I watched her pull it off the shelf in our basement apartment. She’d sit beneath the garden window to get the sliver of light offered, turning the pages of the Leo Buscaglia book, each word a simple prayer for courage. I knew she was always worried that she wasn’t brave enough, strong enough, but even in that tiny sliver, I could see differently. For hadn’t she written it herself on the sticky note, after reading the sentence over and over. Hadn’t she risen from the chair, gone to the drawer under the phone, tested three pens, and finally rewrote the words, “ Only the weak are cruel. Gentleness can only be expected from the strong.” She went back to reading. I pulled the kitchen chair in front of the cupboard and read the words that hung from the phone’s receiver (that hang in my heart still). Gentleness bounced from room to room on Jefferson Street.
I’m sure at some point she had learned it from her father. Didn’t he display that same gentle strength in farm light. But it’s good to be reminded. In book, on sticky notes, in the glance of the common good. So I write the words in different forms to remind myself. To maybe remind you, with a gentle bounce of kindness, a never ending prayer for strength.
It always amazes me, the power of words. It’s often the most simple, strung together, that makes me want to be a better person. John Prine does this.
I was listening to his song, Hello in there. (If you haven’t heard it, I encourage you to listen.) He sings of the importance of connection, especially to older people. Those that we could so easily avoid. Ignore. And maybe it means so much to me because it’s not the first time that I’ve heard it.
Grandma Elsie phone sat at Petermeier’s Funeral Home. While waiting for the random ring, she would vacuum, dust — all the random chores of a normal household — normal but for the dead body often resting in the parlor. It was exciting to be babysat along with the phone. It was always an adventure. This exotic world. Windows draped in velvet. Organ music on replay. And fears of the unknown faced in every corner. But Grandma Elsie was never afraid. She scooted in and out of every room. At first, I thought she was singing while she vacuumed, but she was in conversation, with the corpse — and she would have never called them that, no, she always called them by name.
I stood at the parlor entry. Not wanting to get too close. I thought my Grandma was the bravest person that I knew. “Do you think she can hear you?” I shouted over the vacuum motor. “What?” She laughed. She turned off the vacuum, pulled in the cord, and wheeled it towards me in the safety zone. “I don’t need to be sure,” she said and smiled. “Go say hello,” she said, and went to put away the vacuum. I inched my way around the walls to the front of the room. My head didn’t yet reach above the casket. I put my hand on the side. My chubby, shaking hand. Grandma said her name was Gladys. I stood beside her wooden box. I loved my grandma. I thought in the doorway that I wanted to be brave just like her, but standing next to Gladys, I knew it was more than that, I wanted to be kind. Without the need for certainty or favor, Grandma was kind. I gave a tiny knock to the side of the casket and whispered, “Hello in there,” and ran upstairs to the comfort of the apron that turned no one away.
The dentist told me that I’m brushing my teeth too hard. That was humbling. You’d think after brushing my teeth this long, I would know how to do it. “Doucement,” she said. (Meaning gently.)
When they say it never rains here, it’s not like the song…we live in one of the sunniest parts of the world. It’s in my nature not to waste it. While the sun is shining I think, “I can do this, and this, and don’t forget… keep going…” And I like it. I enjoy it. I need it. But once in a while, it’s in my best interest to just slow down a little. The universe, being much more wise, saw that maybe it was time for me to be calm. But it took a darkening of the skies, and a few loud rumbles to make it happen.
I turned on my desk lamp. Opened my sketchbook. Took out the colored pencils. Rolled them through my fingers. I like the sound of the wood clinking with possibility. I sketched out a bird. Slowly. Colored in it’s wings. Feathers. Found a pastel stick to create the white areas. Pastels require the softest of touch. Doucement. And there was my bird. My gentle, little, rainy day bird.
Sometimes we are hardest on ourselves. Impatient. Unforgiving. And we need a little reminder to be gentle. Take this bird to be just that. And be kind today — to yourself. Hold the pastel of your heart softly, without judgement, and know that it’s not wasteful to be still. It’s healthy, necessary. Doucement, my friends…Doucement.
