I don’t know them, the people with the US mailbox, but I nod in the direction of their house each day when I walk by — my acknowledgement traveling over the bush that lines the road, the iron gate, up the tree-lined gravel driveway, past the sleeping dog that can’t muster a bark in the heat, and the aloof cat (that won’t admit it is our gate she will be sleeping on later, just because she can), up the three stairs to the screen door, and on a long awaited breeze whispers, “Hello in there.”
We barely even get mail anymore. I used to see the mail car pass when I was out walking. Now I never do. But the mailbox still connects us — the mailbox that stands hopeful for connection. Ready to give an open mouthed “Ohhhhh” when it does! And I suppose it’s not really the box at all, but the feeling. Perhaps we all know that desire to connect, to gather in, with words and hearts and gesture. Someone is always reaching out, saying, “Does anyone else feel this way?” And it doesn’t take much. We worry about doing the right thing, saying the right words, so we do nothing at all, when all it really takes is just an acknowledgment, a simple heart nod to say, “I’ve been on this road before, hello…”
It’s not to say that we took our wounds seriously, but my mother never purchased designer Band-Aids. There were no cartoon characters or Disney royalty. In fact, I’m pretty sure they weren’t even the Band-Aid brand. Possibly Curad. Or simply flexible adhesive bandages. And often times, just a Kleenex (which was really only a facial tissue) and a piece of Scotch tape (most likely just tape).
No matter what she used, she did accomplish the main goal, which was just to return us to the gravel road, be it on bike or foot, skinned knees and all, as quickly as possible. No time for worry, or to go over the latest spill. Nor was there time to take pride in the survival. Who hadn’t fallen on Van Dyke Road? Her goal, I see now, was to keep me at play. Sometimes I would look up from the tattered tissue barely hanging on, as if to ask, “Really?” She would answer, “You think Phyllis Norton can do better? Go get in line.” We would laugh. And for this I will be ever grateful.
Injuries change from year to year. Some wounds go unseen. But the goal is to always keep pedaling. Keep walking. Keep living. Because it is where we were wounded that we will continue to find the joy.
A country and a lifetime away, I race out the morning door with a bit of Van Dyke Road still on my shoes.
Returning to France, our driveway was full of them. At first glance, I may have thought – ugh — but I had to remind myself, that for so many years, growing up on Van Dyke Road, I was one of them, joyfully one of them — these gravel weeds.
We blossomed wild on this dusty road. As strong as the earth below our kicking and pedaling feet. As free as the cloud that tried to keep up behind our tracks. And maybe we found such joy in our status because anchoring us all was the tallest of the Van Dyke Road weeds, Jim Norton. Lanky and strong, ever, he gave us, me, a reason to believe that we were something special. That we had a place here. A purpose. Almost willing us, daring us, to stand tall.
Certainly all of his girls did. All five of them that popped up at the end of this gravel road. I thought they were beautiful. I thought nothing could stop these glorious flowering weeds. Nor me. So we all kept growing.
It’s not even gravel anymore. But it lives on, in my heart. In my daily direction. And so will he. I’m proud of where I came from. And I’m grateful for those who gave me a reason to be. Thank you, Jim Norton. Heaven joyfully just kicked up a little dust!
He used to bark at me. But he has grown accustomed to my passing twice a day, the dog behind the gate up the road. He sports an aged coat of overgrown gray and white. Perhaps he once ran tall in his breed, but now he lays sacked in his indiscriminate being, his head peeking through the rungs.
It was a long time before I saw him out on the road. Perhaps he lumbered out behind the slow return of the gate as his owner went off to work. As I approached, he cocked his head to the left and looked up at me. He knew me, perhaps by scent or by the sound of my steps. So he didn’t bark. But as I got closer, I realized that this was probably the first time he actually saw me. His left eye was just a gray, milky ball. Watching me through the gate all these years, not being able to turn his head, I’m sure he never actually saw me with his good eye.
His back hips swayed to a soundtrack that only he could hear. I skipped along to the milky French in my earbuds. Each of us, making our way. Both a little more understanding of the other’s path.
