Long ago I wrote “On the days that I can’t create something beautiful, at least let me have the wisdom to see it.” I suppose the same goes for peace.
She’s the first thing I see each morning. I sit on the side of the table that faces her. In the painting, she sits behind her easeled art, within her book, and all is calm. I know this place. Whenever anxious, they are my two safety zones — holding the brush, or cradling the words. The bang of my heart quiets to a whispered beat, and I am saved.
It’s why I like the French words for not worried — it translates to pas inquiet (Inquiet means un quiet, or disquiet, a lack of peace.) So to be “pas inquiet” is to not be worried, to sit in this glorious peace.
Before I had the words, I had the tools. And on the days when I find myself in the chaos, I do have the wisdom, or at least the opportunity, the reminder, to see it — the place where my heart can rest and my mind can wander.
But it does deserve attention. It needs to be fed. Acknowledged. Yesterday, after baking the bread, we rode the waft of its scent to the vineyard that produces our favorite olive oil. It bears the taste of olive and earth, so pure, that when poured on the grains of the bread, placed on the back of the tongue, your eyes can only give way to the wave and roll to the back of your brain, the threshold, the most quiet place where gratitude lives, where worry cannot find its way.
And so I, we, begin the day, without a bang, in the beauty of this glorious peace.
My favorite underpants are proudly tagged with the notion that if you buy three pairs you will save a significant amount of money. I have yet to find three in my size, in one location at the same time, but I love them, so I buy them one at a time, ever hopeful.
Maybe it’s because I love the smooth fit. Or the way they stay on while wearing a summer dress (like if you suddenly have to burst into a run at an airport — if you know you know). Or the undeniable comfort it gives me, just after a wash, having a full drawer of clean underpants. Whatever the reason, I find myself patient with my underpants. And whether or not they can give it to me in a batch of three, I will love them. Would that I were so patient with everything and everyone, even myself.
I know that patience is a virtue. I also know the furious speed at which I have tried to get through things. I suppose there are a million ways to learn it. And I’ve tried close that many. And as unconventional as it may be, today I’m going to try the underpants method. Surely, if I can travel from Target to Target, bundle, head down, bracing the cold, the wind, find a clerk, ask for the brand, thumb through countless pairs, sliding the wrongly placed items along the rack, with little success, then yes, certainly I could be a little more patient with myself. With others. And if nothing else, it does make me smile. Laugh even. And in “a moment of grin” is always a good place to catch yourself.
In the fifth grade at Washington Elementary, I was ahead in my studies, so Miss Green said I could go upstairs to assist the third grade teacher. Oh, yes. What an opportunity! I felt so old and smart. These poor, lowly third graders surely needed all the wisdom I could impart. I walked tall into their classroom. I stood next to their teacher. Certainly we were equals. They were about to start a section in science. Biology. Not my favorite, but I was still confident. I walked behind her to the giant glass box. Frogs. My heart rose a little in my chest. I didn’t like frogs. Perhaps it was the years of torment from an older brother who thought sticking one down your summer tank top was hilarious! (It wasn’t.) Still, I thought, they’re in a glass cage. How bad could this be? My question was soon answered by one of the third grade boys who opened the cover. Frogs began jumping everywhere. It was an infestation, biblical in nature. The teacher ran around, grabbing. Children screamed and threw. No, not me. I raced to the door, and took the stairs two at a time to get back to the comfort of my classroom. “They didn’t need me after all…” I said as I humbly and quietly returned to my desk. I wrote over and over in my journal – “not today.”
It had been just weeks earlier at our yearly safety assembly that our principal told us when faced with something that made us uncomfortable or nervous, not to engage, but to remove ourselves from the situation. Who knew how valuable this information could be?! Still is.
As grownups, it gets a little harder to see the chaos of certain people or relationships — it’s usually a little more subtle than flinging frogs — but just as chaotic. And sometimes we can feel compelled to argue our point, louder, faster, as they fly overhead. But I’m right!!!! I’m right!!! Only it just adds to the screaming. I know I’ll be taught this lesson again and again. I walk out into the calm of the sun, the quiet peace of the morning, smile, and tell my heart, “not today.”
There is an intimacy to this life that I don’t want to miss.
