There is a color to Paris, I thought like no other. The earthy tone of warmth. Beautiful, not because they had been spared, but just the opposite, because they had come through. A palette of empathy, not asking you to blend, but a knowing and welcoming nod. A grandeur of grace.
My mother had that. Before we knew of Paris. Before we even dared speak of beauty itself, she taught me of grace. In the earth tones of survival, she found something beautiful. And I took to it like a dream. I carry it with me, her with me, every time we visit.
At my friend’s house last week, I stopped in front of a photo. It was of her parents’ farm. I stood for a minute. Drawn in, not exactly sure why. But then I noticed it. Could it be? So far from the Eiffel Tower? This same earthy palette. I suppose you could chalk it up to the color of old film, an aging photo, but I felt it too, this same feeling. Again, maybe it was because of my grandfather, my mother, or our recent walk through Paris, or maybe there is beauty in all things that survive, that grow, that keep becoming.
I smile because someone just wrote on my post that my mom is “still teaching us.” I think it’s true. Possible. If, no matter where we are, we keep walking in grace.
I was nervous to take the test. If I didn’t get it right, then what did anything mean? The podcaster explained how it would work. A professional author was being challenged by Artificial Intelligence. Both were given the same prompts. Each was to write a short story. Without giving away the authors, both stories were going to be played and it was up to us, the listeners, to guess between human and AI.
The first story began. Immediately specific and elegant. My heart quickly raised its hand with an “ooooo, ooooo,” convinced that it knew this had to be the human author. Hold on, my brain urged, but when they reached the part where, on the dating app, the man texted the woman that he made eye contact with the woodpecker that sat on the horse, simply to explain what sort of mountain biker he was, even my brain had to concede that this must be the human. (It sounds a little crazy without context, but it was delightful). The second story began. It had all the prompts. Contained the right words. Seemed grammatically efficient — so efficient that it was boring. One might say, artificial.
The podcaster began talking with the human author. Which one did you write? The first one, she answered. My all’s right with the world angels sang in perfect harmony. I shook my head in constant agreement when the podcaster said the second story – the AI one – lacked soul. Yes! I thought, maybe even out loud.
I am not afraid of AI. It will be able to perform all sorts of tasks. Quickly. Efficiently. I suppose what I am more afraid of are the humans that spew out, with the same ease and speed, words of hurt and destruction. Dehumanizing others, as if neither had a soul. And I am afraid of the humans that hear these words and simply fall in line.
For me, I’m not willing to throw it all away so quickly. It takes a long time to build a soul. And constant upkeep. I know I’m getting older. With a little grace, I hope I’m getting wiser. I know for sure that we have to begin and begin again. We have to trust in it, follow it, nurture it along the path, and when we find ourselves, shoes deep in gravel on the side of a mountain, the heart yelling, “ooooo, oooooo,” and the soul yelling, “Look, a woodpecker on a horse!” — we have to listen!
The brain agrees. Nods gently. Never breaking eye contact with the soul.
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.
I have yet to be surprised by the amount of times I use it, as the Algebra teacher once promised. To be honest, I’m not sure I was even “using” it then. Don’t get me wrong, I loved school. And I think one of the greatest things it taught us was simply the art of learning. What I AM surprised by are some of the unconventional places where I was taught things that, in fact, I am still using today — like the ballpark behind the Dairy Queen in Alexandria, Minnesota.
Our summer girls’ softball league was loosely supervised by a semi-reluctant 19 year old who was either complying with his mother’s wish to get out the house and get a job, or perhaps fulfilling some mandatory community service. Either way, he didn’t seem thrilled to be spending his summer with over zealous pre-teens who could recite the DQ menu, yet didn’t understand the simple infield fly rule. Other than calling balls and strikes, he rarely inserted himself into the game. Sunglassed and uninterested, he neither coached nor encouraged. Except for one day. Of course we all went to the plate wanting a hit. We swung at anything really. After the two previous girls struck out, I was up to the plate. The pitcher continued her wild throws over my head. Nearing the dugout. I looked confused. It was then he looked at me, and said the only words I can remember from that summer, “You know, a walk is as good as a hit.” I let the next two balls sail past and took my base.
