you, is all that is needed. That is the reciprocal gift.
I’m still receiving this offering in the morning mirror. (Never underestimate the power of a compliment.) And I think the bar has been raised. So I challenge myself. I challenge you. Today, let’s give the compliments freely. (Even to ourselves.) And accept them with joy — so much joy that we have to bundle it and give it away again. Would that make us sassy? I don’t know, but it would make us smart!
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!
We weren’t milk drinkers, so when it came to setting a treat for Santa, my mom simply put out a plate of Oreo cookies. “Won’t he be thirsty,” I asked, eating the cream out of the middle of one. “You’re right,” she said and went to fridge and grabbed a 16 ounce glass bottle of Tab.
I suppose our heroes are always formed from within. We offer love and respect in the best way we can. And when we get it right, it’s amazing. But it’s not a guarantee that it will work for everyone. People are so different. And complicated. And the gifts we have to give, might not hit the spot. What you bring today, even with the best intentions, may be as well received as Tab and Oreos. But it’s not a reason to quit. Love, with all of its faults and misgivings, is malleable (if we allow it). And if we can see the love in the trying, in the mere setting out of gifts, as crazy as some of them may seem, then I think we’ll be OK.
My friends brought with them a bag of Jelly Beans this autumn. We don’t have them in France, so it was something special. Am I a Jelly Bean lover because of my mother?Probably. The reds were her favorite. And mine too.
Still a believer, I begin decorating for Christmas. But there’s really only one visit I’m longing for. I place the tiny bowl of red Jelly Beans in front of her picture. She knew how to love me. She’s the reason I keep on offering to everyone else.
There was a gift wrapping room in our last hotel. Everything but the presents themselves. Expensive colored papers and ribboned bows. Scotch tape. Scissors sharpened new. Candies — chocolated and caned. I wrapped our purchases while the carols played. Tagged each one by name.
I suppose that’s always been the most important part — the tagging. At first, as a child, it was to see your name on top. The “to.” Oh how glorious to be beside the “to.” What would I get? What could I claim? It seemed to be everything. I would have never imagined it differently. And I can’t tell you the exact date it happened, or even the time of year. But it did change. Without my knowledge or permission, it became glorious to see (feel) my name on the “from.” To be the giver. Just a simple tag, but oh, the power it held.
It’s always been love, I guess. On both sides of the tag.
It was no where near Christmas when I found them – this bundled string of tags. Weathered through years of neglect, I pulled them from a forgotten corner of my studio. I have no idea what the previous owners were going to give, but surely it had something to do with love, so I saved them. In the summer sun, I dusted them off, and began writing all of the gifts that I want to give. The gifts that I want to receive. (We need to be able to do both.)
We won’t be at our house in France for Christmas, but I have a strong feeling we will be home. My gifts have been tagged. My heart as well. I carry them with me.
Returning from my walk yesterday I hit the button on the remote to open our gate. Nothing. I hit it again. Still nothing. I thought the battery died. I punched in the code on the backup panel. Nothing. I did take one split second to look around, as this had happened once before in my life.
It was on Jefferson Street. My mom and I lived in the white condos. There were three sets of four. Identical. We lived in the middle. A friend was dropping me off at night. In my defense, we were laughing, and I wasn’t paying attention. I got out of the car. Opened the door. Walked up the steps quietly, to not wake my mother, or Agnes who lived below us. I tried to turn the handle. She locked the door? She never locked the door. I had no key. (Of course there were no cell phones in these days.) I was about to knock when I saw a huge plant in the corner of the stairwell. “Did Agnes put out a…” My brain kicked into gear. Wait. Was this the right building? I stepped back into the driveway. I was in the first building. It was a little late to sneak, but I tiptoed to our driveway, and slipped into bed.
I went in those doors a million times, but this was the only instance we talked about. Laughed about. Exaggerated the outcome. What if someone had woken up? The ending changed again and again. The gift of imperfection!
Standing outside of our gate, I thought certainly I hadn’t made the same mistake again. After all, our houses here don’t even look the same. My friend texted me at that moment. She was having a stressful day. I told her I was locked out of my own house. We laughed. She said it sounded like a blog in the making. I called my husband. The electricity was off to install a water heater. He brought a ladder. I climbed up the gate. Pulled the ladder over. And climbed back down.
When we retell this story in years to come, it will be the day that Dominique helped me break into our own house.
My life is connected with a series of joyful imperfections. There would be no story if the path was always clear. If the doors were always open.
