I don’t suppose the spaces left from loved ones passed can ever be completely filled. But maybe it’s wrong to think they ever were. These relationships weren’t beautiful, memorable, longed for even still, because of their solid perfection. Perhaps they were always stardust, flittering, fluttering, changing shape, with room always left for dancing, beneath the flickering light.
It’s the way I choose to think of it, my mother’s space, not as a hole left behind, but a dance floor. And all that magic that sprinkles from her still, lights up the people around me, and they step in, tap me on the shoulder, and ask me to dance. They are my new daily connections. My new last calls. My shared laughter and secrets. Hopes and challenges. Not replacements, but keepers of the dance.
We’re not all good at the same thing. Some are meant to pull you in, and simply sway. Other’s tap their feet and keep the beat alive. Some dizzy you into laughter. Dance you into breathless. And hold out the ladle of punch. I am grateful for them all. All of you, who keep my dance floor filled, my heart in motion, in sway, in the right tempo, under the stardust.
Van Dyke Road separated the two worlds. It was so magical how far crossing one small stretch of gravel could take me. The back of our house faced a sea of grain — Hugo’s field. And in a way, it was like swimming, running through the stalks at full chubby- legged-speed, arms stretched to each side, creating a golden wave. Across the road though, behind Weiss’s house, was a lake. Not a big one. Nor a clean one, of the 10,000 our state touted. We didn’t swim in it. So what was the allure? It had to be the dock.
Florence and Alvin had a big yard. Bonnie, the daughter, was so much older, that to me, she was just another adult. So there were no arms of youth waving me over to play. I would sneak along the shrub line. Roll down the manicured slope to the lake’s edge. I could hear the dock before I saw it. The wave rocked wood cracking gently. I took off one bumper tennis shoe and placed my lavender-white toes on the sun warmed plank. It was extraordinary. I have no memory of being a shoeless baby, but I imagine at some point some uncle or boisterous neighbor blew their warm breath on my rounded feet, and I knew, standing there, barefoot on Weiss’s dock, this must be exactly how it felt. I giggled like that infant and took off my other shoe.
I braved each crack to the end. My body craved what my feet already had, so I lay down and let it gather in my arms, legs and back. My fingers danced at my side in the tiny puddles of cool water that gathered in the wood’s unevenness. I don’t know if I saw all the beauty of these imperfections, but I’d like to think I did.
Who knows how long I stayed. Summer afternoons felt eternal. I guess in a way, they are. I can still rest in that warmth.
I have written so many times about swimming – in actual lakes. Lake Latoka was only a bike ride away. But just out my door, front and back, oh, how my heart and imagination swam. Daily. And maybe that’s what home is after all…this ability to dream in the comfort of shore.
For me, it’s the softness of her gaze. No sharp edges to her reaction. Even her shoulders aren’t weighted. This is what makes her beautiful — not what she sees, but how she sees it. From within.
I paint her to remind myself the same is true for all of us. How we navigate through this world is what people really see. We need to stay informed, of course, but the ugliness that gathers, and there is a lot, I don’t want that inside of me. So I soften my gaze. My eyes. My lips. My tongue. Relax my shoulders. Nothing for hatred and ill will to hang on. (Because aren’t those sharp edges so much easier to cling to?)
I suppose I only know it, because I was always given that soft place to land. My grandma’s lap, my mother’s heart. I see now that it was not only for me, but for them as well. A gift we must give each other. A gift we must give ourselves. I dare the morning and the mirror softly. No sharp edges in sight.
I can’t say that I knew exactly what I was going to use it for, but I knew I had to have it, because it carries me through every day, lifts me, gives me hope and joy, sustainability — this recognition of the things that I count on.
At first I thought maybe I would click it each time I thought of her, my mother. Every time of the day that I smile or laugh because of her. Click on the hand-held counter each time I clutched my imaginary pearls in a warm memory. Because I imagine that’s what it’s for actually, this petite counter, adding up the repetitions that make you stronger. Then I thought, well, I could actually add my grandparents to that, my friends…all this love that I count on.
And then it occurred to me, this morning, at home, in our new time zone, how much I fall in love with on a daily basis. This good night sleep in my own bed. Click. Breakfast with homemade bread, and lavender honey across from my husband, smiling back. Click, click, click. This strong, fueling coffee. Click. These French and American flags that wave outside our morning window. Click. Click. The studio that waits for me patiently. Click. I guess it all adds up to gratitude. Thanks. Love. Click. Click. Click.
Maybe when the jet lag wears off, I will forget it. Which would be click worthy also. Maybe days will go by without a click, being lost in fun, or creativity. Or maybe when I need it most, just seeing it, sitting on a desk, it will remind me of all that I have, that I love…all the things and people that lift me on a daily basis. And maybe then I will give thanks for the reminder itself. Click.
But for the scheduled softball games twice a week, in the summertime in Alexandria, Minnesota, no one was ever waiting for me. But it never stopped me from going. I had no destination. Certainly no plan. And yet, the basket on my banana seat bike was packed high with hopes, a thermos of water, a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup which I would have no way of opening, two quarters — in case I stopped in at Rexall Drug for a frozen Milky Way bar, a Golden Book, and one stuffed animal.
