I was just scaling the edge of my teens when my grandfather died. Too big to be carried, too small not to want to be. Of course I had seen them before. The processions after the funeral. But I can’t say I gave them any thought. No emotion anyway. Maybe we can’t, until we’ve sat in the line, the slow line that travels at the speed of grief. Each block a memory. Each intersection another line on his overalls, pinstriping the years, like colonies on the flag. My brain could only rewind the chorus from Amazing Grace. Perhaps because it was the last thing I heard, or the thing I wanted the most.
I’d like to think I thought about empathy. About how this changed everything. I’d like to think I made plans for patience in the future — patience when paused at the green light because grief was passing. Patience to know that we are all part of the procession. It is happening to all of us. I’m not sure I did. I think I do more. I hope I do more.
I try to remind myself. One of his portraits is the first thing I see in the morning. And even out of uniform. Even free from the furrows, he is leaning in. And I think I have to do the same.
They signed up for the choir like everyone else at Central Junior High, but for three years, Gail Kiltie and David Alstead held the added responsibility of accompanying us on the piano. I never asked if they had wanted to. I hope at least our director, Mr. Lynch had, but I’m not sure.
Maybe we all just came to expect it. We often do that in our daily lives, so busy singing we just assume others will take care of it — be the foundation. We all have our roles to play. And I suppose, I hope, that we gravitate towards them, want them, but I also think it’s important every once in a while to stop and ask. To be sure. To give thanks for the support given. To let those around us know that the gifts they give us are indeed the music that we sing. To acknowledge them for laying the notes we climb. Notes we scamper upon with such joy, under the premise “well, it goes without saying…” But does it? Or does it just go unsaid. I don’t want to take that chance. So I say to Gail and David, thank you! I say to you who read, who comment, who join me in the words I plunk on my own sort of keyboard, thank you!
What a pleasure it is to share the music of this life. To take to heart that our pianos will not go unplayed. Our love will not go unsung.
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.
Summer’s heat was still trapped inside the junior high gym when we began volleyball practice, just before the beginning of the school year. That, combined with three months of no training and unsupervised candy runs, was enough to turn my stomach. I could feel the rumbling at my feet, moving past my belly, up through my chest. I scanned for my escape route as the red line of my body’s thermometer was reaching my throat. I raced up the stairs. Across the catwalk. Through the wooden doors. Slid across the freshly polished terrazzo floors into the “girl’s room,” and let go of the rainbow of summer treats.
“No!” I screamed into the floor as I heard the wooden door creak open slowly. Because even in this fragile state, I knew who it was. I could see his gray shorts and gray shoes through the gap. Mr. Zappe, our coach. “Are you OK?” he asked. “I’m fine,” I said with an undertone of please, for the love of all that’s holy, close the door. “You know there’s a bug going around,” he continued. “I’m fine,” I said, still horrified that he could see me in this wretched condition.
I’m not proud to admit it, but we all thought he was so weird. When I think about it now, it was only our junior high minds that mistrusted his over-exuberant enthusiasm. But lying on the bathroom floor, I was in no mood for one of his get-up-and-go pep talks. “You know Connie had a touch of it…” Oh, my gosh, he was going to humanize himself by bringing his wife into the conversation. To think of our teachers and coaches as human beings, well, it was just gross. He kept talking. His large glasses were perched between the door opening. I knew the only way to make him stop was to return to the gym floor. I washed my face amidst the sea of his “atta, girl”s and returned two pounds lighter to the gym.
Care doesn’t always come wrapped in the package we think it should. We can be supported in a million different ways. Even loved. I think I’m getting better at the recognition. I hope so. I hope we all can.
I heard myself give someone an “atta girl,” the other day. I laughed aloud — I am so weird! Zappe-weird!
Our world, our days, are going to be filled with many a bathroom floor. The grace, I suppose, comes in how we get up, and how we treat those who try to lift us. Thank you, Mr. Zappe. I’m still in the game!
It was only an hour each weekday. After school. I’d get off the bus at around 3:30pm and wait. Two picture windows faced our driveway. Some days, I could be distracted by The Brady Bunch, but the majority of those 60 minutes before my mom came home from work was spent waiting against those windows.
They taught us at Washington Elementary not to touch the glass windows that lined our classroom, because it was the janitor who would have to clean the windows dailly. And we didn’t want to make his job harder, did we? But seeing how it was my job to clean the windows at home each Thursday afternoon with newspaper and Windex, I wasn’t that concerned. I fogged the glass with my breath. Drew smiley faces. Smeared them away. Blew again. Then sad faces. Erased and blew. Challenged myself to tic-tac-toe. Continuously smearing cheek and fingers across the glass. Waiting. And waiting.