We were visiting Burano, Italy – an island near Venice. It is known for its lace work and brightly colored homes. These homes are stunning. I even painted them. But it’s funny, I have this memory that is even more vivid. It was morning. We were strolling the near empty streets to find some coffee. And there was an older woman sweeping her front stoop. Just an old woman, with an old straw broom. But never “just.” This was her home. Her life. A life she dressed for. Already in a skirt and apron, she cleaned her front step to prepare for the day. In this tourist village, where people spent all their vacation dollars to see these brightly colored homes, she had a life. A life she cared for. Dressed for. And lived. And how lucky I was to see it!
I want to see it every day. With neighbors and strangers and family and friends. I want to see it on the news. Feel it. These are people. With lives. Each one special. Intimate.
There is a connection in the simplest of things. If we can see the broom. We can see the hands. If we see the hands, maybe we can feel the hearts. If we can see the hearts, then maybe, just maybe… our world – OUR world could open its morning doors, step on to the front stoop and feel safe, feel loved, feel alive. I won’t believe it’s “just” a dream.
The yard will need a lot of work when we get home. Living in an apartment for years, I never really knew what it took to keep up a yard, a garden. There is digging and moving and poking and nourishing and raking and watering, and mowing. It takes sweat and time and faith. And then it’s calm. The peace of the green grass under a blue sky. Serenaded by the birds. Calm. Home.
I suppose that’s what we all want. I thought that’s what we all wanted. Peace. And yet, here we are again — war. As if we’ve learned nothing. And I’m at a loss for what to write. What to paint. Does it make a difference? Does it make a difference if we post the pictures of those suffering, scared, fleeing? And it’s so easy to say “look how wrong they are” and then fight with our neighbors about masks and politics. We have to do better. We know better – don’t we? Please, let us know better.
Spring is on the way. A most glorious time of year. Beauty at every turn. But it expects things from us. It expects us to participate in all this glory. We have to participate. Be sowers of green. Of peace. We have to do the work. With our hands and our hearts. And we can’t give up. We know after each winter, there will be work to be done. And so it is with peace — constant work to be done. I don’t have the answers, but I have hope, and hands and a heart, and I’m going to keep trying. For calm. For home. For us. For all. Peace.
Now that Thanksgiving has been celebrated, but not forgotten (for I want to keep that gratitude in my heart every day), it is, for me, joyously, all Christmas, all the time! But I like to do it slowly.
A few years ago I made toffee for the first time. It is a wonderful lesson in patience, this slow simmering, this delicate balance of heat, but not too much… wait, watch, simmer, bubble, not yet, stir, easy now… maybe now… gently pour… That’s the way I like to decorate — in a slow, sweet, so deliciously sweet, simmer.
Yesterday I put out my favorite book — Maya Angelou’s Amazing Peace. She wrote the poem in 2005 for the lighting of the White House Christmas tree, but it has, perhaps, never been more relevant, this call for Peace. For peace, she says is not just “the absence of war.But, true Peace. A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies. Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.”
I know some people worry, oh, we shouldn’t say Merry Christmas. People have different faiths. Different practices. But never has it been more beautifully explained than in this poem. She welcomes all people:
“We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas. We beckon this good season to wait a while with us. We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come. Peace. Come and fill us and our world with your majesty. We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian, Implore you, to stay a while with us. So we may learn by your shimmering light How to look beyond complexion and see community. It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time.”
A halting of hate. What could be more magical than that? I don’t know if you celebrate Christmas, but this is what I want to celebrate with you. This joy. This hope. This peace. If you are one to decorate, I encourage you to place this book, front and center. If you like to keep it simple, then I encourage you to wear these words on your heart,
“Peace. We look at each other, then into ourselves And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation. Peace, My Brother. Peace, My Sister. Peace, My Soul.”
What an amazing time of year! An amazing opportunity for growth, even on the coldest of winter days. Warm yourself in the practice of peace. The slow, sweet simmer, of all that we can be.