I painted a dog in a similar position many years ago. The original sold almost immediately, but I still get requests for the prints even today. It’s titled, “Unconditional.” (I suppose we all want this.) I smile and think, maybe, even with all of our blurred limitations, we could see each other. Be a little kinder. Be a little more understanding. Make a little more room for each other on the path.
I imagine longing has to stay in the car. And in that moment, that small and courageous step onto the uncertainty of gravel, in the abandonment of longing and the commencement of action, this, I think, is where true hope can begin.
I wanted to capture that moment. Stroke by stroke. As a reminder. To do something. And I’m not saying it’s easy. It can be terrifying to leave the ride — the “well, we’ve always done it this way” — even when you know it’s not taking you where you want to go. But this courage, to drop the baggage of what was, and see what will be, there is beauty in this. I can see it. Maybe you need to see it too.
I step away from the car. I can feel the rocks beneath my feet. It’s not painful. It feels like possibility. And I am not afraid. With each step I hear the words, “She wasn’t where she had been. She wasn’t where she was going, but she was on her way.”
There’s no easy way around it. (And I’ve looked. Googled.) The current painting I’m working on has a stretch of gravel road. Without the luxury of pavement, nor good intentions, it is but a lesson in patience. Pebble by pebble.
I must admit that I was a bit embarrassed of our gravel as a child. Van Dyke Road remained wild and loose for most of my youth. And I have the scars to prove it. But I was able to recognize the thrill of the change. Half way on my bike ride to town, just off of Van Dyke Road, right in front of Lord’s big gray house, it was tarred, and down hill. No more popping pebbles beneath my tires. I began to fly. My long blonde hair making a trail behind me. Weaving in and out of the geese beside the lake before the railroad tracks. Pushed and propelled all the way to the feet of Big Ole at the beginning of Main.
Would I have appreciated the sleek, black surface as much, if I hadn’t begun on the gravel? Possibly. But I’m not sure. I think about it as I stumble along this new painting. Anticipating the speed to come. The thrill to come. And it will, all too quickly. Will I remember each pedal, each stroke? I hope so. It’s the journey after all.
And not showing you yet, this unfinished painting, you get to ride the gravel beside me. Waiting. Watching. Imagining. That’s the gift I offer today. Sweet anticipation. Hang on. Soon we will fly.
I turn the same corner every day to go for a walk. I’m reminded what century it is, as I pass the giant recycling bin, while listening to a podcast through earbuds. And yet, there they were. I heard the bells first before my eyes could focus on the image — a man leading two pack donkeys and a dog. They say time changes everything… well, here was proof that maybe it’s not about time at all. If you’re waiting for time to do the work, I’m afraid you’re in for a long wait. Time really does nothing. It’s what you do with the time. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again — it’s about the choices we make in the time, the people we surround ourselves with, the life we create and share. The love in our hearts and the hope in our minds, at any time, can heal, create, inspire and change
almost anything…you just have to take the time to realize it.
I’m grateful for the reminders. Sometimes I see a photograph, or read a poem and I remember that I did in fact, bear the unbearable. We’re all asked to do it from time to time. I smile, because I can recall the certainty of how this thing would never pass. And sometimes it seemed to linger at donkey-speed, but it did indeed pass. We get through.
That thing you’re in right now, this difficult time. I’m sorry. But hear me over the sound of the bells, it will pass. You will get through. I’ve walked that road. I’m still here, with a smile in each step, waving away the donkeys.
For most things, an outfit for example, my mother’s decisions were slow and methodical, including several trips to the store, three-way mirrors, test runs with the right shoes, the accenting jewelry, the perfect shade of make-up applied in the proper lighting. Such gentle care she took to reach her destination. So it was surprising to me, on any given road trip, how quickly she could decide whether a city was the right stop for her. It wasn’t often, but it was swift and sure when it happened. Pulling off the exit, as I opened my car door, her decision would be made. “Nope,” she would say, and I knew she wouldn’t be getting out of the car. “I hate it,” she said. And just in case her point wasn’t clear, she added, “with a passion.” The echo of my laughter rang in the rear view mirror as we pulled out of town.
