I suppose the closest thing we had to an “influencer” when I was in college was the purchasing of a used book highlighted in bright yellow. Being on a tight budget, I was often subjected to what the previous student deemed important. Perhaps it was defiance, or simply making my own path, but armed with my own highlighter, pink, orange, anything other than yellow, I colored over and in my deepest connections to the word. By the time the next student, spending their last dime to earn an education, opened the textbook, it would have been completely highlighted. Just as it should be, I thought, because wasn’t it all important! Every word a path lit fluorescent.
And I think that’s our real responsibility, not to push or “influence,” but offer a light.
I’m reading a new book, This is Happiness, by Niall Williams. I’ve only just begun, but I am deep in the journey. This author demands that each word be walked carefully, like Hugo’s precious field behind our house on Van Dyke Road. No trampling through. Respectful of all that the ground had to yield, before and yet to come. With each paragraph, the golden crop brushes against my chubby thighs, leaving the safety of house toward the excitement of town. Tiptoeing out of youth, with its remains gathering in my shoes.
I suppose I am a highlighter of word, and memory, and heart. Because isn’t it all important? Isn’t it all important!! I walk the new morning. The gravel in my shoes answers a bright and glorious YES!
I’ve yet to capture it on film. (But certainly in the shutter of my heart.) Some call it golden hour. And I suppose, as glorious as it is, it’s not that uncommon, but in this house I live, at this one certain time, I have witnessed this light between rooms, not only shine and illuminate, but bend.
It’s just a small window in the sewing room, Grandma Elsie’s sewing room, but when the hour is golden, the light thrusts through every pane. And you may think thrust is too strong, but wouldn’t it have to in order to bounce off of two doors, across the hallway and land beautifully upon the painting of the children at the beach? It’s almost as if it knows the destination, knows how deserving they are of the light.
It doesn’t last long, but spectacular rarely needs a lot of time to make its point. It’s in these tiny, well lit moments that I remember how lucky we are. How we are given everything we need, and more! How even in our struggles of darkness, in our failed attempts to reach all that shines…with obstacles lining the way — magically, joyfully, light bends. Golden.
Maybe it’s the light. The call of the birds. But I wake up earlier this time of year. I suppose it’s counterintuitive, but there is an eagerness to rush into the morning, as if it were a warm and wandering tiger that I could grab by the tail, and convince it to slow down. To sit with me. To sit with us. To dangle slowly as the ripening peaches on the tree just outside our kitchen window. I know how their skin feels. Like they alone can feel the gentle touch of the sun. Almost weightless without winter’s worry. Trusting as if held in the grace of the branch. Never rushing the ripe. For this brief moment, I just am.
Maybe it’s the perk of the coffee. The pop of the toaster. But I catch myself in this moment of happiness. And the tiger runs off. And in catching myself, I guess it ends. But my summer legs tell me it doesn’t have to. My summer heart agrees, and I am back in the moment. I am the tiger. I am the peach. Perhaps even the light. How could summer ever end?
As the receptionist of Independent School District 206, my mother was first voice, first impression to the learning institution of Alexandria, and one might say even the town. She knew everyone’s extensions on the switchboard. She knew their voices. Their quirks. Whether you were a new teacher fresh from university eagerly looking for housing, or an impatient parent angrily wondering why a little snow could possibly close the schools, or a student asking if the buses were going to be an hour late, what time would that be exactly — she was the first responder. Watching her, this, for years, of course I was impressed. And the fact that she did it with such style, made me admire her all the more.
As I began to learn cursive writing, I knew my world would open. For me, it meant I could write letters. My mother told me that when I had conquered the curves, we could take some of that hard earned ISD 206 money and buy stationery and stamps. I took home the three-lined paper from Washington Elementary and practiced each night. It was during a conference day. Instead of staying home alone, I sat in the velvet chair next to her desk. She opened the drawer to get a pen. I knew it was a pen, because she had that confidence — no need for a pencil and an eraser. She told me to come around to her side of the desk. The drawer still open, she pointed to the small green tin. Open it, she said. It was filled with stamps and loose change. I didn’t care about the money of course. All I could see were those beautiful stamps. And she was in charge of them — of the world that awaited me. The light shone a little brighter through the plate glass windows of the superintendent’s office, and rested over my mother’s head.
Through the years we would share more secret drawers, mostly of the heart. I was always surprised when she told me that she wanted to be brave, to be strong. Of course my brain understood. But my heart never saw anything differently . For me she always shone in the light of the stamp box. She held the gentle power to open my world, and release me into it. I walk in that light still. Some days I am tripped and misled by the curves, but the light, the light never dims.
It’s no surprise when my color palette sneaks from canvas to canvas. It happens quite often. When painting in blues, I gravitate from sea to sky for several images. Currently I’m in the greens. All colors are available all the time — one could be grabbed as easily as the next. But I think it’s because of what I see. After painting Margaux on the balcony of Marseille, the greens of bush and tree were everywhere. The light that changed this one green from yellow to nearly black, was called to me. Greeting me from the breakfast window, on to the morning path…everywhere a welcoming. You could say, “Well, sure, it’s France, it’s beautiful…” and yes, that’s true. But it’s not the first time I have been carried in this palette, lifted by this light.
