I remember the first time I signed out a book at the Alexandria Public Library. Who could forget such a moment? Because with each letter, I was formed into the stone lion that should have been guarding the front entrance. Just with the signing of my name on that yellowing card, (beneath all the other lions), I not only became part of each word, each sentence, each book that lined the shelves, I became the welcome to the next reader, the stairs themselves, to this sacred place.
I think it’s the very reason we put things in books. Images and words. To tell the stories of our lives. To share the sacred places we have been to, we have gone through. Because don’t we look to them, the other lions, those who have made it beyond the places we are struggling. They are the strength that lift the feet. Up each stair. Until we can proudly write our names, claim our positions in each story, and become the lions for those still looking up.
My mother loved to read by the window. Of course the light was better, but knowing her, always in search of more air to breathe, she no doubt wanted the same for her open book.
I suppose that’s why I crave it too — the crack of a window, or the spine of a book. I think that’s what reading does, opens up everything. Allows more information in, and lets go of preconceived ideas. A refreshing. Simply put, more air to breathe.
The first time I really understood was on the playground of Washington Elementary. I mean really on the playground, after falling from the railings where the teeter totters used to be. Landing flat on my back, my internal wind ran like a rat from a ship and left me gasping. Like a fish flopping on the dock’s edge. That’s all I had, metaphors, no air to breathe. So this is how she felt, my mother, I thought, in those uncomfortable situations that only adults knew. Being judged for status or money or anything else a small town could measure you by. And I knew I would hug her after school. I would take all the air that I had inside of me once again and use it to run from the bus, through the garage door, into her arms, and give her that much needed air.
Empathy. It only comes from being open. I sit by the window with my open book. There is so much more to learn. To love. And so I breathe.
I’m expecting something in the mail today. Even as I’m typing it, I can feel the pebbles of Van Dyke Road beneath my feet, walking out to the mailboxes. It’s not lost on me that it was the place of most of my arrivals and departures. Where I got on the bus for school. Off the bus for home. Where I began my descent on bicycle down the hill. Where I caught my breath after returning. Where I stood silent, waiting for the firefighters, watching our house burn. Where I listened to the carpenters rebuild. Where I sat, ever hopeful, ever looking forward, under the slight shade that the mailboxes offered, having ordered something from the Bazooka Joe comics.
And isn’t it something, I think, to be this far, in time and distance, within all of life’s hellos and goodbyes, to still be hopeful, excited, to be looking forward to.
It was my mother who bought me the plaque from Herberger’s basement — the image of a little girl in front of the store — and it read, “Buy while the purse yet swells with youth.” I can’t say that I knew exactly what it meant at the time, being deep in the swell of it all. But I know now. I even know what that little girl looks like. I have painted her so many times without my knowledge or permission (and isn’t that in itself so “swell.”)
It’s hours before the mail will come. The pebbles jump beneath my feet.
They loved them for different reasons. My grandma’s a bit more practical. She needed her pockets for Kleenex and treats — we needed candy she said, you know, just to be sure. My mother kept her dreams in her pockets, be it skirt, coat or pants, needing a place to coddle them in hand, you know, just to be sure.
So maybe they weren’t that different after all. They just found their way to comfort through different pocketed resources. And after all, didn’t they both love the autumn candy at Walgreen’s.
We have no candy corn in France. No mellowcremes, or Autumn Mix by Brach’s. Yet, my pockets remain full, with the same magic as the heart, I suppose.
We get to decide the magic that we carry. The love we hold on to. The hopes and dreams and comforts that fill our pockets. Sometimes I find myself leaning up against a French wall, and rolling it all between my fingers, you know, just to be sure.
A painting will dictate what it wants for a frame. Or some will not need one at all. But once in a while, the sequence reverses, and I will paint an image for a frame. That’s what happened with this little one. It was alone in the thrift store. Empty. But not for long.
To see a need and fill it, before the asking, it’s nice within my artistic world, but my sincere hope is that I can do it in real life. With real people.
I was told once that when someone near you is going through a difficult time, you should never ask them “What can I do?” Of course it is well intended, but now you’ve only added to the situation – given them another problem to solve – how you can help. It’s never easy, or a sure thing, but I suppose the best thing is to just do something. It may not be the thing to solve the problem, but doing something nice can never be wrong. And you can always do another thing.
In that spirit, I’ve painted several small pieces for this frame. They can always be switched out. Mostly it serves as a reminder for me to just keep doing. Keep trying. And I’m not going to lie, it simply feels good. It fills me at the same time as the frame. So I smile and point the question, not outwardly, but inwardly, “What can I do?” And I do something. And that should be celebrated.
