In the arts of love and endurance, gratitude, forgiveness, strength and pure joy, the heart is mighty, for sure! But it’s never been all that good at math.
Of the nine children my grandparents had, only two remain. This two of Rueben and Elsie changed its numbers so many times, and continues still. Only once, with the twins, did it jump by two. The eleven held, and grew even more rapidly, as the nine paired off and tested all of our addition skills. Children turned into grands and then greats, and just as we got used to all of the plus signs, the painful subtractions began.
But the arithmetic of the heart is nothing like we learned at Washington Elementary. Here they taught us that the value changed when subtracting. But they didn’t warn us about the heart. Because for the heart, it never does. The numbers will forever change — it’s a guarantee that life will do that — but the value remains. Love cannot, will not, do the math.
I mention it today because my dear friends lost their beloved dog. She said she was missing her family of three. I, we, struggle to add comfort in times of loss. I don’t know if it helps, I hope it helps, it often does for me…this letting go of the math. Letting the heart decide what remains. True love does. So, I tell her, you ARE still three. Forever three.
I think some made the mistake of gauging how much they were loved by the number that was displayed on the box of Crayola crayons.
I don’t remember my first number. I suppose it was 12. Possibly 24. It certainly wasn’t the biggest box with the flip top and the built in sharpener. Those were way too expensive. But what I do remember is the waxy scent of possibility. I remember holding each crayon in my hand. The smooth paper wrapper against my fingers. How each color felt different and demanded a certain touch. There was a necessary combination of gentleness and strength. The crayon had to be within control, but not gripped too tightly, or it would crack in the middle. Such a delicate dance to put image on paper.
I can’t count the number of times I made a picture for my mother. Or the number of times she clutched her imaginary pearls in delight. The number of times I hugged her knees as she hung the images on the refrigerator. The beats of love that continue in my heart to this very day. This is what I count on.
It’s probably not a surprise that I still love it. That I am what I am.
For Christmas one year, my brother-in-law gave me a box of pastels. I didn’t count them. I don’t even know what sizes they actually come in. But I knew that I was seen. That I was loved. And joyfully, there are still no numbers for this.
We were doing so well, until we got into the higher numbers. Not only did we have to learn the language, the French words for the numbers, we had to do the math as well. To say the teacher explained to us — (A “we” that could be only described as a collection of people from the land of misfit toys. Myself – the American, the two women from South Korea, the Cambodian, the Russian, the Mexican, and the 5 Arabs.) — this would be an overstatement. But in her defense, what good reason could there be to stop giving the additional numbers their own names and start combining them in different math problems? For example — the number for eighty is not given its own name, no, it is quatre-vingts (4×20).
Deep in my wandering brain, I thought of the first time I had heard this four and twenty. Yes, yes, baked in a pie…
“Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened, The birds began to sing. Wasn’t that a dainty dish To set before the king?”
It was my first music box. It was red and yellow, shaped like a tiny radio. You spun the knob and it sang the nursery rhyme. This one was my favorite. I dialed it in. The birds survived every time. Imagine that I thought – baked in a pie – and they survived! Glorious! I sang it again and again.
As the nursery rhyme repeated in my head, the teacher had already gotten to the nineties. It was even worse. In the nineties, you have to multiply and add. You can imagine the nightmare that 99 brings for a non-French speaking person — quatre-vingt-dix-neuf (4×20+10+9).
I suppose it will come as no surprise. To test out of this first unit, we had to hold imaginary conversations with the French officials. The first scenario, she explained, was in a store. I was to be the clerk selling dresses (so far so good.) She would be the customer. I looked at the pictures she gave to me. It showed a dress hanging on the rack. As big as life the tag read, $99.99. My heart sank. She asked how much it was. I started doing the math. The numbers raced in my head…all clunked together with the Song of Sixpence. I began my quatre-vignt-dix-ing… then stopped and said, in my best French — this dress was on sale. (Wasn’t that a dainty dish, I thought?) She laughed. I passed the exam.
I have been given the tools I need to find my way in and out of life’s pie. And so I keep singing!
Knowing that I haven’t missed a day of blogging in 837 days, it’s not lost on me, sitting within some hurt feelings, that I’m told to “just forget about it.” For better or worse, remembering is kind of my thing. But even as I type this, it does make me laugh, well, at least smile anyway.
And then I start to think about all the numbers. I know we were told that you are supposed to keep forgiving. Not just seven times, but seven times seventy. And for a minute my brain thinks “If I was hurt yesterday, and I still feel hurt today, then does that count for two?” Math is hard, but it does add up quickly. And I smile a little more.
The thing about feelings is they don’t show like a broken leg, or a sprained wrist. Most people don’t even know they hurt you. And the phrase I heard for the majority of my childhood from my older siblings repeats in my head, “Well, if you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.” Now I actually laugh.
I guess they all have to be healed from within. And we all have our own methods. Of working through. Of letting go. I begin by counting the words. Maybe the strokes. Perhaps the laps in the pool. And soon the numbers fade and I’m just in it. In the doing. The living. And I actually have to look up the numbers that are recorded in the blogging application to see how many days it has been. Because the number doesn’t really matter. I do it because I want to. I started for different reasons and now it has evolved into my living. I00 likes or 10, 800 days or one, it doesn’t really matter, this is how I live. I guess it’s the same with feelings. I’m not going to change because sometimes I get hurt. I am going to feel everything. It’s just the way I live. And that’s the real reward.
I’ll leave you with one last number. It’s going to be 109 degrees here today. Time for some countless laps in the pool. I feel better already.
