Our kitchen table is noticeably naked this morning. I’ve had tulips on it for the last three weeks. Yesterday the last final stems ended in petal tears, and I let them go. I know it going in. And yet, oh, how I love them! And why not?! I suppose some choose to leave their tables bare. Never wanting to feel the absence. But I would not trade one curve of the stem. Waking to the dancer’s move, as it reaches for the morning sun. Each day a new position. Beauty, not with the promise of ever, but the grace of now. And I will keep choosing it.
I hope I do the same. Keep reaching toward the love. The morning sun. My stem may be clunky, but my heart, let it ever be a tulip.
I’ve heard it said that we operate out of love or fear. And I believe it’s true. But that’s not to say when you choose love that you will never be afraid. Perhaps quite the contrary. It’s almost guaranteed when you follow your passion, your heart, that fear will be lingering somewhere close behind. That’s normal when you’re vulnerable. When you’re open. But this is living.
Probably the closest I ever came to being a Wallenda was in the girls’ gym at Central Junior High during gymnastics week. Out of a class of thirty prepubescent girls, maybe one or two knew how to work the apparatuses. The majority of us, without nets or knowledge, flung ourselves from beam to floor, along to the music on the phonograph extensioned with an orange cord that ran from the gym teacher’s office through the locker room down the stairs into our pink basement gymnasium.
It was the hour just before my English Literature class. After 45 minutes of heart racing stunts, a five minute shower and a four minute walk to the other side of the building, I was home. With words and books and meaning. And that’s not to say it was safe. No. It was daring. Every day new words. A new lesson. New books. We were expected to risk seemingly life and heart’s limb when asked to explain the text. To put it into our own words. Most kept their heads down. As if the motionless spider on the wall defense actually worked. I, on the other hand, shot my my arm in the air. Not because I was brave, but because she (our gym teacher) told us to run through the pommel horse. If we slowed down, if we hesitated, we risked injury. So when Mr. Rolfsrud asked us to recite our poems assigned from the night before, I ran at full speed toward the front of the class.The things in my life that have been the most meaningful have come with the biggest risks. In work and love, I have lived by the words of Karl Wallenda —
“Life is on the wire, and everything else is just waiting.”
It is not without risk that I share with you my victories and stumbles. It is my heart on the daily wire. But if I am going to be hurt in this life, it is not going to be because I hesitated. I will run at love with full speed. And I will be alive.
I’m ready. I’m scared. I want to. I can. I… I… I am flying!
After finishing their portrait, I wasn’t sure that I would ever see them again. They didn’t even know I had done it. I carried the knowledge in my pocket, and a picture on my phone, and walked each day hoping to see them on the path. One day passed. Then three. Then a week. Knowing good news doesn’t really spoil, (and I was going to walk anyway) I made my loop each morning and afternoon.
Then I saw it. A flash of his white hat just around the bend. I scrolled quickly through my phone. Had my photo at the ready. They smiled, already surprised that I had stopped them – “excusez-moi-ed” into their journey. I went quickly through the list I had run over in my head — artist, painting, portrait — and I showed them the photo. “Fantastique!” And let me sound it out for you — Fan-tas-TEEK! I play it over in my head daily. I told them I would give it to them. The younger of the two told me that they walk on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. The next Monday, I packed it up and went for my walk. I didn’t see them. I brought it back home. On Tuesday, I went empty handed in the afternoon and climbing the hill, an elderly woman pulled up slowly in her car. My first thought was, oh know, she’s going to want directions, and want them in French. Still, I took out my earpod as she rolled down her window. She asked if I was the artist. Relief turned into joy. Yes, I beamed. It was a fast jumble of her husband spoke about it all weekend and where was I Monday and they will be walking on Wednesday…and I couldn’t stop smiling. It never rains here, but of course Wednesday morning I woke up to clouds. Not to be deterred, I packed it in plastic, grabbed my umbrella, and hit the gravel. Protected by preparation, it never rained. I was nearing my turn around when I finally saw them. Coo-coo-ed them from behind and ran up to give them the portrait.
Do I miss the painting? Sure. A little. But the place it had in my heart has been completely filled by this random connection. And isn’t that the way with love, giving it away never leaves us empty, but fills us even more.
It’s like they think they’ll be safe or something, these people who never dare a connection, but what they are, is simply alone. It is a risk, for sure, to expose your heart, your gifts, but the greater risk, I think, is to not. A heart that doesn’t love, is simply an unplayed piano. Nothing fantastique about that.
“I can’t take the chance that you don’t know how much it means to me, you carrying my hopes like precious cargo, and traveling with me to dreams come true…so I will tell you again and again, as if it were the first time, “It is an honor, it is a privilege, it is a joy, to share with you the path.”
