For me, it’s the softness of her gaze. No sharp edges to her reaction. Even her shoulders aren’t weighted. This is what makes her beautiful — not what she sees, but how she sees it. From within.
I paint her to remind myself the same is true for all of us. How we navigate through this world is what people really see. We need to stay informed, of course, but the ugliness that gathers, and there is a lot, I don’t want that inside of me. So I soften my gaze. My eyes. My lips. My tongue. Relax my shoulders. Nothing for hatred and ill will to hang on. (Because aren’t those sharp edges so much easier to cling to?)
I suppose I only know it, because I was always given that soft place to land. My grandma’s lap, my mother’s heart. I see now that it was not only for me, but for them as well. A gift we must give each other. A gift we must give ourselves. I dare the morning and the mirror softly. No sharp edges in sight.
I don’t know that one stick is more inspiring than the next, but then again, I don’t know that it isn’t. So I took great care in my choices, as I Magpied my way through the unexpected pile of discarded wood at the edge of the forest. Forever being in need of wood, this felt like a gift just for me. I wandered back home with my arms full. Smiling. Humming. Perhaps the song is correct, “His eye is on the sparrow…”
I suppose it is a bit like nesting, this building of a panel. Creating a home for the next painted creation. I dried the dew-dampened wood. Sanded. And sanded again. Measured. Cut. Glued. Nailed. Sanded, again, until this “nest” was ready for the life to be held. She doesn’t know yet, the woman coming to life in this painting. Maybe none of us do. We only wait for the final results. But there is so much beauty in the wonder. The wander. The time of being Sparrow.
I have to constantly remind myself. To not miss it. To not waste this day. The walk alone. The discovery. The hope in each discard path. The hum that carries us. It is all a part of this beautiful journey. Because it’s never just about the bird, but it’s always about the song.
At first glance, this sketchbook probably doesn’t seem like a surprise. But when I tell you that I bought it in Iowa, suddenly it takes on a whole new meaning, and we’re all smiling.
And that’s the thing isn’t it? Context. I learned it pretty early on. But I have to keep learning it. I suppose we all do.
It was something, the way my mother looked. Shopping with her, I could see the other women wondering what they were missing. It was the same Herberger’s. The same racks. How was she doing it? And didn’t they stand behind her in the same line for the Clinique promotion? But it was even more than all that. What they didn’t see, is for years she did it on no sleep. No money. Eating only Heath ice cream bars to keep the weight on, the weight that slipped with worry. As surprising as a French girl in Iowa. And just as beautiful.
And in watching her story change, evolve, get moisturized and dressed to the nines, it, she, taught me to look for all the stories. All the joyful surprises. To capture them in words and paintings, so everyone could see the beauty in what was far and near, and maybe most importantly, even in themselves. So if you want to give thanks for this, do it by taking a look, in every face, in every mirror. May you ever be joyfully surprised.
Long before I even knew how to read, I knew how to comfort myself. It started with off-brand crayons and coloring books from the bottom shelf at Olson’s Super Market. I can’t be certain I even knew what the feelings were. If I even had a word for comfort. But I did know this, after completing a page, presenting it to my mother, I was held in the warmth of her embrace, and I was saved. It’s still true today.
It wasn’t until I moved to France that I started painting birds. And true to my own algorithm, I suppose, it was then I was introduced to the book “Bird by bird,” by Anne Lamott. It was her father’s incite that gave the book its title:
“Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he’d had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother’s shoulder, and said, ‘Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.’”
Reading it so many years after practicing it, seems to me to be but a wink from heaven.
I made a short video after completing the page of birds. The first suggested song was “Wonderland.” It sings the question, “How do you get to Wonderland?” I smile, because I learned the answer so long ago —bird by bird.
I’ve started packing in my head for our upcoming travels. Making outfits in my head. Which shoes will go with most? Is this coat warm enough? Should I bring the hair oil, or buy it there? I know one thing for certain, I will make room for my sketchbook. In any and all uncertainty, it reminds me of who I am.
I’ve been doing it since I was five years old. On days when nothing made sense, it was sure. Not perfect. No. Never any pressure for perfection. Just being. A capturing of moments when it was simply ok to be myself.
I see it now. As I watch my chubby hands of youth presenting it to my mom. Holding it out as a question — Will you love me like this? With all of my imperfections. Lines that don’t quite match up. Colors out of sync. Beyond the scribbles, will you see me? The answer was always a resounding yes.
And when she looked back at me. Eyebrows up. Hands on my shoulders. I knew she was telling me to ask the same of myself. Insisting that it wasn’t just important to love yourself, but knowing that you had to. You have to!
I’m not saying it comes easily. Good things rarely do. So I practice. I work out the mistakes. I tremble and try. I turn the page and begin again. Perhaps not as proof, but certainly as possibility, and maybe that’s as close as we need to come – in life and love. So I remind myself. I remind you. With eyebrows raised and hands grasping your shoulders, I ask you, will you, to believe.
I’m in between at the moment. I recently finished a large painting, and the new panel is built. It waits patiently on the working easel. But I have to be ready. So I turn to my sketchbooks.
It’s good practice. They keep me active. Learning. And it’s never about perfection. But I do get to start and finish something pretty quickly. And that feels good. And I wouldn’t call it a victory, but setting myself up for one.
