Before I had finished the page in my sketchbook, it had become an Emily Dickinson poem. “In the name of the Bee,” — a poem that had been passed around between my mother, my ninth grade English teacher, my friend David, two books on my shelf, and the path that I walk daily.
It was another Emily who asked,
“EMILY: “Does anyone ever realize life while they live it…every, every minute?” STAGE MANAGER: “No. Saints and poets maybe…they do some.”
– Thornton Wilder, “Our Town”
Wanting to get to “some,” and realizing my limits for sainthood, I try to walk in the poem each day.
I said once, on the days that I can’t create something beautiful, at least give me the wisdom to see it. Yesterday was busied with a trip to Marseille. We had an appointment at the Hopital Conception. We were greeted at the entry with a poster of Rimbaud, the French poet. While others sat in the waiting room. I sat in the poetry. I looked around to see if others were held in the syntax, hoping, wishing, they could feel my Emily within their Rimbaud. That maybe we could all live together in the magic of the word, maybe not “every, every minute,” but for this moment, the magic of this collective poem.
It wasn’t that hard to piece together. I saw the publisher’s clearing house magazines open on the table, and the presents piling up under the tree. I was bursting with knowledge when my mother came to pick me up from Grandma Elsie’s house. “I know the truth about Santa Claus.” I told my mom while putting on my seat belt for the car ride home. “Oh,” she said, not sure of what my truth would be. “I know Grandma orders the presents and puts them under the tree.” My mom smiled, thinking I knew that all grandparents and parents did the same. But somehow she managed to contain her laughter when I pronounced, (not that Santa wasn’t real) but that I knew it was actually Grandma who was the real Santa Claus, for everyone.
I wish I could tell you the depths of my pride. I knew Grandma Elsie was special, but this, this was really something. To think it was my Grandma who brought presents to the entire world. If I had begun to question the existence of an actual Santa Claus — the ability of one person to pull off such a feat, I can tell you that all doubts subsided. Because if anyone could do it, it would be Grandma Elsie.
The roads were already covered in snow. My mom pulled the Chevy Impala into our driveway between the two drifts. I was staring out the picture windows. But for the snow illuminating the winter’s dark, I never would have seen it. But there it was — a streak of red. Santa was running across Van Dyke Road! My mom heard my screams of delight, but came just after the blur. “What?” She said. “I saw Grandma running across the road!”
We never found out who actually donned the suit and ran on our snowy road. So I can’t completely rule out that it wasn’t Grandma Elsie. If you ask me when I stopped believing, I would have to tell you, not yet.
I often wonder if my Grandma knows that I’m here. What my life is like now. But then I saw her yesterday in Marseille. I sat beside her in the magic of Christmas.
I was about her age when I read it for the first time, The Great Gatsby. The green light that I sought was never about the opulence of wealth and fame, but I had one. Pick any one of the 10,000 lakes in Minnesota where I grew up, and I could see it dock dancing. It was my love of words. Paint. Creativity. Expression of any kind, reflecting Gatsby Green in my eyes and heart. I follow it still.
At first glance, looking up at her from the Mediterranean, I’m sure they think she has everything. That she is shining green. And yes, she lives in a beautiful home. The right cars and clothing. Even her hair looks expensive. But I have the privilege of seeing her up close, in home and heart. Her newly teened soul is looking. She paints in those perfect dresses. She bakes and cradles the cat. She takes the summer course of theatre and dares to dream of the stage – that one day it will be her script, loud and clear and glowing green.
When I invite her out on the balcony, (the only gift I have to give really), I don’t need to tell her to assume the pose. She is living it. Looking outward. Onward. Not reveling in what she has, what the others see, but looking for her own light. And what a thing to behold! — all these words from the page coming to life, right there in front of me, shining so possible — Margaux, on the balcony in Marseille.
I’m not big on sport analogies, but there is one that always sticks with me, as I navigate this world, and other relationships. It was during a football game. He had just scored a touchdown, which we all agree can be exciting, but the player made a gigantic display in the endzone, far exceeding any natural elation. As he continued it back to his side of the playing field, the coach simply said, “Act like you’ve been there before.”