But that’s how we did all things I suppose, with a passion. The cds turned along with the wheels beneath us and we sang! We sang as if each lyric was happening to us at that very moment. It was, we were, wild and free! So many things in this life are out of our control. And maybe that’s why she did it — say no. It feels so good. So freeing. To decide what’s right for you. Not out of spite or anger, but pure passion, passion for your own life, your own living.
We pulled into the city yesterday (I won’t say which one – we all have our own right to decide.) I had to use the restroom. Dominique kept one hand on the car door. The words were French, and not exactly identical, but I knew we weren’t staying. I laughed as we sang ourselves down the road…with a passion.
It was just after recess. Even on the coldest of days, we were always sweaty. We hung our coats back on the pegs. Mrs. Erickson stood at the front of our third grade class. She had a stack of papers in her hand. She told us to sit and take out our No.2 pencils. She gave a handful to the front person of each desk row. We passed the sheets back to the person behind us, along with our comments and guesses of what was to come. Each pass was like a short game of “whisper around the world.”
I held the horizontal lined paper between my fingers. It seemed all good things started with paper at Washington Elementary. The paper was lined, but not just single lines. Groups of three. Two solids middled by a dotted line. I was certain they were little highways. I would turn out to be right.
She used a three pronged chalk to make the same lines on the blackboard and began our cursive journey. She had the most beautiful penmanship I had ever seen. Upper and lower cases flowed along the paper highway, and we were off! We had already learned to read. Mrs. Bergstrom saw to that. But this, she said, was how we would communicate. It would be part of our identity. I opened the windows of my imaginary car. The wind blew through my hair and hand and I began to write. My name. My address. Sentences. Tiny trips at first, and then I was out on the open road. Faster. Longer. Free!
In the tenth grade, they taught us “behind the wheel,” in Driver’s Ed. But it was Mrs. Erickson who first gave us the keys.
Left to my own devices each weekday of summer, I became quite adept at navigating this solo world of play. On the alternate days when I didn’t have a softball game, I figured out a way to play catch with myself. My mother bought a net that was strung between a metal square. If you threw the softball directly into the sweet spot it bounced directly back to you. I thought I was making a good decision when I placed the net in front of the garage. Because our driveway faced Van Dyke road, I didn’t want to throw the ball directly into what I loosely will call “traffic” (the random neighbor’s car). Perhaps I overestimated my throwing accuracy. Hitting the target several times in a row, I gained the confidence to throw harder. I “wound up” and let the ball fly. Missing the target completely, the ball shattered the glass window of the garage door.
I panicked. I looked around to see if anyone saw. There was no one there. Only my banana seat bike. It seemed to be the only answer. I dropped my glove and straddled the banana seat. Kicking the air. Trying desperately to keep up with the pedals as I raced down the hill toward the North End. The North End was the undeveloped land at the end of our neighborhood. Undeveloped by housing, but certainly overdeveloped in every school age kid’s mind that lived on this road. It was where every bad thing imagined or otherwise was sent to live. It was the threat of the unknown. The Bermuda Triangle of this small Minnesota town. Exactly the place where thieves or window breakers would go to hide. I threw my bike into the side of the gravel pit and waited.
It could have been hours, or a lifetime, I’m not sure how long. I imagined my story. It was robbers who did it. Certainly bad people who just wandered by while I was innocently playing. Or maybe it was one the Norton girls. Surely I could throw the blame at one of them. I kicked the dust with my bumper tennis shoes and thought and thought and thought.
When I first heard my name called, I was sure it was the police. I held my breath. I heard it again. It became louder, but not angry. Almost sweet. Almost welcoming. I knew that voice. I got on my bike and rode towards it. My mother stood at the top of the hill. Every excuse fell from my heart and hands as I dropped my bike beside her on the gravel road. “I did it,” I said, hugging her nyloned work legs. “I know,” she said. We walked my bike back home.
Love will always call your name. Heart open, I walk the road. And listen.
