When I turn the pages of my sketchbook, I have to laugh at the sizing. The weight I can give a sparrow!. And that’s wonderful, if directed toward joy. But I have to be careful that I don’t do the same with problems — make them bigger than ever possible. And that’s easy to do. But it’s also easy to shift.
When the weight of a random day is too much to carry, I try to paint it away. And once I begin, to squeeze out a little paint on my saturated palette (I’ve done this before), wet my brush to lip, begin to color the page, what felt so heavy on heart, is so much lighter on wing. It’s funny how that works. I suppose it’s not really even magic, more likely, it wasn’t that heavy after all. I mean, if the sparrow can carry it away… And so I keep painting, lighter, once again learning, hope will never weigh you down.
The morning sky is bright. It seems like it might be a good day to fly! I’ll see you up there.
It’s probably the closest I get to meditation. Swimming. The thing about water, you can’t bring anything. No phones or connections to the world whatsoever. Just you and your thoughts. And even they can weigh you down. So I try to push them out with the counting of each lap. They are slippery though — they can fin their way in — with invented conversations, arguments even, completely fabricated. Even my arms will say, “c’mon, enough already”…wiggling fingers that urge the return to pulling water. It takes quite a few strokes, but I always get there. Into the rhythm. Soon my breath and arms and legs are in sync, and the numbers begin disappearing, so quickly I wonder if I actually counted that lap, and I do it again. I imagine it’s like a dancer, who finally learns the routine and can just let go into the dance. That’s my brain in the pool. Buoyant upon the sun-ripe ripples. Floating. Carried. Dancing between the two blues of sky and water. Weightless of what-ifs, just simply being.
I highly recommend it — this letting go. And maybe for you it’s not in the pool, but on the road, or in the garden, in a book, or within a song. It could be anywhere you are able to release the baggage. When I get stuck, dragging the day’s luggage, I imagine myself in the water, satcheled with such. And I laugh. I don’t imagine we were meant to carry any of it. Except maybe joy. Nothing is lighter. Go ahead and carry that with you. Everywhere.
What was it all for if we didn’t have a little fun?
Before I knew how to spell either, the word nest was synonymous with the word comfort. I built one for my baby dolls and stuffed animals right beside my twin bed —sheeted with Raggedy Ann and Andy, topped with Big Susie, the largest of my stuffed dolls, who watched over them all when I went to Kindergarten at Washington Elementary. And when I needed a nest of my own, when spelling, or sharing, or the afternoon milk break became too much to handle, I would borrow the blankets (with their permission of course) and build a nest beside my mother’s bed, and she would Big Susie me through the night, and I was saved.
It’s no secret that I love to paint birds. This year, for the first time, I started giving them nests. So perhaps it’s no surprise that this is when it appeared, the giant nest at the edge of the forest. I’ve already built one panel with the wood, and it continues to support me daily. Between step and worry, it always makes me smile as I pass. This could out-Susie any problem that I had. And so I leave it at the nest.
And isn’t that what we all have to do in order to fly? I empty my cares, and walk a little lighter. This may be the day, this could be the day, the day that I fly!
There was a magic to the North End of VanDyke Road — not because I knew, but because I wasn’t certain at all.
Of course I was allowed to ride my banana seat bike down the gravel hill to Norton’s house. I did it in numbers higher than I could count. Racing with an excitement of pedals missed and handlebars rattling, I scattered pebbles behind my back tire from sun’s first light, until I got the porch call to come in for dinner.
I inched my way past Norton’s, one turn of the wheel further each day. Even with all the stories of fright circled in childish whispers, I knew one day I would have to go into this unhoused, untamed — into the wild.
It was about six months after my fifth birthday (the days when we gathered in halves as fast as we could, so eager to get to the next year). School had just started. Winter would follow. My bike would have to hang in the garage. I balanced the banana seat between my thighs. Held tight to the rubber coated handlebars. I had asked my mom early in the week if I could go down the second hill. If I could enter the North End. I wanted her to hesitate a little longer, but she said sure, and I knew I would have to go. I lifted one foot off the gravel to the top pedal. Wiped my sweaty hands one at a time on the last shorts I would wear that year. I gripped tightly. Held my breath. Released my second foot and began racing down the hill. I gave the pedal brake a couple of short taps to slow my decision, a decision that could not be reversed.
I don’t remember how long I stayed. There is a part of me that still remains in the conquered fear of North End’s open gate. I was so happy. So relieved. Neither pushed nor prevented, I had entered the unknown and survived.
