Working between two screens, sometimes my cursor gets stuck in the opposite one that I want. (Like my brain doesn’t do that all the time.)
It’s so easy to think, “Well, I always did it this way…” Whether I’m talking about different countries, different languages, loves, relationships, even my hairdresser. And I catch myself swiping madly on the wrong screen.
Change is never easy. Neither growth. But both are so necessary. And it doesn’t mean you have to give up everything in the letting go, the moving on…You keep the lightest of things, like joy and hope and love — none of these will ever weigh you down.
Too often I’m unaware. It’s barely more than air, the little birdie that tells me things. But when I’m paying attention, really paying attention, all the truths that move between who I am and who I want to be, chirp seamlessly between my heart and my brain, and I am saved.
If you dip the cookie in the frosting, pick it up slowly, turn it over, sway it a little side to side and front to back, the frosting will level itself out. I don’t know how it knows, but it does. It’s the gift before the giving.
I think we’re all given the tools. Right from the start. Oh, sure, it takes a little turning. A little swaying. But when you know. You know.
I used to go into my room at five years old and color my emotions. I didn’t have the words for what I was feeling, but I had 24 Crayolas that could relay the message. At six, — as Mrs. Bergstrom gave us the spelling, the words — I began to write poems. Thus began this cookie’s life of self leveling. And the real gift is, I now have something to give.
I’m not special. We’re all given the tools. Maybe you garden. Maybe you bake. Or build. Or teach.
Yesterday, after painting in the studio, feeling the magic of this new portrait beginning, I wanted to call my mom. Oh, how she loved magic!! And perhaps frosting even more. So I returned to the kitchen, dipped the cookies that I had made earlier that day, and turned and swayed and leveled myself in all that love, and somehow I knew she knew.
We bought the wrapping paper years ago at Anthropologie. It was one of our favorite stores. The clothing. The scented candles. The “You look fabulous in that!” My mom and I could spend hours. And even when the items were too expensive, the compliments were free, and so easily given.
When we saw the artisan gift paper, we knew we had to have it. We could only afford one sheet. We cut it in two and wrapped tiny gifts for each other. The little green balls were like cheerleaders — jumping and dancing and spelling out praise with the letters of our names. I suppose we had always been that for each other — the one leading the cheers. And that’s what the paper did. Each year. We saved it for nearly twenty years. Sending it back and forth. From city to city. State to state. Country to country. I still have it. When I see the little green pompoms, I smile. I clutch my heart. The love my mother gave to me was always packaged and sent. Nothing wasted.
You won’t hear anyone say it — that it’s about the packaging. No, they’ll tell you it’s the thought that counts. The thought? Who cares? If you simply think about someone, and don’t let them know, what difference does it make? I would offer that it all needs some packaging. Some expression. Some action. Love, care, concern, joy, hope, congratulations, condolences, without the actual passing on, without the actual giving of these extraordinary gifts, aren’t they simply empty?
This year, let’s wrap everything. In smiles and hugs. In arms reaching out. Thoughts actually expressed. Let our hearts be ribboned and bowed and ever giving. Let the Christmas cheers be heard today and every day throughout the year! No thoughts wasted. No love unspent.
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.
I wasn’t that close to my Aunt Mavis. There was just so many of us. You had to simply pick a few Hvezdas and go with it. When we gathered for Christmas, Grandma Elsie made sure that we each had something small to open. The certainty of her gift made it a little easier to wait as the packages were read, passed and opened. We didn’t buy for each family. There wouldn’t have been enough money or time.
I was around six years old when I received the somewhat questionable gift of red lace bloomers from Grandma, but I hugged her belly and kissed grandpa’s cheek, and returned to my mother’s lap. It was quite a surprise when one of my cousins handed me a second package. There must be some mistake, I thought, but there was my name. And the urge to question was far surpassed by the knowing of what it was. Its box shape, and heft told me that it was a book. A big book. Whoever gave this to me, must have known that I loved words on pages. The bright red Christmas paper torn open revealed a bright red cover. A giant book of Disney stories. The wonderful world of Disney. It was every Sunday night at 6pm on the only channel that we received on Van Dyke Road — right there, held in my hands. It was if Tinkerbell herself had waved the wand and released the magic.
I was holding it to my chest when she asked if I liked it. I beamed. Yes, yes, I do! She smiled, and limped back to a wooden chair in the dining room. In that moment, I wished I knew more about her than just her having a bad hip. I whispered in my mom’s ear, “It was from Aunt Navis.” My mom whispered back, “Her name is Mavis.”
I’d like to say we grew to be fast friends, but it isn’t true. I did save the book. It remains on my Christmas miracle list.
We don’t always return the gifts that we are given. Is it enough to pass them on, to others, who won’t return to you, but pass them on again? I hope so. I have to believe it. So I limp the words on the page, and maybe I give you a Christmas smile, and maybe you pass it on to the stranger on the slippery sidewalk. Maybe you hold a door, or offer a compliment. Maybe you say their name correctly, with enthusiasm, and they feel seen. And maybe, just maybe, the magic is sprinkled, and continues throughout the years.