The gravel road always gave sufficient warning. The sound of the tires popping at 4:37pm would tell me that my mom was about to arrive. I’d hoist my top above my waist and wipe the window. Race to the garage entry. Fling the door. And I was saved.
She never mentioned it — the streaked glass. But of course she must have known. It wasn’t like my t-shirt wipe gave a proper cleaning. But that’s who she was — the person who allowed me to be me. Never made fun of my silly antics. She saw me. And loved me.
I smiled each Thursday afternoon as I took last week’s Echo and wiped it across the pane. It sparkled clean along with my heart. A fresh start. All waiting’s worries were washed away.
I see it now. So clearly. I thought she was saving me, daily, and she did, but even more importantly, she gave me the ability to save myself. A gift I continue to use. I smile out my morning window, and I am saved.
I hit it on the door yesterday, my most expensive finger. It seems it is always taking a beating. It’s my left index finger. I am right handed, and an artist, so my right hand gets all the praise and the protection. But perhaps my left hand is the unsung hero. It’s always being asked to do the, at best unglamorous, sometimes dangerous, things, like – “Hold this nail, don’t worry, it’s just a hammer,” or “Brace the ruler while I cut with this knife.” It has been cut and battered and bruised, and it still supports, every time it is asked.
I had only been in France a short time when I cut this finger. Cut it deep. Even the tendon. I needed surgery. I had no insurance, or faith in the system, or a grasp of the language even. I was afraid. Afraid of the doctors, the procedure, how I was going to pay for it… everything. But the fear was wasted, as it is most of the time. The surgery worked. I sold a painting. My finger healed. The bill was paid. (How fitting that the right would in turn support the left.) And this most expensive finger now continues to show up daily to perform the uncelebrated tasks.
But I want to celebrate them. This finger. The unsung heroes. Those who have shown up for me daily. I hope I thank them properly. Invest in them. With time and resources, emotions and praise. They deserve it. I know I can do better. I know we can do better – investing in these everyday heroes who show up, only asking, “How can I help?”
I grab the brush with my right hand and give thanks.
How do you know to believe if no one has ever believed in you? After the publication of my second book, “Believe,” I was asked to read it to a group of inner city kids in Minneapolis. I’m not sure I like the term inner city. In the US, the term inner city has been used as a euphamism for lower income residential districts. I wasn’t labeled this as a kid, probably because I was white, but certainly, in terms of income, I was no different. Maybe the only difference between us was I had someone who believed in me. My mother.
When I finished reading the book to them, which ends, “I believe in you,” most of the kids were quiet, almost stunned. I looked around, hoping for some reaction. I looked directly at the largest boy in the group. I knew if I could get a response from him, the others might follow. I smiled in his direction. I kept smiling. He made eye contact, so I asked how he felt about the book, did he have any thoughts? He said, with no pity, no hesitation, “No one has ever told me they believed in me before.” The others nodded.
My heart wanted to cry, but I kept smiling. I was honored to be the first, I said, but I would not be the last. Once you hear it, it cannot be denied. Never unheard. Now you must live it.
We painted a mural for their school with the words below. They grabbed brushes confidently, loudly, boldly, and painted themselves a future.
We are born with our eyes and our hearts wide open. Innocence and youth make it so easy to believe…so easy to fall asleep in someone’s arms, to trust in smiles, to see animals float across the sky…to believe your summer will never end.This gift that we’re given – to not just hope – but truly believe in people and feeling and all these things under the sun…this ability to act like it all matters…where does that gift go? Why does time and experience have to wear it away, instead of building on it? At what point do we lose the courage to believe and then just start hoping? And why do some give up completely?Now, I am not the most courageous of sorts…but I’m not willing to give up this most precious gift, for me or for you. I know it won’t be easy, and I know it shouldn’t be. And I’m going to fight for it, every day. Because inside this beautiful struggle to believe, we are given the power to comfort, to heal, to inspire and to love.As I get older, I know my summers may not last forever, but I’m not going to stop believing in the chances that rise with each morning sun. And I know it matters…it always does…the things we do, the things we say, the lives we lead, and the hearts we touch.I want to see giraffes float by, instead of gray clouds. I want to feel the sun, deep inside of me, even when it isn’t shining. I have to believe in myself enough to have the courage to say “I love you,” and mean it…and have the strength to hear “I love you” and really feel it.I believe all this can happen for me, and I believe it can happen for you.
We hung this in their school. I pray it reached their inner-most souls.
Hang this on your heart today, “I believe in you.”