I can no longer say that I always make a test cookie. I did, until yesterday.
It still makes sense. And I will, when I can, test out the dough with one cookie before baking the whole batch. But yesterday’s recipe required a little faith, and a little Elsieing. I googled the French delicacies. There were so many variations to these crackling little almond cookies, both in French and in English, so I Elsied my best guess, and made a little combination.
One thing they all agreed upon was the speed that the dough must go from creation to oven. Containing no flour, the few ingredients, like the egg-whites and sugar, would separate if you hesitated. Having to bake for 20 minutes, there was no time for a test cookie. Having thrown myself into stronger French winds than this and survived, I plopped the wet dough onto the baking sheets and believed, or at least hoped.
We ate them nearly as fast as it took to get from bowl to oven. Delicious. I knew if they turned out that Dominique would like them, but I was surprised at how much that I did! I loved them. It turns out, faith is a tremendous ingredient!
I mention it only because when I recall my greatest pleasures, they have all been accompanied with risk. Becoming an artist. Sharing my stories. Daring the markets of New York. Falling in love, big love. Moving to France. Creating a family. None of these allowed for a test cookie — straight from bowl to oven!
Are there trips and failures along the way – of course, but they aren’t the taste that lingers — that, my friends, is nothing but sweet.
It took so little to show that we really meant it when we were young. Just a simple reaching out of a pinky finger to wrap around another’s. We swore it to be true, and our curled pinkies confirmed it.
I suppose it was fitting that our weakest of links, these tiny little fingers exposed like this, showed our biggest strength — a vulnerability, a trust. It was never with clenched fists or raised arms. Just our hearts exchanging beats. Pinky to Pinky.
I don’t know when we stopped doing it. Who was it that suggested a shaking fist deserved more attention? When did we start exchanging “vulnerable” for “sure”? Why did we think all that certainty would connect us?
The truth is, I’m rarely sure. I think I lean more on curious. To what if. To what could be. I have garnered more there — not necessarily the answers, but I have found challenge and creativity, fulfillment and reward, friendship, even love.
So take these daily words as my pinky promise, my reaching out, my hope for connection. I will give to you, not always “the best,” but it will ever be “my best.” This, I swear.
I’m not proud of it, but sometimes I think my ipad might be disappointed in me.
When I’m away from home, I do my French lessons on my ipad. Duolingo keeps track of my progress as I move from day to day. Returning home, I change to my desktop. For some reason the two don’t interact and as my computer welcomes me back, my ipad sends me the prompts to continue. Each prompt gets a little stronger. I know I’m doing the work. But I have to admit, there is a little piece of me that wants to explain this to my urging ipad.
As ridiculous as it sounds, I mention it mostly to remind myself that it is actually just as ridiculous to worry about what other people think of me. I suppose we all get caught up in this trap. I think I’m getting better as I get older. Not that I don’t give thought to others — we should all do that. We’re not alone on this planet. But what I mean is, I, we, don’t need to worry so much about what others think of us. Like what they think of our homes, our clothing, what we had for dinner. Who cares? The answer to that is really no one. I don’t want to be deterred from the silly, the fun, the weird, just because someone else might have a thought about it. I’m not going to change my schedule because someone might think painting is a waste of time. There’s a good chance I will trip on a rock in mid daydream on the path — and sure, I’ll probably look around to see if anyone saw, but I’m not going to stop walking.
I know myself. I know my heart. So with all due respect to my ipad and the others, I’m doing my best, and I’m good with that. As the sun comes up, I am ready to live this day in my own way. Willing and able to joyfully risk the ridiculous!
We’re seeing the blue of the lakes now, not the frozen white of our last visit. Both will take your breath away, but for completely different reasons.
I’m not sure that we ever heeded the warnings, or even saw them, but they were there – “No life guard on duty. Swim at your own risk.” But the lakes were always open. Maybe that’s what I loved most about them. The beaches were public. No discrimination. (Even though our diversity at the time ranged mostly from pale white to deep red.) There was no concern for money or status. The blue waves didn’t know if you belonged to the golf club. What church you went to, if at all. No question of status. The water was open. So warning or no warning, I, we, would go in. The only risk seemed not to participate. Every day was a gift. Perhaps because we new the impermanence. Those waves would soon be still. Frozen. So we raced in. Under the sun.