There are some days when I clean with vigor, using the proper vacuum attachments to get in and under. But there are many days, like yesterday, when covering the broad open spaces with a quick push around, I think, that’s pretty good…and “I take my base” — (which is often the pool.)
Not every victory is a home-run. And surprise! — not every lesson has to be so difficult. Sometimes, it’s simply knowing when to let go, when to give yourself a break and maybe even go have a little bit of fun! Enjoy!
What was it all for, if we didn’t have a little fun?
I was in the fifth grade when I did my first Walk for Humanity. I’m not certain I knew what it meant, but I took the pledge sheet and walked around our neighborhood to get signatures and promises. Maybe it was a nickel a mile. Ten cents. A quarter. Maybe this was the most “human” part of it all. This neighborhood knew me. Knew the strength of my legs. Had watched me run the field, ride the bike, and so they said things like, “Of course you’ll make it, I know you’re going to do it.” And if I’m honest, it was the only humanity I was thinking of when I walked the miles that Saturday morning. These were my people. They knew my bedtime. The call of my mother. My wave from the bottom of the hill to the top. How my blonde hair whipped in the wind. And I didn’t want to let them down.
It was a rainy morning. I was fueled with Captain Crunch, and no knowledge of how far ten miles actually was. I had flat bumper tennis shoes and jeans purchased from Herberger’s basement. I was soaked from rain, puddles, and possibly a few tears at about mile eight. I had no idea where we were, but for the marked signs and groups of teenagers that I followed. I had to go to the bathroom so badly, but I was too shy to enter any house that offered those services for the day. I didn’t know them. This wasn’t Van Dyke Road. I had no idea how to even get back to Van Dyke Road. All I wanted was an open screen door that I recognized — like our resident neighborhood Grandma Dynda — a grandma that no one was related to, but who’s door was always open to kitchen and bathroom. What would she think of me if I quit? I couldn’t quit. I kept walking. Even Mrs. Muzik pledged for me. We couldn’t walk on her lawn, but she was paying me to walk across this new humanity. I kept walking.
I wet my pants around mile nine. But no one noticed because I was already soaked. I never told anyone. People were so proud of me when I went to collect the money on Sunday that I forgot about it. They tousled my hair and filled my pockets with change and a few dollar bills. I don’t know if the tiny bit of money I raised made any difference at all to the cause, but for me, it was a fortune. I was rich in my neighborhood. This sea of humanity.
My pledges are different now. Along with my neighborhood. But I keep walking. Hopes remaining ever high.
In the springtime, when Hugo’s field began to turn golden behind our house on Van Dyke Road, and when the sun reflected off my winter white thighs, my eyes could barely adjust to the brightness of it all. For a few brief moments, blinded in the growth, I didn’t know where I was going, but I felt certain that I was on my way.
He didn’t want us running through his field. To cut across would save only minutes in the short journey to town, and I can’t explain why we were in such a hurry, but it was so tempting. Maybe it was the promise of summer. The grain that brushed against our legs. The windowed storefronts that called to us. Come. Press against. See what’s inside. We’ve been waiting just for you. It was too much to resist, so we ran across his beautiful field toward the neverending promise.
I’d like to think we didn’t do any damage. And I apologize if we did. In this fever to outrun time — this time measured so clearly by the color of the changing field.
It’s springtime in Provence. Purples and yellows bloom all around us, in a way that quickens the steps. My lavender legs still feel like running. But there is a moment when the morning sun comes through the window with a light that is so bright you can only feel it, and it tells me to stop. Stop chasing. Just be. Maybe it’s nature Hugo-ing us to take the long way. I smile slowly. I’d like to tell you it lasts. But I cannot stop color, nor time. Or the need to travel through both. But I can tell you this, it’s in these brief moments, that I feel gratitude of peace, and the golden blur rests.
