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.
Baking cookies yesterday, I rolled out the dough to make the tester. Just the empty space of one heart. And it occurred to me — maybe we all have to do that from time to time — empty it all — give it all — all of our love, to get to where we want to go, to be who we want to be.
There will always be uncertainty. Waiting. Looking through the glass. Did I add enough butter? Too much? Will the shape hold? The minutes tick by slowly and it’s so stupid, but I think of everything I could do to save the dough if the heart falls apart. I’ve made them before to great success. Last week even. Why do I worry? The needlessly excruciating eight minutes pass and the test cookie is just fine. I smile and finish the bake.
It may surprise you when I say I think I’m getting better at the trying not to worry. Trying to replace it with care. And that’s the trick, I suppose. To care, with all of our hearts, not out of worry, but out of love.
The kitchen still has a sweet scent of sugar. I say to the space in my heart, the shape will hold, give it your all, the shape will ever hold.
I suppose it’s always hard to see how special things are from deep within. I, like all of my cousins, took for granted that Grandma Elsie’s cookie jar would always be full, and the lazy susan in the bottom corner cupboard needed two hands to turn. (And I’m not talking about a little spinning spice rack, no, a lazy susan that could spin a small three to four year old into a dizzied frenzy.) My grandma stocked this beast of a susan with the entire Sugar family — Sugar Daddies, Sugar Mamas, and Sugar Babies. She also included the Black Cows, Slow Pokes, Junior mints, random candied corns and jelly beans depending on the season. There was not a mint or a lemon drop in sight. So when one of the girls in our jump roping gang at Washington Elementary began speaking disparagingly about her grandmother’s candy selection, I couldn’t believe it. When others chimed in, I dropped the rope to investigate further. No Sugar Babies? Not even a Slow Poke? No. Surely she offered you a rootbeer float from time to time. They laughed.
It’s amazing what a little knowledge can do. I never twirled a jump rope the same. There was no need to flaunt it. It was my grandpa who taught me that. After arriving first in a race around the farmhouse with one of those sugar-fueled cousins, I ran to him bragging about my victory. He patted my shoulder. “It’s enough to win,” he said.
Each afternoon recess, I quietly twirled the rope, deep in the knowledge that I was winning.
From time to time, I can still get lost in the ample susan of my life, not seeing how special it is until life comes tripping with its little interruptions. And I see these breaks in fortune for what for what they really are — just little schoolgirls, telling me, showing me how lucky I truly am. I smile, and twirl in gratitude once again.
I didn’t like the dark. Windows and doors were meant to open — that’s what I learned from my mother. Even in the winter, even if she had to blowdry the windows open, she gave us a blast of fresh air.
I didn’t really want to go to her house. We weren’t really what I would call friends. We had been in classes together. A few summer softball teams. In the fifth grade she beat me by one basket in the National Hoop Shoot contest. She invited me over to see her trophy. “It’s the gracious thing to do,” my mother said. My ten year old concerns weren’t really consumed with being gracious. Maybe it was because we were standing in the breeze of the open winter window. Maybe it was because she looked so bright, so sure, so lovely, and “if this was gracious…” I thought, I wanted in, so I agreed.
She pulled up to their house. Left the car running. “Go ahead,” she said. Handle on the door, I froze, no longer for winter reasons. I couldn’t see any lights on. “They’re expecting you,” my mother continued. The pulled shades said otherwise. Not wanting to admit fear, I slowly opened the car door. Clumped through the unshoveled walkway. The screen door, still attached, hung by one hinge. I tapped gently. I turned back around. My mother gave me the scoot sign with her waving hand. Never in my history had I wished so badly that no one was home. The doorknob turned and the better basketball player opened the door. My mother pulled away. In one hour she would return. I stepped inside slowly to take up extra seconds. It was even darker inside than I expected. But I could see her smiling as she led me to the sofa — the sofa with the coffee table that held her golden trophy and weeks of old newspapers. I had never really seen her smile before. I sat down and listened to how happy she was that she won.
I could hear something in the corner. What was that? That rhythmic noise. A motor? I jumped when I saw movement where the noise was coming from. It was a human. “It’s just my mother,” she said. “Sitting in the dark?” I thought. I could see the outlines now. Long hair. Hands on the rocker. Was there a clock somewhere? How much time had passed?
She went on about her win. At least it drowned out the breathing from the corner. She told me about each attempt at the free-throw. I never really thought about money before. I didn’t think about who was poor, who wasn’t. I don’t even know if we had more money than they did. Probably not. But we had light. Sweet and glorious light. We had open windows and fresh air. I had a mother who stood in it. Gracefully. Never was I more thankful. For the next 57 minutes, I offered up this gratitude.
In the end, I was happy she had the trophy. She deserved it. The shiny gold was the only light in the room. And I was thankful that she had that. Still, I’m not sure I was all that gracious, as I ran to the door, waving my goodbyes when I heard the honk of my mother’s car. I jumped between the steering wheel and hugged her so tightly. “You can open the window if you like,” I said. She smiled and we drove away in the gracious fresh.
It was Mr. Rolfsrud who taught us about the flashforward at Central Junior High. He stood tall, polyester suited in front of our class, and took us through the technique with great detail. He neglected to mention that it would also happen in our real lives.