Thank you, Aunt Mavis. You are part of my story, and it is beautiful.
I always rationed out my Halloween Candy. Counting each day. Indulging in a piece or two. Doing the math. The goal was to make it last until Thanksgiving. I imagined that each piece was a link in the joy chain. Even on the days when I limped along with my least favorite candy, like a circus peanut or a Jolly Rancher, I was keeping the sweetness alive.
Most of you celebrated your Thanksgiving yesterday. Here in France, of course, it is not a holiday. No days off. So the tradition that I dragged along with me won’t be celebrated until Saturday. As I read the posts of you already walking off your gratitude, I could let it get me down, but I choose to think of it as the luxury of keeping my chain alive. I give thanks again, and check the turkey parts thawing in the refrigerator.
I suppose it’s what I’m doing with everything, trying to keep the chain alive, with a painting of a niece, a grandma, a brother-in-law, a cousin. What if somehow we could all connect? In this most unlikely of scenarios, (and aren’t they all) we could come together and find the joy.
Of course I have my days, my moments, limping through the “circus peanuts” of life. But even the worst days connect me to a chance of something better. So I give thanks. And wait. Today is going to be delicious.
“So then my brush goes between my fingers as if it were a bow on the violin and absolutely for my pleasure.”
I ran into my grandma’s kitchen. If the screen door slamming wasn’t enough to convey my fury, I clenched my fists firmly by my hips and screamed over the motor mixing the dough. “But I gave her all of my candy!” My grandma put down her spatula and turned off the mixer. A blending of cousins ran around the summer grass. I wanted to make friends with the girl arriving from Illinois, so I filled my pocket from the Lazy Susan, I explained — Slowpokes, Sugar Daddies and Babies. I gave them all to her, in exchange, I thought, for immediate friendship, but she ran off to play with my cousin from a Minneapolis suburb. “They are sitting under the apple tree right now, eating my candy!” My grandma looked down at me and smiled, “You mean eating MY candy.” I shook my head reluctantly — she had a point. She wiped her hand on her apron before tossling my enhanced summer blonde. “Always be a cheerful giver,” she said. I turned to make my way to the front door. “Hey,” she said, and pointed with her head to the corner cabinet. “There’s plenty more.” I filled my pockets again. She had given me everything I needed, and candy too.
Be it gift or heart, I’m not proud to say that I have to learn the lesson quite often, to be a cheerful giver. Sharing with no sense of obligation. With no demand of return. Just loving. Even with and to myself. To do things, out of pure pleasure, without condition.
I painted the violin chair with no expectation. Well, maybe one — joy. When I sold it, I heard my grandma say, ever so cheerfully, “Hey!”
It was the best marzipan candy I ever had. There was a little bit left and she said we could take it home. We ate two in the car driving alongside the Mediterranean. Somehow we managed to save the remaining couple and finished them off that evening. I scoured the small empty box for a brand or anything that would lead me to having more, but there was nothing. Holding it in my hand on the way to the garbage, I felt it. It was just like a small panel. I took it to the studio to paint.
It seemed so obvious that I needed to paint a bird, a friend for the bird I had made the day before. I sanded and gessoed. I feathered and branched. Taking everything that was sweet, and giving it wings.
The thing is, we don’t always get to reciprocate, or repay the same kindness we are given. But we can keep giving, in so many different ways. And by doing so, it truly offers the “having more” we wanted all along. So I pass it to you — this joy, this delicious joy carried on wings — knowing you will find a way to do the same. Isn’t life sweet?!!!!
I recently bought a new desk pad. I like it very much. They sent an email asking for a review. I didn’t erase it. I thought maybe I could get around to it. I scrolled past it for a couple of days. And then my publisher posted a recent review from my website. The “wow” and the “amazing” filled my heart and directed me immediately to the place where I bought my desk pad. I used the same words that I was given. It matters — the things we do and say.
It would be so easy to let the moments slip by. We often feel, “well, it goes without saying…” And maybe that’s true, but does it have to? It doesn’t cost us anything. And it takes almost no time at all. Really no effort. So what makes us hesitate? What makes us hold on to the compliment when we see her looking beautiful in that dress? When we see him going beyond a normal effort? I want to be the one who says — “That’s a great color on you!” and “Bravo, monsieur!” I want to be free and easy with my praise. I have felt the power of a wow – and I want you to feel the same. Everyone should feel this.
My pockets are usually only filled with dreams. Along with a little joy. Neither take up any space at all. So today I will throw in an extra “amazing!” and a few “wow!”s and be eager to give them away at a moment’s notice. No scrolling. No I’ll get to it later. Just a pocketful at the ready.
Have an amazing day today, my friends. A wow is just within reach.
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.
