People have asked me throughout the years, which comes first, the image or the words. Mostly the words, I answered. Because that was true for my heart. Every beat came out in poemed stanza since I was five, with the images close behind, only needing to travel an arm’s length.
Reading the poem again yesterday, I saw her image. I started with the eyes. Still moist from what she had survived, she could see ahead with hope, instead of fear. And I knew her. So perhaps in this case the words hadn’t come first. Because I had seen the look, not in the portraiture of the day, but on my mother’s face. Every morning at 7:20, ripe with loss, she and her prepared face made their way down Jefferson Street, to face another day of work — from her front desk in the Superintendent’s office and the depths of her bruised heart. And I was the bird she carried, until we both were ready to fly.
It’s good to remember. To keep in mind that we are all barely more than air. That even with, or perhaps especially because of, eyes still dampened, we can lift each other. Find our way. Together. We soar.
I’ve started a new project. Each time I do, there are always things to be learned. Computer programs change so quickly. The paths to incorporate my artwork from page to printer are constantly changing course. And armed with my mother’s sense of direction, (she who thought the map at the mall should be on the ground so you could just step into it), I can’t say that I find my way quickly, but joyfully, I always find my way. I suppose it’s because I’m never traveling alone.
My first step was to get photos of all the new images. I was stumbling about. Turning pages. Checking lighting. It all felt so clunky. And then I got the tap on my brain’s shoulder that said, “get the sticky notes.” It was my friend Deb who gave me the little notebook of multi-colored tabs. We first used them to mark our favorite outfits in the Sundance catalog, sipping lattes, and reading the cover letter from Robert Redford, as if he had addressed it to us personally. We had colors to mark “maybe,” “yes,” and “why am I not wearing it right now.” Hours of entertainment with just a stick of a color.
Smiling, I used those notes to mark the pages of my artwork. It all began to make sense. I found my direction. Even using the new programs on my computer became easier.
I keep moving forward, but not without those who got me here.
There’s an expression that people use when someone dies that I’ve never liked — “She’s no longer with us.” It couldn’t be further from the truth. While the Sundance store has closed, my friend Deb sits right beside me. And I am saved.
When I first understood that my Grandma had a name other than Grandma, I thought it was O’Elsie. Because that’s what I always heard. From my Grandpa’s mouth, the ladies at the kitchen table, or the faceless voices on the party line. What I came to learn was that they were all saying, “Oh, Elsie…” And always as a term of endearment. When she would make them laugh out loud. When she touched them with her kindness. When she surprised them (especially my grandpa) with a rootbeer float or a basement full of chinchillas. And it came to be my measurement for living, this need combine with the heart’s emission of simply – Oh!
I don’t want to live timidly. And I’m not talking about shock. To shock is simple. To wow is devine. Oh, and wasn’t she so! My Grandma Elsie.
I hear the birds singing from the morning window and I think, “Oh, it’s going to be a lovely day.” And my heart smiles.
I just finished reading The School for Good Mothers,by Jessamine Chan. For the last twenty four hours I have been thinking about the characters. It is not an easy read by any means. And yet it lives on inside of me. Words create their own heartbeats, and even when the book is closed, thump, thump… a chicken with its head chopped off, still running. Still running.
We have this idea that everything has to be so comfortable. That life is a lounge chair for the heart. On that same farm, where chickens ran, my grandfather showed me how to lean into the discomfort by picking the rocks in the field to prepare for planting. Not glamorizing the dirt, nor fighting the weight of it all.
So I embrace the words and paint the image of the girl that remains in my head. My way of moving the rocks.
Most lessons do not come with cushions. But I know, as always, something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.
Never was I so happy that my mother had long feet as the week before Valentine’s Day. Mrs. Strand sent us home from Washington Elementary to retrieve a shoe box. I opened the closet to my mother’s neatly stacked 11 narrows and my heart raced.
I sat with my beautiful box from Herberger’s atop my desk. I felt badly for those with only sizes seven or eight. Of course we’d all get the same amount. We were told to make Valentine’s for everyone in the class. But in my large box, none would have to be shoved, or damaged.
We spent hours the day before. Well, some of us did. A lot of the boys finished in five minutes. I took my time. Cutting each heart, in reds and pinks and whites. Folding strips of paper to make springs, so the hearts could leap (just as mine felt with all this craft paper.) Never was I so prepared to receive all the “be mines,” as I was with my mother’s shoe box. And how appropriate that she gave me the vessel, as she was the one who taught me to love.
Yesterday, making the cookies, the springs of my heart jumped throughout our French kitchen. I graded the frosting from white to pink to red. I applied the decorations. My love could not be rushed, shoved or damaged. My mother saw to that. Sees to it still.