Maybe it’s because I recently had two setters from my high school volleyball team come for a visit. Every day at 3:15, we would change from our school clothes into our sweats. The energy that remained seated all day, from classroom to classroom was released, bouncing off the smooth hardwood floors. Mrs. Anderson blew her whistle and we sprinted, line by line. We called them crushers. And I suppose that’s what they were designed for – to crush out the demons of the day, the problems unsolved, the warnings of tests approaching, the teasing, the fatigue of numbers divided on blackboards and inside bathroom cliques. After shaking it all out, we lined up at the net. And it was Barbie and Cindy who began setting us up. On firm and gentle fingertips they passed the ball. We raced forward and swung with all of our might. And the ball went into the net. Again and again. But they, Barbie and Cindy, stood there, smiling us through the line, setting us up over and over, each seeming taller with every passing of the ball. Never rolling their eyes, or sighing with puffed out cheeks. They just kept giving us the chance, repeatedly, without judgement.
And that’s what my sketchbooks do — they Barbie and Cindy me through the ordinary days. The in betweens. The 3:15 release of all my creative energy. The letting gos. The trying news. Maybe I would have gotten here on my own, but I’m not sure. There have been so many that set me up through the years. Still. I write of them day by day. I stand a little taller. And because of them I feel a responsibility to do the same for myself. To give myself a chance. Every day. Who would I be if I just let it all slip by? Who would I be if I didn’t even try? You have to try! I see their faces, smiling, and I race toward the net.
All papers are different. Some work better with water colors. Others, pencil. Acrylics. Pastels like it a little rough. If gessoed, you can use oil. I dance through all of them. Mixing. Matching. Stumbling. One working better than the other. Some not at all. But every once in a while, the color goes on so perfectly, so easily, so accepting of all my imperfect strokes. And the beautiful irony is, this doesn’t lock me in, but sets me free. It dares me to try. To move forward. To experiment. To attempt. To get better.
I had three such “papers” growing up. My grandfather. My grandmother. My mother. All so very different. One stable. One carefree. One dancing between. And when I came to each, of course I tested them as a child will test any paper. Will you love me if…? Each one did. No matter what I scribbled. They loved me.
Even with all this love. This undeniable proof, I’m not proud of the fact that I can still worry. But I learn the lesson, again, and for the first time, daily. In the midst of creation, I forget all of the what ifs, and get completely gathered in the what is — and what is it? — beautiful. Even on the roughest of days, I have to laugh and think, today, I’m a pastel.
Just writing the words, “worry less. create more.” — the curve of each letter carries the love that dares me to try.
Some of my first lessons in choice were given at Olson’s Supermarket in Alexandria, Minnesota. Perhaps she knew the budgetary constraints that lay ahead that would force her hand in making the tough decisions, so my mom took her time when picking out the best cart — finding one that didn’t fight her every step of the way. “There’s no need to struggle,” she said. I nodded in agreement, both in cart choice and team solidarity.
I held my breath as we passed the books and papers. I had learned from experience that begging didn’t work. I simply smiled as we moved into the first aisle of the store. Nothing she chose was at eye level — that’s where all the name brands were. Cereal boxes, while sporting the same bright colors, had names that were just a little off, and rested high upon the shelf. “That’s what these long arms are for,” she said as she reached the top box. I marveled at her wing span and stretched my own arms as we made our way through the aisles.
Nearing the checkout lines, she gave me the nod. I didn’t have to ask what it meant. I ran to the book aisle. Beside the Golden books were the sketch pads. Notebooks. Big Chief was the brand du jour – it stood out, right in the middle, in the brightest of reds. I climbed on the tiny footstool nestled in the corner and reached for the generic padded paper, just above. She smiled at me as I placed it in the cart. “I have long arms too,” I beamed.
I reach for my daily sketchbook. The choice to make it a good day, always in reach. I have everything.
Only in the painting can it remain this way. In real life, left with only a bite, it will begin to brown, decay. So the only choice is to enjoy all of it.
I suppose it’s the same with so many things. Especially from the heart. We think we’re safe or something if we use just a little. Just a bite. But it’s just not true. We’re meant to taste it all. To give it all. And trust that there will be more. And if you’re reading this, there has been, there is, and there will be…more.
And sure, it may seem frightening. This never changing apple on the paper, you might find security in that. Nothing will change. But say it again slowly, “Nothing will change.”
Love is always changing, and moving, visiting places I’ve never seen, and waiting…resting with patience, feeding with forgiveness, and holding, with an ever evolving shape. Sometimes my heart aches with missing someone, something, but I tell myself again, it’s only love, it’s only love. I am not stuck on the page. I am feeling and growing and changing and all the while love comes with me. So I smile at the anger — this anger that I can feel while love keeps changing shape. Because really, that may be love’s greatest gift of all. Ever changing. Ever more.
I don’t know that I was necessarily being so “good,” but that’s how it was interpreted. My grandma used to marvel — “I could just put you down, and that’s where you’d stay until I told you that you could move again — such a good kid!”
I remember her roll-top desk. She plopped me in the chair. I could just reach the handle. It made a little thwapping sound as I pushed it up and then back down. I thought it was the greatest thing, riding this wave, the greatest thing that is until I caught a glimpse of what was inside. Pens and paper and my favorite, the pencil. I loved pencils from the moment I discovered them. The smell of the lead. The feel between my chubby fingers. The newness. Everything was just waiting to be created. I don’t know how long I held the pencil before she noticed me, rubbing it between my fingers as if to will the genie from the bottle, but she wiped her dish soaked hands against her apron and reached the scrap paper from the top shelf.
Tiny squares of white. Some blank. Some with abandoned grocery lists. I covered them all. Scribbles and drawings and near words. I was in heaven. I could have stayed forever. Was I being good? I was being me.
It should come as no surprise, whenever visiting a museum or landmark, my go-to souvenir is the pencil. I have a favorite — from the Pierre Soulages museum. The weight. The feel. Perfection. I use it in my sketchbooks. But truth be told, I often just hold it in my hand for a moment. And on those days when the world, the day, decides to plop me in an unfamiliar place, I hold on. I take comfort in all of these hand-held possibilities, and I smile, because I find myself saying, “I’m good.”