It’s Grandma Elsie’s voice I hear. When I sold my first original painting, I told her about the gallery, the people, the price. She clapped her hands in front of her heart and said, “Isn’t that something?!!!!!!”
This little French bird has raced to the top of my Pinterest stats. He wasn’t blessed with the time and attention of a large canvas. He began as just a small sketch in my book. Probably on an afternoon when that’s all I had to invest.
But here he is — atop the leader board of interest. I love this for two reasons. It tells me even the smallest of gestures can make a difference. During those times when we think we don’t have a lot to give, we can still have purpose and reason and meaning in the smallest of attempts. And most of all, I love that his chubby little imperfections are celebrated with joy. And if we can do this for him, we can do it for each other!
Whatever the day may bring, I urge you to squeeze into the horizontal stripe of it all, with confidence, with joy and with love. I’ll see you there – somewhere near the top!
She stood in front of the original painting. Tracing the movement from the woman’s feet to her hand. “She’s so light,” she said, “it’s like she’s being lifted.” I smiled and replied “That’s actually the name of the piece — Being Lifted.” Her pleasure doubled. It was not only the view, but that she could see it.
And isn’t it always the way. It’s what we bring to the situation. How we want to see things.
Knowing her, I’m aware of the weight she is wanting to release. And the fact that she can see it, right there in front of her, I know that she will.
It’s why I painted her in the first place. This release. This letting go. I suppose I’ve always wanted it. Ever since I swam out to the diving board on Lake Latoka, I have yearned to fly. Since I felt the weightlessness of springing from the board. The wind in my feathers. My momentary wings. They carry me still.
It’s why I stand before her each night, the woman in the painting. Because I see her. And I know, when morning comes, one way or another, I am going to fly.
Without being told, we did live in the “here and now.”
Today, we’re bombarded with the reminders that you have to be present. And yet, the advertisements for “back to school” began here in June. Parents are given lists of things to buy — must-haves for a proper educational experience. Rules and expectations to be met.
Thinking back to our first days of school, if we were showered and fed, the preparations were complete. With the far-away looks of the feral cats we had become over summer, we boarded the bus, dazed and wet-headed. Our brains and hands empty. (But our hearts full.) Perhaps a number two pencil or a spiral notebook, but I can’t be sure. We were in the moment.
I know it’s good to be prepared. But there is so much in life that we will never be ready for. Things that lists can never check off. Some experiences we have to run wildly through, armed with only the faith of a seven year old, that things will work out. That the bus will always bring us home.
I learned it once. And I’ve learned it again and again. The morning awaits my wild and feral, ever joyful, race to the bus.
“I meant no, but it came out yes.” — This was the first card in which my mother appeared. And then she began popping up with great frequency. “There are no operators standing by…” And of course, “I was so tired yesterday, I could hardly think — thank God I was at work.” Certainly the entire poem of “I saw the truth about you…” (because I did). And “Hit by a train…” (because she was). And she wore it like a badge of courage, a badge of grace. My greatest thrill was to watch her at an event, when someone would pick up a card, or print and say, “this is so me!” And she would clutch her imaginary pearls and say, “Well, actually…”
There’s only one way to the canvas or page, and that’s through my heart. Dominique stood in front of the portrait and said, “I feel like I know her…” And I had to smile, because surely he did, somehow. Certainly there are traces of all of his (now our) family, and friends, that pump through my veins. Love cannot unsee. And it can never stop growing, as it picks up the pieces of each other again and again.
Starting the new painting yesterday, I had to stop and smile, because I could see who was coming.
So if from time to time you see yourself here, then know that you too have been seen. You may clutch your pearls and say, “Well, actually… I have been loved.”
It was rarely destinational. And that’s why we simply called it a bike ride. It was purely for the ride itself. For the wind in hair. The pumping heart that matched the pedaling feet. The blur of field passed. The daring of handlebars let go! The thrill so big, that when riding with a best friend (it was so easy to get to best), you had to reach out to grab their hand, to feel the pulsing of their, too, grateful heart. And for just a few seconds in the balance, (knowing but not caring that it wouldn’t, couldn’t last) your clasped hands said “can you believe we get to do this!”
I mention it because isn’t it the closest we come to love?
Yesterday, I finished a painting and a delightful book at the same time. Oh, the missing of the ride! And maybe, within all of this letting go, it became so obvious to me that she wasn’t there in the evening of our family reunion. And I thought of how she would have cooed at the newest arrivals. Squeezed cheeks that weren’t ready to be kissed. How she would have talked faster and louder over the other French pedaling sisters. My mother in law — she was good at the ride.
But it wasn’t sad, this letting go of painting, book and Lucy. I knew it going in. And I will joyfully, eagerly do it all again. And again.
The morning is calling. How easily the race begins. The best!