I didn’t have the word for it then, nor did I have the need for one, but I was wandering. Never thinking of the limitations of my travel. A mile from home was new in every direction. And who even knew if it was a mile or not. I didn’t measure my journey in distance, but flowers and four leaf clovers. Screen doors and unrelated grandmas welcoming me in. Rocks in shoes and grass stains on knees were better than souvenirs, they were proof of a day well spent.
As we travel now, of course we have to think of things like gas mileage and flight times, but the best moments really have very little movement at all. Mostly at the waist, when we are laughing we friends, struggling to catch our breath within the waves of joy. You can’t plan that, only experience. Stumble into it. Wander about.
So if you ask what is our plan, I will tell you, I’m filling the basket, leaving room for four leaf clovers.
It is certainly too big and too heavy for my suitcase, but there was no way that I wasn’t going to bring it from France.
They watched eagerly as I opened the Christmas present. A beautiful sketchbook. Watching my face react, certain they had gotten it right, sure that they knew me, they asked if I would bring it with me to the US. When you are offered love, the only answer is yes.
I don’t expect to see her in France, my mom. She was never there. But here, in all of our sacred spaces, from mall to museum, coffee shops to cuisine, I look around every corner of Minneapolis. I touch the blouse that she would have tried on. Pick up the candle in our shared signature fragrance. Think to double the coffee order. And a smile weighs at my heart. Is it heavy? Indeed. But it is not a burden. It is the weight of love. A joyful weight. One that I will carry forever. Without question.
I begin to fill it. I start by sketching a weightless bird with the French pencil I bought at the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Each feather answers yes and I proudly carry it with me, all of this love.
I had nothing more of less from the day before, but for the green light signifying that my iPad was charging, and I was extraordinarily happy.
It turned out only to be an exchange of the power adapter, a simple fix, but in those 14 hours, as I was losing unreplaceable power, I had conjured up a scenario where not only my iPad would have to be replaced, but generally every electronic item in the house.
I made her (the young woman at the Apple Store) check it three times, but I wasn’t completely convinced until I plugged it in at home. Only then, as the light shown beside my bed, did I allow myself the celebration, as if I had made it across the deep water that separated me from the Gatsby mansion.
Everything seemed special. Not just my iPad. My phone, my earbuds, the new spring in my step. The path that I walked on, listening to a repeat podcast — all brand new. And I suppose the funniest part was when Joni Mitchell, on this podcast, sang her song from decades past, with a meaning relevant to my very second, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.”
Climbing the Montaiguet, I made the same promise to myself (that I have made and broken a hundred times) not to make the same mistake again. Sure this time, that my gratitude would last. Maybe it will. At least a few steps longer up the hill. And I can see the victory in that. So I keep on singing. I keep on climbing. In this moment, I know what I have, and I give thanks for this beautiful day.
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.
It was Mrs. Erickson who began to give us the language that matched our feelings. Up until then it had been mostly function. But here in the third grade classroom of Washington Elementary, every day new territories were explored. New emotions. She took us from fear to empathy without ever leaving our chairs. We sailed into the Bermuda Triangle, without getting wet. What a journey we had begun!
I suppose it was this new knowledge that gave me the courage to further explore our neighborhood’s own “Bermuda Triangle” — the elusive and alluring North End of Van Dyke Road.
To prove I went there, into this great unknown, I would gather sticks or blades of grass. Certainly they were not different from what was growing 200 yards away, but I brought them back as proof of my journey, never to be questioned. A coveted score would be a fluffing cattail, or an abandoned feather — treasures of the braved passage — proof to any curious neighbor kid that I was in fact not only living, but alive! And most importantly, it did the same for my heart.
I suppose I’m still doing it — nesting. I have “north-ended” my way across many countries. Sometimes trudging. Sometimes skipping. Alone, or hand in hand. Welcomed into hearts and neighborhoods that I could have never imagined. So I paint and I write. These are now the sticks that I gather. Each memory twigged and placed gently into my heart’s nest. My way of giving thanks. Today and every day.
Thank you, for being a part of my journey. Happy Thanksgiving!
Yesterday we began the search for turkey parts and red berries. Of course France does not celebrate Thanksgiving. The grocery store took down the one orange end cap, their small attempt at Halloween, and jumped straight into Christmas. There are no napkins of thanks (not even a merci). No aisles of stuffing and cranberries. Not even a turkey leg in the freezer section. It is still a day that I try to piece together a semblance of an old tradition while creating a new one with my French family. Because it matters, this giving thanks. I suppose that’s what my mother taught me, not to have Thanksgiving, but to be thankful.
My mom called me to announce her big decision to make a turkey. This was worthy of an announcement indeed, after spending years together eating bagels, Chinese food, or something from the coffee shop — the only stores open on pre-Black Friday. I was definitely surprised, but perfectly willing to join in the celebration. She said she took the heavy, big brown sack out the freezer and it was defrosting on the cupboard. A few hours later she called with an update. “There won’t be a turkey dinner,” she said. “Isn’t it already defrosting?” I asked. “It turned out to be just a big bag of ice,” she said. We both laughed. “Do you remember buying a turkey?” I asked. “I don’t remember buying the bag of ice…” she said. We laughed about it for years. Mostly over coffee on the Thursday before the biggest shopping day of the year. I will be ever grateful for the endless laughter we shared. It is my favorite Thanksgiving memory.
So we will push my empty cart through the grocery store in the south of France and keep searching — but not for gratitude — this I already have. Then and now. Always.