After a vacation, I need to get unpacked immediately. I don’t like hovering “between two kingdoms.” With both suitcases emptied, something seemed to be missing — a small candle that I found at a bookstore. I looked through my purchase pile. Emptied the sacks. Nothing. Went back to the closet. Felt through each zippered pocket of the suitcases. Still nothing.
I went to bed that evening, still hoping my jet-lagged brain would kick in the next day. Sleep came quickly, and left with the same speed. Just after 2am my eyes blinked open with the knowledge — “It’s in your shoe!” Smiling, I went back to sleep. It was always with me.
After breakfast the next morning, I checked the inside of my New Balance tennis shoe. And there it was. My beautiful little candle. And bonus, also the tiny Native American vase I forgot about. Both safe and sound.
Going for a walk, the French path seemed brand new. I saw the blooming trees, again, for the first time. My feet steadied the way as my head circled from bird to bird, branch to branch, curve through curve. Years ago I wrote, “I have to believe my feet will take me where I need to go.” I still believe. They still do. Short of clicking my no-heeled shoes together like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I returned home, understanding that I still, and always, have the power within me.
I found ten euros on the path yesterday while out for my morning walk. I picked it up. Smiled. Looked around. There was no one in sight. I folded it neatly and put it in my pocket. It was at the beginning of my walk, so I had almost an hour left to check it repeatedly. Like a five year old with birthday money stashed in my shorts, I clutched it in my chubby fingers again and again. It’s not that I needed ten euros so badly (although it’s always a treat!). What I really needed was not to lose the proof. I was so excited to show Dominique that even though out of season, I still had the “asparagus” eye. Out of all the people that strolled the path that morning, with dogs and phones and step-counters, I was the one who spotted the surprise! It made me feel special. I patted my pocket to feel the folds of worth.
My grandma was the first to give me a five dollar bill every year for my birthday. It continued well into my thirties. While the currency lost value through the years, the envelope that arrived each March 27th, addressed with her handwriting, became priceless. Opening the mailbox, I clutched it in hand. Forever a five year old, held heart-close in my grandma’s attention. I still have the last envelope she sent. Framed, it stands next to her picture. She loved me. I will forever feel special. Worthy.
“Guess what I found!” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Guess! Go ahead and guess!” I said, while unfolding the bill.
“Ohhhh!” he exclaimed, “You have the asparagus eye!” I am loved. You can’t put a price on that.
It’s all about the choices we make. We can choose to stay or to cross over. We are offered these bridges as gifts. It’s not always easy to dare to cross over, to get through, to get beyond… but it is a choice. So many rivers to cross. And with one step, we choose… we decide to love, to be loved… we decide that we are actually worthy of the giving and receiving… we choose to live… and we cross over… we cross over to the beauty that lies ahead. What a journey!
I saw a door in the forest…a forest I had passed through so many times before. Looking only with my eyes, it had always seemed so typical – whatever that means. Maybe typical is what everyone tells you is supposed to be there. Well, my everyone had never mentioned a door before, so I looked around, as if not to mention it myself.
Left, no one. Right, no one. Behind, nope.
It’s like you think you’re safe or something, if you can just walk away without notice. But what you don’t realize is, you’re wrong…you’re not safe really, just alone.
Memories that force hesitation kept me still. If I went forward, what would happen? I had never travelled beyond the shortcut of disbelievers.
I was afraid. Afraid to stay…afraid to leave. Afraid to see beyond the trees. Afraid the door would disappear the moment someone told me it wasn’t there.
A door in the forest. A door in the forest. Repetition didn’t even make it sound right.
I opened and shut my eyes. It was still there.
I pinched my arm. Still there.
“Would you like to enter a world like no other?”
Now it talked? A talking door in the forest?
No. NO! No, I didn’t want to go. No, I didn’t want to stay. No, this wasn’t happening. And no, doors don’t belong in the forest. There was no door in the forest. Just me. Walking through like I always did. Going nowhere. But always getting there. No. No, I didn’t want to go.