There was a gate to Kinkead Cemetery, but it was never locked. It was about a mile from my house, a mile of gravel. I liked to ride in the cemetery because the paths were all paved. After all, riding a bicycle was not about getting anywhere, but about going fast. Once I got off the gravel and made it past the first iron fence, which held the Kinkead name, I could really pick up speed. No more rocks and holes to slow me down or wipe me out. Nothing to stand in the way of tire whizzin’, hair blowin’, teeth clenchin’ speed….nothing, except Mr. Whitman. He lived in the white house just outside the iron fence. He took care of the cemetery. He was old for his age, so my mother said. In my head, old was just old. He had gray stubbled hair on the sides of his cheeks, more than on the top of his head. He was missing two front teeth, one on the top and one on the bottom, which I discovered the first time he growled at me. In one hand he always carried a shovel or a rake, which shook as fast as my knees when he raised it in the air along with his upper lip. But we lived on a gravel road, and the cemetary was the only tarred, smooth ride, within my bike riding distance. A beautiful, fast and smooth ride that lured me daily. Mr. Whitman took lunch from 11:30 to 12:30 every day. By 11:32, he leaned his rake against the fence, 11:33 out the gate and 11:35, the screen door of his house was slamming behind him. 11:36 was my beginning. I had my course all mapped out…from the gate to the flat markers, and then past the large upright ones, down the middle of the cemetery… up a slight incline by the brick shed and then down a big curve, that’s where I’d really pick up speed. I needed to. The next corner was Baby Land. It was spelled out in flowers, pink, blue, yellow and white – the same col- ors of the flowers on my banana seat. Even though it was the saddest part of the cemetery, it was the prettiest. The flowers were beautiful. Once past the corner of Baby Land it was a straight shot back to the gate. I didn’t have a watch, so he caught me mid-lap several times. But once I figured out that sixteen was the magic number, I was never caught again…until that one day. Now, I won’t say that I wasn’t easily distracted…say, by the song playing in my head, or the turtle on the path, but I was pretty good with my lap times. I knew how many pumps it was from marker to marker, corner to corner. It was a game, a game I had won for two weeks straight. Then, on the fifteenth day, the eleventh lap, the corner right before Baby Land, I hit a rock, flew off the path and landed in a dark, deep hole. My bike abandoned me. I was alone in this…this empty, dirty hole, this… this terrible, this, oh….I was in someone’s grave. “Maaaaaahhhhhhhhmmmm,” I hollered out of reflex. She was miles away at work, but again I hollered. “Maaaahhhmmm!” I flopped down on the seat of my cut-offs. “How did I always…?” I slapped the dirt in disgust. The grave was new, but the situation…not all that unfamiliar. I had to think of a plan. There had to be a way out. I didn’t have much time. I was on my eleventh lap…and as near as I could fig- ure, a half a lap’s worth in the fall, another half sitting in disbelief..that left me with just a few laps’ time before Mr. Whitman came back from lunch. I jumped up. I jumped again and again…and again…each time a little less near the top. There was nothing to hang on to. The dirt was still loose. No way out. I jumped and grabbed. I could just reach the top, but it didn’t matter, I always came down. I could see the back tire of my bike waiting just outside the hole as if to say, “Hey, if you don’t get out soon, we’re both going to be in big trouble.” My bicycle had always been there for me…saved me from barking dogs, neighborhood bullies and the fear of standing still. He would be coming soon. I jumped. “If I could just…” I jumped again, this time touching the wheel. “He can’t catch me here. He’ll kill…” I jumped again, this time moving it slightly. I heard the iron gate close. I jumped again and again. I heard a tapping. It was getting closer. Now louder. It was something hitting the ground. “Was it steps?” I jumped again. He had picked up his hoe and hit it against the pavement with each step. It was getting louder. I had to get out. I jumped again. And this time I did it. Boy did I do it. I grabbed the wheel…and the bike came in after me. There I was, buried with my bicycle. The tapping stopped. He must have gone onto the grass. “Yes!” Victory was mine, for that instant. He had passed me by on his way to Baby Land. Although sweet, the victory was short. I had remained unnoticed, but I was still stuck with my bicycle in that stupid hole. Now, even if I thought of a way out, I’d have to wait for Mr. Whitman to leave. That could be hours. I sat down in disgust and threw a clump of dirt at my seemingly useless two-wheeler. “Dirt, dirt, dirt. D – I – R – T. Dirt, dirt bo-birt, banana fana fo firt…” It was going to be a long wait for freedom. I needed a friend. Cathy Norton was the closest. I taught her how to play the “Best – Worst” game. You know the one, you have to claim your best day and your worst day…best gum, worst gum…best teacher, worst teacher. Nobody ever won or lost, so it wasn’t really a game, but a way to waste time. And speaking of which…at that moment, I had a lot of it. I decided to play both of our roles. “Best Candy?” She’d have said Tangy Taffy. Me? I always went for Pop Rocks. It wasn’t that they tasted so good, just so fun to eat. “Worst?” For me it was Charleston Chews. For her, Wacky Wafers.
