“I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”
I had been living in the poem, long before I had even heard of Robert Frost. I had never been one to blend. Even the love of poetry itself seemed somewhere off the beaten path. But all the treasures I have found have never been by pushing my way through a crowd.
Yesterday, as folks made their way to lake and fair, we went to the museum. I started my grin when we parked with ease. Then a full blown smile as we walked through the entrance. The halls were empty. We talked about paintings in our normal voices without struggle. Walked right up to our favorites. Took photos without obstruction. I could only giggle, as it seemed to be open just for us.
I can’t waste time worrying that it probably will never happen again, because it did happen. And that’s more than enough.
I bought a pencil in the gift shop. Gift shop pencils always seem to work better for me. I think the wood absorbs all the creations of what was and flows into my creations of what will be. I suppose the same is true for love and life. The halls of the day are wide open. I can only giggle.
Visiting new museums, one can often suffer fatigue from the pressure to see it all and document it. Overwhelmed and under pressure to put yourself in front of all the masterpieces, capturing every photo and all of the proof.
But yesterday was different. I can feel myself exhale, just in the typing now. I have been to the Minneapolis Institute of Art countless times. I know where to park. Where the bathrooms are. The steps to the Impressionists. And it can still make my heart jimbly in the most delightful way, without all the pressure. I can wander France in front of the Cezanne. Laugh in front of the painting that my friend’s husband says looks like the two of us, though neither of us thinks the same. I circle the portrait room and imagine one of mine just beside the Alice Neel or the Andrew Wyeth. I view the skyline. Levitate through the shop. Never a photo taken. The gift is, I don’t have to prove that I’ve been here, I just get to be.
I suppose that’s home, isn’t it? Where your heart can rest, and your mind can wander. Thank you, Minneapolis. We’ll be back.
It’s no secret that I love to go to museums. To see beautiful things, that’s obvious. Of course there is pleasure in that. But there’s more. So much more. Standing in front of a painting is like being in a time capsule. You are transported to the date of creation. You are within the movement of the hands and heart of the artist. You walk in their story. Be it pleasure or pain, calm or turbulent, you are there. They are there. With you. For you. Allowing you the comfort to bring your own story to life.
Yesterday I found the pin that my friend bought for me at the Minneapolis Institute of Art. It reads, “Support your local museum.” Holding it in my hand, it occurred to me that friendship, true friendship, is like a museum. It holds all of your stories. Your most celebrated moments in the brightest of colors. Your deepest thoughts in dark, subtle tones. Your aspirations and dreams. Your fears and triumphs. All without saying a word. The only requirement is simply to walk within it.
So I wear the pin proudly, and encourage us all to do the same. Support those beautiful and glorious works of friendship. The art and heart of our living. I give thanks to them, for them, every day.
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!
To see yourself in the Alexandria Echo Press, was proof that you existed. The paper came out the day after our weekly softball game. During a slow news week, the local photographer would come to the fields and take some random photos. It happened only a couple of times between the ages of 8 and 12, but I can still feel it. That first glance of the sports page. Scanning. Long blonde hair. Bat. It was me. In full muddy black and uncrisp white. We rarely won a game. But that was never really the point. We were together. In the sun. With our friends in an endless summer. The proof was in our hearts, and randomly validated in the press.
When I finished this painting, the first thing my friend said was, “She belongs in the MIA.” It was as if I had turned the page and saw myself for the first time. I guess that’s what friends can do for you. Your true friends validate what is in your heart. They see you. And it is beautiful.
We are going to the MIA this afternoon with this very friend. And we all will belong. Together. My heart holds the proof — and even with a dusting of snow, I know the warmth of this friendship will never end.
