When I turn the pages of my sketchbook, I have to laugh at the sizing. The weight I can give a sparrow!. And that’s wonderful, if directed toward joy. But I have to be careful that I don’t do the same with problems — make them bigger than ever possible. And that’s easy to do. But it’s also easy to shift.
When the weight of a random day is too much to carry, I try to paint it away. And once I begin, to squeeze out a little paint on my saturated palette (I’ve done this before), wet my brush to lip, begin to color the page, what felt so heavy on heart, is so much lighter on wing. It’s funny how that works. I suppose it’s not really even magic, more likely, it wasn’t that heavy after all. I mean, if the sparrow can carry it away… And so I keep painting, lighter, once again learning, hope will never weigh you down.
The morning sky is bright. It seems like it might be a good day to fly! I’ll see you up there.
Summer birthday parties were the best. A lake was always involved, as we lived in the land of 10,000. It was the beginning of our tweens. Everything was changing. No more pin the tail on the donkey. Boys were now invited. We gave thought to our swimsuits and how much cake we were eating. It wasn’t enough that our bodies were daring us in every direction, but so were our peers.
It was her father who hung the thick rope from the tree. It had a large knot at the bottom for standing. I watched the first boy do it. He pulled the rope taut at the height of the bank. Took a few running steps. Flung himself over the open water. (This is where my heart suspended in time just watching him.) Then at the peak of his swing, he let go. Plunged into the water. Whoops and hollers and hands raised in the air. A handful of others tried it. Mostly boys. The others found their way to the pontoon, or hammock. But I stood and watched. I was in that unenviable position of wanting to do it, but terrified. So I stayed planted. It wasn’t the height. I could deal with that. The swinging part looked actually fun. I loved the water, so it wasn’t that. It was the letting go. You had to let go. To swing back to land could mean hitting the tree. Scraping your feet. Worst of all, the embarrassment of the return.
I suppose that’s always the hardest part. I struggle with it now. This thing weighing on my heart. Causing such pain. This rope that I cling to. Why don’t I just let it go? I know this. I have to let it go. Even as I sit here typing, on the edge of this bank, I know it. So why do I remain planted? My heart paining with each breath.
I don’t remember grabbing it. It was flung in my direction, and short of being hit in the head, I took the rope in my hands. It seemed in slow motion. My feet began to move. Why were they moving? My heart was sweating more than my hands. Without my knowlege or permission I was over open water. “Let gooooooo!!!!!!!!!” I don’t know if it was the voice in my head, or the ones on shore, but I listened, and released my grip. I fell, and for a moment, flew, into the blue. Splash. Relief. Joy. I rose above both water and fear.
I’ve heard that in some languages there is only one word for forgiveness and freedom. Perhaps they have it right. I can feel the rope in my hand. It’s time to let it go. Our moments are brief. And I want to fly.
Hours before I knew it would actually be possible, I responded to a friend’s message. She was struggling with the “letting go.” I had this thought – telling her to give them to me. Hand them all over, these feelings of hurt and anger, and I would take them and place them in a field of lavender, to be swallowed up in all that purple. Nothing bad can survive that much beauty, I thought. And then, if a few stray negative thoughts tried to creep back into her heart and brain, at least they would smell of sweet lavender.
As I said, I didn’t know that only a few hours later, we would be passing countless fields of lavender on the way to see friends near the mountains. An endless sea of purple. “Ooooooooh,” I exclaimed, looking out the window. “Do you want to stop and take a photo?” Dominique asked. “Yes,” I said, but thought, not only that. I had some things to release. Not only hers, but mine as well. It’s funny how easily it all rolled down the ditch into the lap of scented color. I took the photos. The field grinned, exposing the lines of purple teeth, and I smiled in return.
Maybe we don’t all get the fields of lavender, but it is then we look to the friends that do. I suppose that’s what we’re all here for — to take turns carrying the load on our way to something beautiful. Because the world IS beautiful. Still and ever.
Pull over today. Take it in. Let it go. The breath of lavender — nothing bad can survive this much beauty.