It’s exciting to be a tourist. I love it. It’s easy to get caught up in the moment. I understand. But it seems that a majority of us have lost the ability to recognize that we are wandering through, not just monuments, but other people’s lives.
We sat near the altar in La Cathédrale de la Major for Charles’ confirmation. Of course this is one of Marseille’s grand cathedrals. A coveted destination for sure. But throughout the service, tourists, in their brightly colored shorts and graffitied t-shirts that declared the latest concert attended, wandered beyond the velvet ropes nearly on to the altar, snapping photos, waving to the rest of their group to signify that they made it to the “endzone.”
I mention it mostly as a reminder to myself. Without our knowledge or permission, we are touristing through the lives of others. I hope that I, we, can ease up on the trample, even on the most exciting of days. Because on this day that we are celebrating our victories, someone is losing someone, someone is lost. I think our joy is meant to be seen — definitely. Never as a taunt, but as a welcome.
I want to get better at this journey. Maybe the best way to start is to realize we are all on one.
I wanted to tell her that there is this thing – something better than a thing – this phenomenon that happens when you are close to the water. It’s called Blue Mind. I had only heard of it a few days ago, but had experienced it my whole life.
When I take a swim in the pool in the morning – it transports me back to 10 years old, riding my bike to Lake Latoka. Not parking the bike, just letting it fall into the sand. Kicking off my shoes, and shorts, racing into the water. Then floating. And swimming. And feeling the everything and nothing of being weightless. The everything and nothing of being without worry. This glorious everything and nothing buoying me for an endless summer.
Now the “experts” will say that “Blue mind” is characterized as a mild state of meditation that evokes a sense of calm, peacefulness, happiness and contentment. It’s your brain’s subconscious, positive reaction to being on, in or near water. You instantly feel a higher sense of wellbeing, slower breathing and lower heart rate.
That sounds right too. And I wanted to tell her all of that, but I didn’t know all of the French words, and she was crying, and it seemed too long to explain. I started to say something and the sight of the Mediterranean Sea caught my eye and my breath.
I learned a long time ago that joy arrives in every shade of blue. I smiled. Hugged her, and thought, we could probably just go outside.
The first time we drove along La Corniche, the radio was playing. I didn’t understand the language. The more the announcer talked, the more the view disappeared. It’s hard to see when you’re drowning. Each word was an anchor. It was so hard to breathe. What was I thinking? This couldn’t possibly be for me. This view. This bienvenue. No, not for me. I couldn’t see the blue, the turquoise… I was going under. Each word I didn’t understand said you don’t belong here. It’s funny when we don’t understand something how quickly we can translate. Create our own narrative.
“Use the back door,” she said. She knew I didn’t belong to “the club” – The Alexandria Golf Club. That was obvious. Wasn’t it obvious? I would never belong. “Breathe,” I told myself. And walked around.
We drove along the sea. “Use the back door.” I hadn’t thought of that in years. And now that’s all I could hear. Each French word was pushing me down the back stairs, and the water kept rising.
That weekend at The Alexandria Golf Club, I was there to sell my not yet refined art work. It was simple, inexpensive, full of my heart and hands. I entered through the back door, terrified. What was I thinking? It was me.
The world can surprise you. I sold everything. People smiled, and hugged and clutched their pearls, and “oh, that is so me,” they said. “So me.” So me. “Entering through the back door me.”
It took me years to claim my hometown. Maybe I should say, claim myself in my hometown. And I expected to enter France through the front door?
Some lessons we have to learn again and again, and I would learn this one…again.
I grew up across the gravel road from Lake Agnes in Alexandria. I painted Lake Agnes in France. I painted the blue, each stroke stepping through the front door. This was my hometown. It was not theirs. It was ours.
I claimed it. My heart. The most terrifying thing, can sometimes be the most beautiful.
We’ve driven along the sea more times than I can count. I begin to see it more each time. The colors flowing in my heart now, not over my head. The blue. The turquoise. I see it. It is not theirs. It is ours. And it is beautiful.
We came home to Aix, and I grabbed my brushes, my blues, and wrote a love letter to Marseille. Us. (Did you know that includes you? As terrifying as that may seem, it is twice as beautiful! And it is ours.)
