There is something about an open book that invites you in. I saw a bookstand online and I knew I had to have one. Anything worth having is probably worth making. So I did. I don’t have all the “proper” tools, but I have tools — tools, if used in my own clunky, but effective way, can get the job done. Now this treasured book of art sits wide open, inviting you in. I think the same is true for me. I don’t have all the “proper” tools to survive in a different country. I speak this new language in my own, clunky way, and know that anything worth having, like a life, is worth making. So I make it with all of my homemade (heartmade) tools, and I come to it wide open. Today, there is a scent of freshly cut wood in the air. A scent of work, and hope, and possibility. Inviting me! Inviting you!
We have a large garden. Which means we also have a lot of weeds. And oh, the strength of weeds. They seem to be able to survive anything. Their only weakness comes after the rain. When the rain soaks the ground around them, everything loosens. Lets go. And it is so much easier to pull out the weeds. From the roots. Get rid of them.
I have this thought that maybe we’re the same. I think it’s ok to cry. For me, when I need to loosen the fear, or anger, maybe the sadness, I let the tears flow. And all those weeds around my heart start to loosen. I’m able to pluck them out and focus on what I have. What is growing inside of me. Growing every day. And it is beautiful!
I watched the Andy Griffith show as a kid. (Still do when I get the chance) It always made me laugh. One day Aunt Bea arrived at the Sheriff’s office, very upset. Crying and breathing heavy, Deputy Fife, in his Fife-like way, huddled around her, saying… “We should loosen something… what can we loosen?” It’s so funny, but so true.
If you need to loosen something today, I’m with you. If you need to let it rain, I’ll cry with you. And if you need to dig deep, I’ll grab my shovel. We’re in this together — in this beautiful garden together! Let’s grow.
The first time I took my mother to New York, we both got to be models.
Go ahead and underestimate the amount of confidence I carried with me growing up in Alexandria, Minnesota. Now underestimate a little more, and you might reach my mother. Oh, we survived, and even had a little fun. We looked at catalogs (nothing was online then) and dreamed, even walked the malls each weekend, and dreamed a little more. We tried on outfits and gained a little more confidence. We went to Minneapolis and grabbed on to a little more. Then Chicago – look at us in Chicago! Our strides got a little longer, our backs a little straighter, and sometimes we even dared to say, “Hey, we look pretty good.” Which may sound vain – but no – that was pure joy!
Maybe you need to know a little backstory. My mom, one of nine farm kids, wasn’t nurtured in fashion. Practical, stained, sturdy, this was the norm. There’s nothing wrong with that – it’s very functional. But function is not often what dreams are made of. And so this little girl dreamed. Alone. Her mother, forever aproned and cooking – nine children – still found time to sew. And my mom, forever washing dishes – eight siblings – became a fashion designer, in her heart.
Now, dreams really don’t amount to much without confidence. And that’s another hurdle. How my mother found it, was nothing short of fantastical, but she did. Shedding rumors and divorce and illness, she still managed to dress herself, every day, in something that made them think, “She’s from Alex?”
And she was. We were. And off we flew New York. I had just finished the book, “Slap on a little lipstick, you’ll be fine” — again, thanks to my mother — and Guideposts magazine was going to do a feature story on it. My mom accompanied me. They picked us up in a limo, drove us to the meat packing industry, to a giant loft of an acclaimed photographer. They plucked my eyebrows and did my makeup, slid red leather over black silk and I was delighted, transformed, giddy! My mom watched from the corner as they took photo after photo, smiling and smiling more – no direction needed! And then the photographer said, why don’t we take a few with your mother! Yes, yes! I said. Oh, I don’t… my mother hesitated. (It takes a while to build a confident soul.) You have to! You must! I want you to! And she came – into the shot. And we hugged and smiled and captured it forever! Look, Grandma! We’re models!
They put the pictures in the magazine – even my grandma!
This week, the young poet, Amanda Gorman, asked us to acknowledge the shoulders we’ve stood on, and what we stand for now. These are the women that have held me up.
My grandma’s photo sits next to my sewing machine. I once drew a picture of her hands, and wrote, “If she did worry, it never showed in her hands.” Perhaps that was the strength that allowed my mother to dream. Shoulders.
I painted a picture of a dress designer’s mannequin for my mom, and wrote, “Not all of her dreams came true, but she was never sorry she had them.” Shoulders.
These women gave me the strength to dream, to fall in love, to live. They are the reason I believe. These beauties of strength, survival, endurance, and joy — no one has ever worn it better! Look, Grandma! Look, Mom! You’re models!!!!!
Sometimes when I’m walking and listening to a podcast, the words clop along with each step, coming in and out of the path like an autumn leaf. Then other times, like this day, the words are so clear, so near, so understandable, it’s like the slight touch of an old friend, words that you not only recognize, but ones that find their way into that empty space in your heart, and fill it. These were the words. This musician spoke of being at an awards show in the early 2000’s. She was to go onstage after June Carter and Johnny Cash. It was the old fashioned kind of stage, steps on the side that you climbed in the almost darkness. She watched Johnny climb the stairs, slowly, carefully, like an old man. She noticed he looked fragile, frail. And then at the final step, he straightened, chest out, and as he walked into the spotlight he became “Johnny Cash.” He was tall and strong and new every word to every song. He was amazing. He was, well, he was JOHNNY CASH!” It was just after her first cancer surgery that I was showing at Art in the Park in Alexandria. It was one of my first shows and I was a little nervous, and I was alone. My mother was still weak. Still fragile. On the last day of the show, I looked up from my booth, and there she was, coming down the hill, the sun lit just for her. She was wearing a new off-white outfit (maybe pale yellow) that she had purchased from a store in Las Vegas, just out of her price range, completely within her style. She walked slowly down that green path and my arms cheered above my head – the stage was complete! My mother has never sung or played guitar, but oh, how she has shined. Darkness has tried to cover her through the years, with divorce, illness, life’s uncertainties, but nothing has been able to put out her light. When she is with me, it sometimes takes a minute, sometimes more, but she climbs the stairs, steps onto the stage, and the crowd in my heart cheers, because she is my MOM! MY MOM! Bigger than any star I could imagine. Today she is living with cancer. We continue to laugh and shop online and dream of outfits from the Sundance catalog, and what Robert Redford might actually think of us in them. So if you ask me how my mom is doing, I will smile and say, “Well, she’s JOHNNY CASH!
