It was almost a relief after the first scratch. Oh, the pressure of white tennies from Iverson’s shoes. I tiptoed from bus to class to preserve. And then maybe one day, guard down, laughing over a passed note from the back seat, leaning over a nothing that could be funnier, blocking the aisle of the bus, someone less interested in the joke and more concerned about getting off, stepped through the glee onto my new shoe and marked it with a rub of black urgency. Once the shock wore off, so did the pressure, and the outside rain no longer seemed a challenge.
When I hopped from the final step onto Van Dyke Road, I could see them — all the puddles that gravel will allow. Grownups complained, why wasn’t it paved already. But in this land of 10,000 lakes, our sweet dirt road added more than a few extra. And didn’t the name itself sound like an invitation — puddle…. And so I did, I puddled my way up the drive.
Not to be outdone, my socks were as wet as my shoes as I stripped my feet in the garage entry. There was a small line strung from the ceiling to hang the well traveled. I walked from the outlines of my damp bubble toes on the cement, and went victorious into the house.
I’m reading Gertrude Stein. She writes, “ You are so afraid of losing your moral sense that you are not willing to take it through anything more dangerous than a mud-puddle. ” I know I was brave on Van Dyke Road. I must be braver still. We all must be. This current murk that we find ourselves in, more than a puddle for sure, we must brave our way through. Daily. The moral compass is strong. It calls to the heart well traveled, “Come.”
He could see me eyeing the small frame. I already had one on hold behind his desk at the Emmaus location. Emmaus is the equivalent of a Salvation Army or Goodwill. Most of the employees are those that need the aid of these donations the most. Between our two accents, it was hard to figure out what the actual price was. As we wandered through our attempts, a conversation began. He was from Belarus. He seemed delighted that I was from America. The more we learned about each other, the less I hesitated with the purchase. Soon I settled on “pourquoi pas” — why not!? And I went home, not only with an extra frame, but a story to tell.
And isn’t that what art is, an exchange of stories? For that matter, I suppose that’s what life is.
Yesterday, I cut the small piece of panel to fit the frame. I gessoed. Underpainted. Sketched. Then began to paint the tiny bird. As it appeared, I had to smile, because it wasn’t just coming to France, it was leaving Belarus. He was leaving Belarus.
We are not the same. But we are all connected. And that’s nothing to be feared, but celebrated. I tell this to the tiny bird, who replies, “Yes, chef!”
I brought her outside to varnish her. The light was spectacular. She took on the warmth of all her surroundings. (Is that what love can do?) Even having given her those colors by my own hand, I felt like I was seeing them for the first time. This morning, when I opened my computer, it was the first photo that came up. As all of technology does now, it gave the location, but not by city or address, it simply said “Home.”
Because that is the truth. It’s never really about the street or city, it is the feeling. This place where my heart can rest and my mind can wander — both in this glorious light, this truth of being who I am. This place that is no longer about getting there, but becoming in… daily. That is a warmth that only home can bring. (And maybe that’s just love by another name.) I don’t need my computer to tell me that, I’ve already taken on the light.
I’m continuously reminded while painting, that black is never just black, and white is rarely white at all.
I won’t give away the whole piece just yet, but if you look at her “black” coat, it would be nothing without the shadows, the light, the movement — all arriving in shades of living. It’s the same with her hands, her “white” hands are pinks and purples and grays and more.
I used to love to roam through the constant assembly of coats in my grandparents’ farmhouse. Of visitors and helping hands, they hung equally. I wouldn’t have seen it, had I not rubbed my face through sleeves. From afar they draped in winter drab, but up close, they were every color — altered by work, by wear, rain, sometimes snow. Through holiday and honor, they offered a palette that said, (no not just “said” but lured), “come in, see the colors of what is being felt, from face to heart.”
I suppose I’m still getting the call. From heart to canvas to word. I have to answer. If not, what was their entry for?
She said, “I’ll take that in mauve,” as if I had stock of my mother’s birthday present that hung on the wall, and in different colors. I looked at my mom to see if I actually could sell the poem that I wrote for her birthday, the poem that painted her picture in every word, line and phrase. She clapped her hands in front of her smile, and would have been the first to carry it to the woman’s restaurant had it been ready.
We never looked back.
Maybe it was the approval, the validation in the sale. But it seemed more to be the pure joy of stepping into our lives. Finding the doors and walking through. No longer looking for permission, but offering it up to those behind.
The woman who owned the beautiful new coffee/bagel/restaurant in town, covered her walls in my images, right down to the “lipstick woman” in her bathroom. For years my mom would get the random call, “I’m in the bathroom at Time Square.” The first time was alarming, but it brought years of laughter, and even friendships were formed from that image.