I was still riding my banana seat one speed when Lynn Norton graduated to her adult size bike. I could hear the gears click into place as she passed me going up the hill by Lord’s house, on the way to Van Dyke Road. Between huffs I marveled at her speed. I stood up on the pedals, fighting with all of my might, all of my heart. She was barely breathing hard. “Wait up,” I panted and hoped she not only heard, but somehow could pull me along if I stayed within reach. She stopped at the right hand gravel turn and waited. Her look back was the incentive I needed and I made it. “How did you go so fast?” I asked. “I know how to shift.” I suppose it was right then that I made it part of my life’s plan.
Being right handed, I have recently finished all the right hand pages of my very large sketch book. There was a choice to be made. Forget half the book, or shift. I purchased the vellum sheets to protect the completed work. Are they a guarantee? No. Of course there is risk. And part of my brain says that something bad could happen, but the loudest voice in the room, my pumping heart, says to go on. What if something great happens! What if on these left handed pages, you create a masterpiece?!!!!
Two summers after Lynn beat me up the hill, I too had an adult size bike. Three gears! Mastering those, I graduated to 10 speeds. Then twelve. It took all those gears and more for me to go to college. To take chances. To become an artist. To write books. To fall in love. To move to another country. To face today. I am not afraid. With the confidence of the oldest Norton girl, I look in the mirror and claim, “I know how to shift!”
I started out breech, so maybe it’s no surprise that I rarely lead with my head. Oh, it will step in to do the usual, like balancing a bank account, or formatting my computer, but on a daily basis, my heart is making most of the decisions — like how much sugar to add (that’s from my grandma’s heart corner); or how much trust to offer (that’s from my mother’s).
Maybe it’s because the lines of communication run clear, but my hands and feet have no trouble following. If the heart says go, they are more than willing to participate. I guess they know from experience that they won’t be judged by this leader — unlike the brain, that will question their every move. No, the heart is forgiving. Compassionate. So I listen.
That’s not to say you won’t get hurt along the way, oh, how that heart can feel. But that’s also the best thing about it — OH, how that heart can feel!
So I continue the way I started, ever believing my feet will take me where my heart needs to go.
It might surprise you to know that the best croissant we’ve ever had, was not in Aix en Provence, nor Paris, but San Francisco. We congratulated them. French butter, they said. It was perfection. Nothing added. No cookies or chocolate stuffed in the middle. No pistachio cream. Just a simple butter croissant. When things are done well, no additions are required.
And isn’t it the same with living? The best that we can offer is often without flare or fanfare. An open door. A seat at the table. An understanding that doesn’t require explanation, only a place, a presence.
We all know people who are struggling. Sometimes I think we imagine that we have to offer an answer. A solution. Most people really only want to know that you care — they want to taste the richness of your simple French butter — to step into the warmth of your heart’s kitchen, and simply sit down.
The bisous is nice — a kiss on both cheeks — but for me, it will never replace a good hug. I have the imprints on my heart. I can tell you the progression through the years of my grandmother’s hug. The first I can remember were mostly knees. Then I was sticky faced against her apron (maybe because of me, or maybe because of the apron). She was pillowy. And welcoming. Pulling me in so close, I was almost behind her. And then there was the angled structure of my grandfather. Firm and elbowed. Offering the blessed assurance of “I’ll be here, strong, a foot in each furrow.” And then there was my mother. I knew every inch of her. Where my head could rest. Where my mind could wander. The home of every embrace. The feel of each blouse and sweater, hugged so closely, as if to wear the same. And didn’t we wear them together, our sleeved hearts, through every fashion lay-a-wayed and purchased.
This is to be hugged.
It’s not our culture here in France. But it is happening. Slowly. And isn’t it beautiful, that without pattern, knowledge or language even, we can teach each other how we need to be loved.
Ever since I painted his picture, Dominique’s cousin, he has hugged the stuffing out of me. Such a joyful surprise from this man of French measure. Nearly lifting me off the ground. A melding of imprints. Strength and joy and tenderness. All the arms around me now, I paint my way home.
If you look it up in the dictionary, it has two meanings. Opposite really. Nervy. It can mean bold, or nervous. Both are probably true. And for me, usually at the same time.
Months ago, in the middle of a situation in Marseille, feeling both, I decided to Wordle for distraction. I know there are certain starter words, almost mathematical, to give yourself the best chance, but I don’t play that way. I usually insert a word that says something about my current state of affairs, a way to insert myself in the game. It’s just more fun for me that way. So I chose the word with two meanings. Bold and nervous, because wouldn’t you have to be, I mean, are you really being bold if you’re not nervous? Is there any bravery without being afraid? I typed it in. N-E-R-V-Y. The letters turned over green. One by one. I beat Wordle. I chose the word in a single guess. It was about me.
I three and four my way through most days. Sometimes two. Not playing the odds, but always playing myself.
Last night, reading a new book, Apples Never Fall, there it was on the page, twice. Nervy. Had I not taken the big chance, the big swing, with my Wordle word, I would have just passed this page without great meaning. But I had taken the chance. I had bolded and nerved my way in, and found myself again, here in the words.
I don’t want to live timidly. I want to be bold in the attempt. When I love, when I live. So when my reflection is offered back to me, I can say proudly, I was nervy.