“Best Gum?” We were always in agreement on this one. “Bubs Daddy – Red Hot.” “Worst Gum?” In tandem, “Anything in a green wrapper that made your breath fresh.” We had worked hard on that answer. “Best Singer?” Cathy always switched off between Michael Jackson and Andy Gibb, depend- ing on which song she had heard last on the radio. Mine was always the same. She thought I was crazy. “Frank Sinatra. That’s right, ‘Ol Blue Eyes, The Chairman of the Board.” My mother taught me the all the words to “Mac the Knife” when I was five. How could there be another? “Hey that shark has…pretty teeth, dear…And he shows ’em pearly white. Just a jack knife..” My rendition wasted another five minutes. “Best Day?” I wasn’t really in the mood. Now worst day, that seemed to come right to mind, as I clenched a handful of dirt. “How long have I been in here? Doesn’t this man believe in coffee breaks?” I could hear his hoe, or his shovel or something hit a rock or tombstone every once in a while. He was still around. “Ok…focus now. Back to the game. Worst day?” Worst day. That was easy. It had started the night before. My mother and I had our own routines before bedtime. I’d wet my toothbrush, dampen a wash- cloth, flush the toilet and then let her have the bathroom. While she flossed her teeth, I’d count the number of sleeping pills in the bottle on her nightstand and hope for a similar count in the morning. Luckily, she was so rigorous with her routine, she never noticed mine. Our routines changed that night with our good-night hug. Oh, we always hugged, but this time, instead of giving me a hug, she seemed to be taking mine. She held me so hard, I thought she would squeeze the life right out of me. She let go so slowly, I could almost feel her sadness. I laid in my bed very still. I was confused and a little bit scared. It was one of those nights when I didn’t feel too old for my Raggedy Ann pillow case and sheet. I’m not sure if I had been sleeping yet when she came back in. She stood over me in the darkness. “Are you sleeping?” I wiped my eyes and shook my head no. “Why not? Are you scared?” she asked. “No.” I lied. Of course I was afraid, but not of what she thought. I was afraid of what was hap-
pening with her…afraid of the fear that she seemed to be feeling. “It’s ok if you are. You can come and sleep in my room. I’ll make you a little nest.” We had always called it a nest – a few blankets on the floor beside her bed. Whenever I was scared…of the dark, the thoughts in my head, the new place we were living in…she’d make a nest for me…and then I was saved. But what scared me tonight was the realization that this time, and maybe some of the others too, she was the one that was scared…of the dark, the thoughts in her head, …and the only way she could save herself was to believe she was saving me. I felt so responsible. How could I save her? I had to, but how could I? What did I know? I knew about bicycles and candy. Bubble gum and Band-Aids. I couldn’t save her. The world was so big. I was only allowed to ride my bike one mile away. Without the light, I could barely see the outline of her face…but her eyes looked harder at me than they ever had before. I had seen that look. It was the same look a mother gave the flowers in Baby Land. She looked to them to give back a beauty that had been taken away. “How could they do that?” I wondered. I always thought the flowers had too much responsibility. And now I felt that look on my face. I couldn’t change things. I couldn’t make her world pain free…bring my father back, make the town more forgiving…I just couldn’t. But she continued to look at me and I knew I had to try. The only thing I could do, for that night, for that moment of darkness, was to let her save me. For the first time, in a nest that she had made, I stayed awake. I counted the pills when the sun finally came up. She went to work and then I went to sleep. I set the alarm for 11:15. Not long after, I found myself in a hole, in Kinkead Cemetery. Not a good 24 hour period. Definitely, worst day material. I continued to let handfuls of dirt slide between my fingers like sand in an hourglass. Mr. Whit- man continued to work not far away. Could he still be in Baby Land? How long was he going to spend there? Wasn’t he needed anywhere else? There I sat, in my open grave. It was no nest. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all. Cathy Norton was probably riding on her motorized three wheeler right now…not having to worry about anything. She had four sisters, a mother and a father. They had lived in the same house forever at the north end of VanDyke road. Her mother didn’t have to work. Her father came home every day at 5:30. And she never, never ever counted sleeping pills. That’s why I ended up in this stupid place. I was tired. It was just too much. I couldn’t have someone’s happiness as my responsibility. I couldn’t do it alone. I couldn’t. Who would take care of me? I didn’t want to be looked to. Who would…?