This is the joyful knowledge I pocket and roll around in my nervous fingers as I face today’s unknown. I smile. Second foot off the ground…
Summer birthday parties were the best. A lake was always involved, as we lived in the land of 10,000. It was the beginning of our tweens. Everything was changing. No more pin the tail on the donkey. Boys were now invited. We gave thought to our swimsuits and how much cake we were eating. It wasn’t enough that our bodies were daring us in every direction, but so were our peers.
It was her father who hung the thick rope from the tree. It had a large knot at the bottom for standing. I watched the first boy do it. He pulled the rope taut at the height of the bank. Took a few running steps. Flung himself over the open water. (This is where my heart suspended in time just watching him.) Then at the peak of his swing, he let go. Plunged into the water. Whoops and hollers and hands raised in the air. A handful of others tried it. Mostly boys. The others found their way to the pontoon, or hammock. But I stood and watched. I was in that unenviable position of wanting to do it, but terrified. So I stayed planted. It wasn’t the height. I could deal with that. The swinging part looked actually fun. I loved the water, so it wasn’t that. It was the letting go. You had to let go. To swing back to land could mean hitting the tree. Scraping your feet. Worst of all, the embarrassment of the return.
I suppose that’s always the hardest part. I struggle with it now. This thing weighing on my heart. Causing such pain. This rope that I cling to. Why don’t I just let it go? I know this. I have to let it go. Even as I sit here typing, on the edge of this bank, I know it. So why do I remain planted? My heart paining with each breath.
I don’t remember grabbing it. It was flung in my direction, and short of being hit in the head, I took the rope in my hands. It seemed in slow motion. My feet began to move. Why were they moving? My heart was sweating more than my hands. Without my knowlege or permission I was over open water. “Let gooooooo!!!!!!!!!” I don’t know if it was the voice in my head, or the ones on shore, but I listened, and released my grip. I fell, and for a moment, flew, into the blue. Splash. Relief. Joy. I rose above both water and fear.
I’ve heard that in some languages there is only one word for forgiveness and freedom. Perhaps they have it right. I can feel the rope in my hand. It’s time to let it go. Our moments are brief. And I want to fly.
It’s amazing the power they have, these weeds. Even the ones in the garden.
Whether you call it imagination or worry, or awfulizing even, I can conjure up a lot of situations long before they have a chance to even occur. Most, thankfully, don’t occur at all.
I was at my grandma’s house, stooped over on the front cement steps. Waiting and worrying about my cousins arriving. Alone and surrounded by woulds. Would they still like me? Would they remember me from last summer? My grandma saw me, face curled, resting on clenched fists. “Why are you sitting here in the weeds?” she asked me. I looked around the cement. I didn’t understand. “I know that little brain of yours. Popping out all that worry, faster than a garden of weeds. Look out there. Are the birds worried? Do the cows have their heads in hooves?” Heads in hooves — I laughed. She waved her hand and scooted me off of the stairs. The woulds and weeds dropped from my chubby legs as I raced under the summer sun.
I was pulling the weeds surrounding our front entry. I tried to match them pluck for pluck. One from the garden. One from my brain. It made me laugh. Both put up a bit of a fight, but getting my head out of my hooves, it made it a lot easier.
I think a lot about the things my grandma did and said. When they were uniquely hers, we called it “pulling an Elsie.” Her letting go of the weeds was and is the main Elsie I’d like to pull. I keep the drawing of her hands behind me and try to live in the words, “If she did worry, it never showed in her hands. She held. She gave. She touched.”
My first instinct was to save it all. Candy from Easter or Halloween. I would spread it out. Sort it by taste and then color. Count it. Figure out how many days it would last. Not wanting to run out. Supplementing with Christmas, or Valentine’s, possibly birthday…how could I keep the candy supply chain alive?
It became quite clear on our trip to Jerry’s Jack and Jill grocery store, that this was the furthest thing from my Grandma Elsie’s mind. The first thing she picked up was a bag of coconut toasted marshmallows. She ripped open a corner and placed them in the child seat at the front of the cart. “Grandma!” I shouted a warning. “It’s fine,” she said. “We’re going to pay for it.” “But we’ll get in trouble.” “No, I know the people here.” And indeed she did. Never hiding her joy of these sugary treats, she ate them right in front of the butcher, and the stock boy. She said hello to everyone, popping them into her mouth, one after the other. By the third aisle, it became quite clear that we weren’t getting into trouble, so when she looked at me offering, I agreed. They were delicious. “Don’t you want to save any?” I asked. She looked bewildered. “But you love them…” I said. “What am I going to do with all that love?” she smiled.