I didn’t know at the time how telling it was. Everything would always be “at your own risk.” There would be nothing to protect you as you went into the deep end, of love, of life. But I remember. First toes. Straight out of winter boots, feeling the cool sand. Then wet. Colder still. But my heart is saying, you’ll adapt, go further. White shins, almost lavender, walking forward. Thighs shivering. You could wait. No, I can’t wait. Up to the bottom of my suit now. No turning back. Belly button retreating out of fear, like a turtle. Arms raised to prolong it. Brain saying retreat. Heart saying Go! Feet – always following the heart. Hands coming down. Splashing. You’ll be fine. It will be great. Heart beating – go -go, go-go. Diving under. Everything slows. Free now. Am I a fish? A bird? Everything is wild and easy and light. I belong. I am free. Nothing wasted.
The sun is coming in from the window. Blue shimmers all around. There will be chance. Choice. Risk. Love. I smile. Toes wiggling, I listen to my heart as it speaks daily, “Go further. Deeper. Into the blue.”
I rarely saw my grandmother without an apron. There were so many children. Grandchildren. The kitchen was always in motion. I liked standing next to her. So close. When she wore the embroidered apron – the one with the flowers – I would press my head as close to her hip as I could. This hug, when held for longer than she had time for – (yet she never pushed me away) – this hug could produce an imprint on my cheek of the same flowers. An imprint that didn’t last long on my face, but still remains on my heart.
Dishes clanked. Smells arose. Voices jabbered. And then the whirlwind would stop. She needed something from the basement. She told me to run and get it. The basement. I’ll admit I was afraid. Being only apron high, it wasn’t unusual, but I wanted to be brave. My grandmother canned. There was a whole wall of canned good down there. But to get to what she needed, I would have to go descend the darkened stairs. Past the hooks of overalls that looked like men waiting. I would have to tune out the furnace. The creaks of wood. She pushed the small of my back in the direction of the stairs. Of course I would do it. I held my breath, as if going under water. Raced my bumper tennis shoes down the steps. Grabbed the glass jar filled with what I could only imagine was a science experiment and ran back up the stairs. I handed it to her beaming. She had no idea what I had risked, but she hugged me just the same.
Yesterday, we went to see Dominique’s mother. She clings to the day. Leaving, sad, I heard through the open windows of the house next door, the clanking of the dishes. Silverware. Glass. Stove. A woman singing over the din. The sounds of life. I smiled, feeling the embroidered flowers on my heart.
This love. Knowing your heart, if you’re giving it all, will break and mend and break again. Still, I, we, will risk any darkened stairs to experience it. The sun begins to light today’s path. To this day, this life, I make a promise to feel it – really feel it – and, joyfully, I pull myself in close.
I had only been in France a few weeks when he said we should climb the mountain. The Sainte Victoire. It was Cezanne’s mountain. I was a painter. Why not? Sure, why not start with a mountain?!!! Being from Minnesota, I did not have my mountain legs yet. But nothing about this trip, this adventure, would have occurred if I had been stuck on “maybe,” so I said yes – of course I said yes! In my head though, I had visions of a long stroll, with lovely views…almost a picnic for the senses really. Reality unpacked it’s bags within the first few steps and I knew this was nothing like I had imagined. My heart was pumping faster. I could feel every rock beneath my Vans. My lungs hit my ribs with every breath. I had never climbed a mountain. I had my doubts that I would finish this one.
The last big hill I had climbed was in the 3rd grade. Pike’s Peak. We had gone on a field trip from Washington Elementary. I had a sack lunch – a peanut butter sandwich and a warm Orange Crush soda. “It will be beautiful,” our teacher said. And we believed her. We raced down the steep hill. Never had we moved faster. Dirt flying everywhere. Screams of delight. But then we had to get back up. Straight up. We made brown clouds as we raced – pumping arms and legs, pumping, breathing, pumping, sucking last bits of air, and grabbing the blades of grass just at the top edge,pulling ourselves up.
Muscle memory…that’s it – that’s what would save me. I had heard of this – yes, muscle memory. Soon now my legs would remember how I made it up Pike’s Peak. My muscle memory would kick in and I would climb the Sainte Victoire with ease. Nothing. My thighs remembered nothing. I struggled with each step. Each lesson must be learned, first, still, and again.
“It will be beautiful,” he said, “at the top.” For some reason I believed him and kept climbing. My nose ran, my lungs were exploding, my thighs were pulsing and my feet – my poor Van covered feet. At one point he said, “those berries are poisonous…” My first thought was “give me a handful.” I kept climbing. Pumping, breathing. I followed him step for step. I trusted him. I had no muscle memory of that. I loved him. I had no muscle memory of that. Yet, I knew that every thigh-burning, brown-clouded, peanut butter fueled step had led me here. Here. Summit. Beautiful. I must remember this — the view from gratitude is pretty spectacular.