Listening to an audiobook during my walk yesterday, the author lept the characters into the future. And seemingly in that same flash, I was in this other country. It was as if this decade, this epic novel I’m writing, was simply paragraphed. Maybe that is the way with all living.
Not at first I suppose. Summer steps in our youth seem eternal. But then, without our knowledge or permission, the pace quickens. Steps become leaps. Leaps turn into bounds. And finally, mere flashes.
The moment of clarity in the book skipped my heart a little. The moment of clarity in my life did the same. But I wasn’t afraid. More grateful. I simply raised my hand, waited for him to call on me, and thanked him for my love of words. I promised him I would use it all. And kept walking.
Didn’t we say forever? And believed it at the time. Best friends we promised in the middle of the Washington School playground, underneath the monkey bars. And then beside the swings. But forever came before we moved on to Central Junior High, and we promised again. And meant it. We raced to Social Studies and English literature, and around the block for gym, and then changed again. At Jefferson Senior High School, so close to the imagined adulthood, we vowed again. Threw our graduation caps in the air, along with our forevers.
Yesterday we went to a small village here in France. Driving the narrow streets, built long before they made cars, we winded and turned, and backed up, squeezed and turned some more. With no “rights” or “lefts,” we could only look up for direction. “Somebody’s on top of that hill,” I said. “I think it’s the Virgin Mary,” Dominique said, “a statue…” I wasn’t sure I needed that clarification, but I smiled. We parked, or probably closer to the truth is we abandoned the car.
We started climbing the cobblestone paths. Higher. Higher still. Surely we would see her soon. Above the village now. Gazing over the houses. “Where is she?” Confused, I stood beside the ancient obelisque. Then I saw her. Proudly she stood atop the hill on the opposite side of the village. Oh, she moved, I thought. Because surely it wasn’t me. I hadn’t changed direction…
We’re changing all the time. All of us. And that’s a good thing. It’s the only way we grow. The only way we gain a new perspective. Our forevers get nipped and tucked, and some even abandoned. But it doesn’t make any of them less important, less meaningful. Everything has a time. A season. And each day we have a choice of whether or not to enjoy the moment, to enjoy the view.
Take a look around today. It may not be what you thought, but it might just be amazing.
It’s instinct now. I suppose I’ve done it for years, but for some reason I noticed it this morning. When making something on the stove, like this morning’s coffee, I have to tilt my head down and to the left. It’s no surprise that I’m taller than the last French generation, and the hood over the stove is a good reminder.
But I don’t really think about it. My head just seems to know, and makes the adjustment. Maybe it doesn’t sound like much, but what a marvelous creation — this brain!
This brain that worked for years and years processing one language. A brain that knew the signals and prompts. That navigated the grids and grins of one culture, now being asked to learn it all again, (and bend over a little if you don’t mind.) Even in the face of tears, and fears, and the I don’t want tos and the I cants, somehow it keeps going. Marvelous! And maybe it’s the heart that tells it so. Who can be sure who’s leading. That heart that got more than knocked by a kitchen corner and still keeps beating. So pained by love, still knowing there is nothing better. The heart that only smells the coffee brewing and looks forward to the day.
I mention it, not as a reminder of the struggle, but a reminder to give thanks. To take a moment and tell this brain, this heart — thanks for getting me here. For making the adjustments when life knocks us around.
I wasn’t having the best day the other day. I was worried about something that seems too ridiculous to mention now. But I had another task to complete. I was working on the “about me” page for my website upgrade. I had a few photos in mind that I wanted to put with the story. As you might imagine, I have tons of photos on my computer – art, travel, family… I started searching. At first it seemed laborful. So many photos. Then I started really looking at them. I started remembering. Enjoying. Giving thanks. What an adventure! And I felt a little embarrassed that I was squandering my day with worry. I looked at everything that was, and I couldn’t wait to see what could be!!!!
A lot of you say that what I write is such a good reminder for you. I’m reminding myself along the way. We all have to do the work. And as laborful as it seems sometimes, it’s so worth it.
You’ll have to wait to see my “about me” page. It’s coming soon. But I encourage you, from time to time, make it a task for yourself — pull out the box of old photos, scroll through your computer, read your journal, listen to your heart. What you have lived through is amazing! Gather that strength and then go out and make some new memories! It’s about you, and it’s about time! Enjoy your day!
I had to hold my hand over my mouth more than once. The laughter from the table was so powerful, my lips could barely contain themselves. One hand holding my mouth, the other hand reaching, reaching across the table, needing to touch the person who said the funniest thing, touch the person and feel the laughter through fingers and arms and try to gather it in my belly before it shot out of my mouth!
We had dinner with friends last night. Dear friends. I suppose we are all looking for our tribe. And when you find it, you just know. You gather together, not because of a game on television. Not because blood tells you that you should, but because this is your place. Your place at the table. No explanations necessary. Nor apologies. Just understanding. Curiosity. Interest. Kindness. Laughter and love.
If you can find this, a table at which to share a dream, a possibility, a laugh, a memory, a deep joy, oh, then give thanks! Give thanks at this table. What a gift it is to have friends!