We placed the empty bag on the counter at the cash register. It was my favorite trip ever to the grocery store.
It became so clear. Nothing was worth anything, if it wasn’t spent. Candy on the bedroom floor had no taste. And it became even more true with emotion. Courage had to be exercised. Love had to be given away. Or it meant nothing. I suppose we think we’re safe or something, if we hoard it all, but I’m afraid it’s just not true.
I want to live this way. So sure at the end of the day that I’ve laid it empty upon the counter. My sacks of courage, and victories, my joy, my woes, even, and especially, all my love. So sure that there will be more tomorrow. Again, and again, I will taste this life.
Hours before I knew it would actually be possible, I responded to a friend’s message. She was struggling with the “letting go.” I had this thought – telling her to give them to me. Hand them all over, these feelings of hurt and anger, and I would take them and place them in a field of lavender, to be swallowed up in all that purple. Nothing bad can survive that much beauty, I thought. And then, if a few stray negative thoughts tried to creep back into her heart and brain, at least they would smell of sweet lavender.
As I said, I didn’t know that only a few hours later, we would be passing countless fields of lavender on the way to see friends near the mountains. An endless sea of purple. “Ooooooooh,” I exclaimed, looking out the window. “Do you want to stop and take a photo?” Dominique asked. “Yes,” I said, but thought, not only that. I had some things to release. Not only hers, but mine as well. It’s funny how easily it all rolled down the ditch into the lap of scented color. I took the photos. The field grinned, exposing the lines of purple teeth, and I smiled in return.
Maybe we don’t all get the fields of lavender, but it is then we look to the friends that do. I suppose that’s what we’re all here for — to take turns carrying the load on our way to something beautiful. Because the world IS beautiful. Still and ever.
Pull over today. Take it in. Let it go. The breath of lavender — nothing bad can survive this much beauty.
The small wicker and wood chair that we sit at to open the pool broke under Dominique the very day I was feeling close to doing the same. (Oh the world and its pressures.) For a moment I actually hated that chair. Instead, I decided to take the wood and make something with it. It was surprising, with only one cut on each side, the wooden frame turned out perfectly square. That almost never happens. And after stretching the canvas over it. Stapling it. I measured again. Still square. I could hardly believe how cooperative this wood was being, when just moments before, beside the pool, it was so unforgiving.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my hurt feelings disappeared as the woman came to life on the canvas. Nothing changed in the situation that for a moment I found so desperate. But I had something new to focus on. Somewhere to put my attention in the most positive way. And I suppose that’s what forgiveness really is. It took me years to learn it. And clearly I’m still learning it. It really isn’t about the other person at all. You’re not “letting them off the hook.” I think it’s about releasing yourself from the situation. I guess if there are any “hooks” at all, it’s the ones you release from yourself. And what a glorious feeling.
Today my heart is light and I have a new painting. (The bruise on Dominique’s backside is also fading.) Oh the world and its gifts!
If you’ve ever stood in front of a painting and felt “moved,” perhaps it’s the sweet passing of forgiveness. Let it flow through you. And lightly begin again.
She wasn’t a screamer, nor a fighter. I suppose I get that from her. But I know that my mother got stressed. And somehow it had to get out.
I wasn’t yet of driving age. We had a blue Chevy Malibu station wagon. It wasn’t built for speed. Not known for its quick pickup. The light blue remained unblurred, but for those special moments when out of traffic’s way, safely buckled in, she would wink at me, slam her Herberger shoed right foot onto the gas pedal, roaring the engine! We could only squeal tightly along with the tires. We released our breath and she, her foot off the gas. “I just had to get the soot out,” she said. And we laughed. Louder than any engine’s roar.
It took awhile, but I would come to realize it wasn’t to release the “soot” from the car, but from our very spirits. Life can clog you down. And somehow, you have to release it. Laughter seemed to be our favorite route!
I can’t Malibu myself out of today’s stress. But I have found my own ways. On the gravel path. In shades of blue on the canvas. Sometimes, just word by word on the page, hoping they take you along for the ride, sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with a tear, sometimes both. The sun is coming up, hop in, my friends, let’s get the soot out!