Our Wi-Fi is currently shut off because our provider had the wrong address on our account. They changed the address but took that as a “move” and shut off our service. It won’t be re-installed for days. I’m using the data from my cell phone to power my iPad to write today’s blog — once again being asked to hike up my skirt and climb over life’s gate!
It’s easy to put conditions on everything. “If the sun shines today, I’ll be happy.” “If this photo gets a lot of ‘likes’ I’ll be happy.” “If I get this done…” “If she tells me this…” “If he would just…” So many conditions. And I’m guilty of it too. We all want certain things. Need certain things. But what I want to do, what I’m trying to do, is start from a place of happiness. Start from a place of gratitude. Every morning. And then let the conditions fall away. Take away my ifs and just start being. Looking only inwardly. Not comparing my life, but living my life. The only competition should be with oneself. Am I living my best life?
When I visited the Brooklyn school district, I asked each young student what they were good at. They unapologetically told me of their gifts. Not bragging, but claiming their attributes. They were young enough to enjoy the gifts. I remember feeling the same. I was 5 or 6 when I began to paint. When I began to write. Not needing any encouragement. No social media. No pressure. I would go into my bedroom and color. Paint. Draw. Write. It was me. That’s what I cling to. What I believe in. The doing. The being. It’s a good day when I enjoy the process. Get the paint on my hands. Get the words on the page. Forever young enough to enjoy the gifts.
I read to the students my story “Leap of faith.” (The story of me daring to take my first real dive off the high tower.) When I was finished, one young man came up to me, and asked a very intelligent question. “What was that really about?” he asked, knowing it was deeper than just the water. “It’s about daring to be yourself.” I replied. He smiled like he knew. “I can do that,” he said. And he ran off to join his class. I know that he can!
“I don’t know if this is going to be the day that my feet will touch the sky…but I am going to climb that tower, and I am going to be scared and I’m going to be happy, and with the wind in my hair, my heart is going to lead me…and one way or another, I am going to fly!” (from the book, Leap of faith)
They gave us free margaritas at the hotel last night. Why do free things taste so good? We could afford to buy a drink anywhere, but that’s not the same. This was given to us. No expectations. We didn’t have to drive. We didn’t have to do anything but enjoy it. Delicious.
Free. Nothing tastes better. Nothing feels better. A gift with no expectations. We stopped at Walmart to get water for the road. I had put on a dress to make the long freeway of the day a little more bearable. The Walmart greeter said, “Oh, you look so cute today!” It felt great! I felt great. And it was all free. Free for her to give. Free for me to enjoy!
You know we can do this for each other. All the time. It really is so easy. Let me be the first (and hopefully not the last) to tell you how important you are to me, and this world. Let me tell you how beautiful you are – inside and out! Let me tell you – thanks for being my friend!!!! Make today delicious, for yourself, and all those around you.
There was a slowness of time that gathered at the farm. We raced with youthful legs – legs that spun underneath us like on the cartoons – and yet the day seemed to last forever. Legs that carried no weight of worry, but only the sticky pink of dripped watermelon. My grandfather didn’t play with us. He had work to do. The farm demanded it. And he did it. He didn’t join us for birthday parties. I don’t imagine he ever wrapped a present. But he gave me a gift I still open, almost daily. He didn’t say much, but when he did, you listened. Pipe in one hand, the other smoothing out the line of his overalls. He spoke slowly. My father was gone. My mother was sad. My legs gave way to the weight of it all. “Focus on someone else,” he said. Someone else??? What was he talking about? My legs couldn’t move. “Give your attention, your time, anything, to someone else. Trust me.” How did he know? Maybe because he gave his hands to the soil. Maybe because he had nine children. He knew. I can get overwhelmed. Easily. And it can swallow my attention – me, me, me. And then I remember, I open the gift. That beautiful gift. Focus on something else. Someone else. And I am saved. My legs are strong today. Strong enough to run beside you under the sun of this possible June day. Strong enough to give.
I was baking cookies yesterday and my husband told me of the line in the french poem, “Rien n’est plus beau que les mains d’une femme dans la farine” (Nothing is more beautiful than the hands of a woman in the flour).
I think this is where we see the love, in the efforts made. Nothing is more precious than the gift that comes from the heart-led hand. The painting. The handwritten note. The bread coming out of the oven. The melody strummed on the guitar. We don’t all have the same talents, but we can all offer a bit of our time, a bit of ourselves.
And it’s not just about the givers. We also have to be able to receive. When we allow people to offer their gifts, we are in fact giving them a gift too.
Today, let’s get messy, messy in the exchange of kindess. These gifts covered in love’s white flour — “Rien n’est plus beau.”