I saw people reminiscing about the place yesterday online. The tagline read, “for people on the go.” And weren’t we all…on the go…becoming. I think we still are. Still standing in front of doors, wondering, do we take the chance, (still feeling those that have closed), but pushed forward by the joy of the time we were mauve. The time we dared, and kept daring. And believed. And believed again. This is the time, once again.
Running feral as I did, from sun up to sun down, on the equally untamed gravel of Van Dyke Road, it’s counterintuitive, (and yet true), to believe that I never wanted to get dirty. Of course dust gathered on my once-only-white gym socks, creating a permanent outline of my bumper tennis shoes. This was unavoidable. But I mean really dirty, purposefully dirty, like when the Norton girl added more water to yesterday’s rain soaked garden and scooped the mud by hand into discarded EasyBake oven tins scattered in their back yard. “The horror!” I exclaimed to my mother, “Mud pies!” She, being ever crisp in her white blouses, understood completely, as she tried to rub out the wayward splatters on my shorts and t-shirt.
I still find a way to run wild, mostly on canvas now. I have specific clothes just for that. Yesterday, in the studio, K.D. Lang was singing along with each stroke. It wasn’t lost on me that I noticed the brown oil on my sleeve as she sang, “Wash, wash me clean. Mend my wounded seams.” And isn’t that what love does? Accepts us. Gathers us, in all of our commonalities, all of our discrepancies, washes us clean.Maybe this is what allows me to dare the palette. To navigate this beautiful mess we’re in.
She left them in my care. Her most crisp and white. It’s healing for me. Tending, wearing, my mother’s blouses. It mends my wounded seam, and keeps her near, through wayward splatters.
In 1938, Douglas Corrigan earned the nickname “Wrong Way” for mistakenly making a trip across the Atlantic from New York, when he was headed for California. I only know this because in the fifth grade, during an orienteering field trip, my team, after completing the wrong course, and also backwards, was awarded with our “Wrong Way Corrigan” certificates. I’m sure this is not the sole reason, but I have been making my own path ever since.
That’s not to say that I’m completely flockless. I have come to rely, appreciate, value and enjoy a wide array of people. And I know that I belong, but that doesn’t mean I always “fit in.” Fitting in asks you to change yourself so others accept you. Belonging asks you to stay true to yourself no matter what. This is what I encourage you to (forgive me) flock to.
So if you see me in the trees. In the sky. I’m probably the one wearing the beret, playing the violin, as most of the others sing. But isn’t it all music? Beautiful, sweet music teaches us, you don’t have to blend to belong.
Of course I had seen my grandma in a chair before. Witnessed the quick cat naps. But the first time I saw her sitting, really sitting, was in the grief of my grandpa’s passing. It wasn’t in the church. I suppose there, she was still being lifted. It was in the church basement. On a folding chair. Next to an untouched plate and coffee cup. When I approached her, I could see the rising in her eyes, but her legs didn’t offer the Elsie spring. Not today, they said. Something changed in me that day. Roles reversed. All the years of her heart bending down towards mine had taught me well, and I bent down towards her.
I added it to the list of the gifts she had given me.
For even grief was a gift of sorts, wasn’t it? Oh, this loving. It changes shape constantly. I we, can anger, be in fear, as love keeps changing, but it may be love’s greatest gift of all.
Sitting in front of their portraits this morning, I don’t really remember who leaned in…I haven’t the tally of the getting to, I only know that our hearts found a way to level, to come together. This love, sits forever well.
I finished the book Pachinko yesterday. When I went for my walk in the afternoon, I started listening to a podcast about the World Creative Director of Disney. He began the interview by saying that if you have read the book Pachinko, you would understand his history. (Sometimes the universe is quite obvious in letting you know you’re on the right path.) There was no one else around, so I smiled to the birds in the sky, thinking surely they, too, must feel a part of it all.
I don’t know that I really believe in coincidence. I think the more we put ourselves out there, the more vulnerable we are, the more we connect. All of this knowledge, this exposure to others, to books, and art, and music and science and creation — perhaps these are the feathers that lift us. The wings that give us a better view.
It was a joyful walk. It seemed to pass more quickly than usual. I remember smiling, but I don’t recall the ground beneath my feet.
I don’t know which day it was this year that I painted that little pink bird in the corner. I’m guessing it was a challenging day, if I could only bring myself to make these few lines. So you might wonder why I love this bird. It’s not the most detailed. Nor the most realistic. I have painted far more complex birds with extravagant companions. But this little beauty, in its simplicity, all on its own, did something magical. She took away the dull remains of that day, wiped them from memory, and left me in the joy of pink. Her size is so deceiving — nothing small could do all that!
I hope I can bring the pink today, when asked to do the little things. Before I think, what could it possibly matter… let me offer my smallest of strokes. My tiniest of gifts. They might just turn out to be magical.