My thoughts were interrupted by a whistling Mr. Whitman. I didn’t know he whistled. Was he ever going to leave Baby Land? He spent more time on those stupid flowers than… And then it hit me. He did spend more time on those flowers than anything else. He weeded and hoed, shoveled and watered, picked and caressed, watered and whistled too. Yes, those flow- ers had a big responsibility, maybe bigger than the rest, but they weren’t alone…a gardener was looking after them, harder and longer than any other flowers in the cemetery. Mr. Whitman finally went for his coffee break. It was my big chance. “What did I have? What were my tools, my options? Ok, the bike’s useless…but I must have something…a stick…a rock? No, there was nothing…nothing but that stupid, flowered, banana-seat bike. Banana Fanna fo fanna, a mee-a, mia, mo… Wait a minute..that’s it. My stupid bicycle. Ok, not stupid…my fabu- lous bicycle. It was my escape. It had been there the whole time. It was so simple. Why hadn’t I seen it?” I braced my bike the short way. The wheels dug into the sides, steady as a staircase. I climbed onto the seat, reached my hands to solid ground and climbed out. Just as I was about to raise my hands in victory, I looked down and realized my bike was irretrievable. “Now what?” I decided I would just have to leave it…come back for it when Mr. Whitman’s day was over. “But then what?” Well, I didn’t have time to think of that now. I had to get out. I had no idea what time it was and I wanted to beat my mother home from work. I ran the mile home. I grabbed my knees to catch my breath in the kitchen. The clock on the wall said three. I had made it. Plenty to spare. I had made it – made it through the night, the fall, the grave…and I knew I could survive anything. My clothes were filthy. I washed them in the sink with shampoo and dried them with my blow- dryer. I waited on the front step. She drove up, just a few minutes after Mr. Norton drove by. She got out of the car. “Did you have a good day?” I asked. “Yes,” she answered with a smile, grabbed my hand and I believed her. “You?” she asked. “The best.” And I believed myself. After dinner I recruited Cathy to walk back to the cemetery to try and retrieve my bicycle. We had all the necessary tools – rope, a hammer and three packages of Bubs Daddy bubble gum. I don’t know what the plan was actually, but we had all the confidence that age had not yet dimin- ished.
When we got to the gate we saw the most amazing thing. My bike was resting against the iron bars. And it wasn’t even dirty. Someone had rescued it. “I thought you said your bike was…” Cathy started. “It was. It really was buried.” “Well it’s not now. Let’s go. Brady Bunch will be on soon.” It’s funny how easily we both accepted the tiny miracle that rested against the Kinkead fence. “It’s probably just a repeat,” I said as I straddled my bike. I gripped the handle bars. Hold everything dear. “I don’t care. I still want to see it.” Cathy hopped on the back of my seat. We started the ride back. “Best Brady Bunch?” she asked. “The one where Jan drops her bracelet out the window and Alice buys her a new one.” “Yeah, that one was good. Worst?” “The trip to the Grand Canyon. It was so beat.” “Best Brady Boy?” she continued. “Definitely Peter.” “Yeah, he’s the cutest.” She held on to my waist as I pedaled. “Best bike ride?” she asked as we neared her driveway. “This one,” I said, “Definitely, this one.” That night my mother tucked me in and went to her bed. A few minutes later I got up and went into her room. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid?” “No,” I answered. And this time I meant it.
“Then, what?” “I heard Mr. Whitman whistle today,” I said. “I just thought you should know.” She smiled. I returned to my bed and we both slept through the night.