My basement bedroom in Alexandria, Minnesota — yellow and green. It was the first time I got to choose my palette. From carpet to bedspread, that one windowed room gleamed bright with possibilities. I’m not sure it was even a year. The house was sold. The neighborhood got small in the rearview window of the small moving van. We left without bed or spread, but the color remained. It still does.
I suppose it’s always been about what you choose to see. Loss or opportunity. Pain or growth. Because within every palette of life’s journey there is the spectrum of color. The same green is lit bright, or shaded black. Knowing you can’t see one without the other.
I can’t tell you what everyone sees. But I know it’s different. This is painfully clear from the daily news. From balcony to gravel, we all have a different view, a different perspective, a varying palette. But maybe the “them” and “us” of it all could be replaced with just different shades of green. And we could see each other, really see each other, as we navigate from color to color, sharing this palette, chasing the light.
It’s only two laps in the pool. The time it takes to check the mailbox. Or the final crisping of the crust on the baguettes baking in the oven. Less than the length of my favorite song. Just two minutes. But we begin to lose this precious two minutes of light every day now.
It’s impossible to hold on to. I try to grab it like a birthday balloon, but the string floats out of reach. This time. This lit time. And it seems frightening at first. No way to capture it. Time is like that. So what’s to be done? My only thought is this — we can still light it. Not with sun, but with attention. With glowing thoughts perhaps. Smiles, yes, that could work. There is a light to joy, isn’t there? Yes, yes. I believe it. So instead of worrying about what is slipping through my hands, I give thanks for what is captured in my heart. And I am lit from within. Minute by glorious minute. With each bite of the fresh bread from the oven, the kitchen shines a little brighter. The reflections dance off the pool that I swim, and the gravel I walk.
The sun is merely our head start, our best example…the lead which we must take on daily, with hearts and minds that know no time constraints. I wrote once, “nothing is lighter than joy.” I meant weight at the time, but I think it works the same with absolute shine! Either and both, I’m going to carry it with me.
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.
I can’t say I ever followed boxing. Of course I had heard of him, Muhammad Ali. But my limited impression was mostly bravado. But then in 1996, when he appeared on the Olympic stage, fragile, all in white, I took notice. Arms trembling, he moved gingerly across the stage. No “floating” or “stinging”…but what I saw, what we all saw, was pure strength. I held my breath as the shaking flame tried to grab hold. Seconds passed. And then it took. The flame shot up to the official grand torch, and the sky lit with the power of vulnerability.
We have a tendency to ooooh and aaaah at the fantastic — at human feats of strength. And we should. But the truth is, they are happening all around us, all the time. I suppose the only real difference is the lighting. Not engulfed under an Olympic size flame, but rather within the subtle glowing of grace. Not emboldened by uniform or flag, but inner strength. Those who dare to brave the challenges of heart and body, and face the day with kindness still.
In a couple of days, the Olympic torch will pass through our French city. A grand event, for sure, but it makes me smile, as I look at the pictures of my mother on the wall…my grandfather, my grandmother…the torch has already been passed.
There is a natural instinct, I suppose, when you experience something wonderful, to want others to feel the same. “You’ve gotta taste this,” we say. “You’ve got to see this!” And I enjoy sharing things from around the world. But these are the obvious things. The guaranteed positive response. The Eiffel Tower, example. The Vatican. I feel blessed to have stood beside the Colosseum. Floated in Venice. But it’s not a surprise really. I expect people to like these photos.
Winter in Minneapolis. Not the expected destination for travel. But there is beauty. And I see it. Maybe it’s all just a reflection of the people I’m with, but the light!!!! The beautiful light of this city. One that I claim. This is something! I shared the image with my French family. When she replied, in French, how beautiful she thought the light was, it made me feel special. Not just because I took the photo. But that she could see it too. We were a little more connected. Sharing this truth.
It’s why I share the stories of the places I love, but even more so, the people. When I wrote this poem about my mother, The Truth about you, I did it because sometimes I just can’t imagine the incredible luck, the pure blessing, of having such a mother, and I just want everyone to know. To see it. To see her. So pardon my repeats, as I keep spreading the news. The joy. The love I have for my mom, my city. This world.
The light is coming in from the window. I hope when you see it this morning, you will know, it’s for you too!
I was watching a German creator who recently moved to Los Angeles, California. She was lonesome. Missing her friends. She walked around the streets and picked up odd objects. From the ground. Abandoned buildings. Seemingly useless stuff, but she could see something beautiful. She made a light that turned on by an automatic switch, notifying her of the German time between 9am and 9pm — the time she could safely call up a friend in Germany. Her best friend. To hear the sound of her voice. I love this idea. This simple reminder. A light to stay connected.
Because that’s everything, isn’t it? Just to be connected to the ones you love.
I search the house. Photographs and spare parts. Metal. Wood. Scraps. I know I can make anything. My heart smiles and tells my brain, “I’ve got this.” The flame that lights my mother’s memory is shining brightly. There’s only one thing I need to know — what time is it in heaven?