My negations weren’t out loud, but the door responded anyway. “Would it be easier for you if I were a tree?”
A tree. Now a tree sort of made sense. A tree, strong and familiar. A tree could lift you to this other world.
I shook my head yes.
Out of the door grew branches and leaves. Branches and leaves that reached higher than any other bark. A tree that lifted me with such strength and gentleness, beyond the greens and browns of familiarity into blues and yellows and whites…opening my breath to the clean smell of hope.
With the branches blowing in the breeze, the tree asked me if I wanted to go farther…go farther and faster and higher and farther and faster and higher.
“Trees can’t fly.” I said.
“Would it be easier for you if I were a bird?”
A bird. A bird could maybe do that. “Of course,” I said.
Leaves became feathers. Branches stretched into wings. We flew through the clouds and passed the sun. So peacefully unfamiliar, I strangely knew that this was what heaven must be like. And stranger still, it was the first time I even let myself believe the possibility.
“Would you like to fly through it?”
“Heaven?” I asked.
“Birds can’t go to heaven,” I said.
“Would it be easier for you if I were an angel?”
I smiled as a flow of white surrounded me and we sailed further… beyond the sky, straight into love. I knew it was love, because it had no beginning and no end and I had no desire to look for either.
I don’t know how long I was there. There seemed no need for time.
I hadn’t even noticed how sure and steady my heart was beating, until the angel told me I had to go back.
“But I can’t go back to the ground. I can no longer walk in a forest without doors.”
“Would it be easier for you if I walked with you?”
“Angels can’t live in the forest,” I said, now surrounded by trees.
“Would it be easier for you if I lived in your heart?”
Knowing it would, the angel crawled inside of me and blanketed my heart. It beat sure again, without my urging.
The greens became greener and the browns more brown. I walked on familiar ground, that I had never really felt before.
Then I saw you, lost in a spot, no doubt you had frequented…looking forward and back, side to side.
“It’s a door,” I said.
“No,” were the tears you cried.
“Would it be easier for you if I went with you?” I asked.
Together we walked through the door in the forest.
Since Covid began, I have made my daily walks inside of our yard. It’s a grand yard, so no complaints. Lots to see, smell and hear. I walk past the pool, the olive tree, under the pines, past the mailbox, the driveway, the fruit trees (all named) Officer Bob the peach tree, Becky the cherry tree, Abigail the apricot tree, Prune rouge – her name was just too perfect as is (the plum tree)…past the American and French flags…I walk over the space where Daniel used to grow – the almond tree – he didn’t make it – nothing to do with Covid… and past the back gardens, the art studio, the green house, the swing set… it’s lovely, full of life, and I go round.
This spring, some holes started popping up, (or I guess down), throughout the yard. No sign of who was making the holes, but nature certainly nurtured my imagination, and immediately I thought of a weasel. And the thought of a weasel led me to thoughts of burrowing, not just in the ground, but up my pant leg, and so I switched to my tightest, skinniest jeans and walked a little faster.
The other morning, making coffee, looking out as the sky turned from pink to blue, my husband and I watched a green woodpecker picking in the grass. Oh, how we love birds. Look at him. So quick. So agile. Wow, he’s really digging. Look at the dirt actually flying up. He’s really going at it. Wait… we looked at each other… wait, I have to go see… that pic is not just “picking”… why, he’s actually digging… I ran out to find a big hole. A big weasel-like hole. A big, no longer scary hole. It was just the pic (woodpecker). It’s just a little pic hole, I smiled.
Is there a moral to the story? Maybe. Probably. You can find your own. My first English professor in college told us to show, not tell. This is what I know for sure. I switched back to loose pants and joyfully walk in a weasel-free zone. Yes, there’s still Covid, a few holes in the ground, but the sun is shining, the grass is greening, my pants are loose and it feels so good to walk, once again, in the truth.
Becky winks a crooked branch to say, “I knew it all along…”