The small wicker and wood chair that we sit at to open the pool broke under Dominique the very day I was feeling close to doing the same. (Oh the world and its pressures.) For a moment I actually hated that chair. Instead, I decided to take the wood and make something with it. It was surprising, with only one cut on each side, the wooden frame turned out perfectly square. That almost never happens. And after stretching the canvas over it. Stapling it. I measured again. Still square. I could hardly believe how cooperative this wood was being, when just moments before, beside the pool, it was so unforgiving.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my hurt feelings disappeared as the woman came to life on the canvas. Nothing changed in the situation that for a moment I found so desperate. But I had something new to focus on. Somewhere to put my attention in the most positive way. And I suppose that’s what forgiveness really is. It took me years to learn it. And clearly I’m still learning it. It really isn’t about the other person at all. You’re not “letting them off the hook.” I think it’s about releasing yourself from the situation. I guess if there are any “hooks” at all, it’s the ones you release from yourself. And what a glorious feeling.
Today my heart is light and I have a new painting. (The bruise on Dominique’s backside is also fading.) Oh the world and its gifts!
If you’ve ever stood in front of a painting and felt “moved,” perhaps it’s the sweet passing of forgiveness. Let it flow through you. And lightly begin again.
She wasn’t a screamer, nor a fighter. I suppose I get that from her. But I know that my mother got stressed. And somehow it had to get out.
I wasn’t yet of driving age. We had a blue Chevy Malibu station wagon. It wasn’t built for speed. Not known for its quick pickup. The light blue remained unblurred, but for those special moments when out of traffic’s way, safely buckled in, she would wink at me, slam her Herberger shoed right foot onto the gas pedal, roaring the engine! We could only squeal tightly along with the tires. We released our breath and she, her foot off the gas. “I just had to get the soot out,” she said. And we laughed. Louder than any engine’s roar.
It took awhile, but I would come to realize it wasn’t to release the “soot” from the car, but from our very spirits. Life can clog you down. And somehow, you have to release it. Laughter seemed to be our favorite route!
I can’t Malibu myself out of today’s stress. But I have found my own ways. On the gravel path. In shades of blue on the canvas. Sometimes, just word by word on the page, hoping they take you along for the ride, sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with a tear, sometimes both. The sun is coming up, hop in, my friends, let’s get the soot out!
Our peach tree, Officer Bob, (I named him Officer Bob because I always imagined him in an old time movie, cigar tucked in the side of his mouth, looking at something beautiful and saying, “It’s a peach, see….”) — anyway, yesterday Office Bob broke a major limb. We have been worried about him all spring — carrying more fruit that ever before. Each branch loaded beyond capacity. Dropping unripe fruit daily to get some relief. (When I mowed the lawn it smelled like jam.) But yesterday I guess it all became too much. One of his branches, and it was a thick one, snapped beneath the weight.
The things we carry.
It’s too self-important to imagine that this was a lesson just for me. But, none the less, it is definitely something I need to keep learning.
By nature, I suppose, I have always been one to add the weight of worry. I have improved, but I can certainly still overload my branches. I don’t think we’re built to carry. Even the good things can become too much. Maybe we’re meant to feel and release. Letting go of the bad things. And letting loose all the good – sending it out for all the world to see.
A bird rests on one of his limbs this morning. So light. Singing a song of hope. Maybe we can do the same for each other. Be there for each other. No weight added. Only song.
Worry dropped, love released, the morning winks and says, “It’s going to be a peach, see!”
You might think it would be the opposite. When painting, there is a looseness, a letting go, that must be learned. (Maybe it’s relearned – children seem to have it, but as they get older, it tightens up — I guess because they (we) become too aware, too concerned and it sucks the life right out of the art — I guess the same could be said about life itself.)
Through daily practice, I gain the confidence of letting go. Letting go of the worry of perfection, and just allowing the image to come to life. Letting the canvas breathe freely, along with myself. And the beauty comes, in my humble opinion, not in the exact line, but the movement, the strokes.
Maybe it’s easier on the canvas, but I want the same for my daily life. To let go of the nagging need to please, to be exact. And it comes, slowly, with daily practice. Each day I can see it a little bit more clearly, the beauty of my imperfect strokes — and I have to let go of those who can’t. I suppose that’s the art of living. And oh, how beautiful it can be.
