“Would anyone know?” If I were to buy a plastic, mass produced, artist palette from China to hold the paint that I applied to my next painting, would it make a significant difference to the outcome?
I suppose it was my grandfather who first taught me that I must be that anyone. Riding on his tractored lap, I asked if it mattered if the rows were straight? Yes, he said. To who? I asked. To me, he said, it matters to me. And so it was on the farm. For everything. To act like it mattered, like it all mattered, even when you were the only one in the field, under the apple tree, or resting on the front stoop.
So I take the time, and not the chance. I make a template on my computer. I cut the wood to fit my hand. I sand, and sand again. Because I am the one. It is my soul, that transfers from heart to thumb to wood to brush to canvas. I am the anyone that cares. And this is not a burden, but a gift. For this and every question of the day that begins with, “Who is going to…” — (I look to the gentle wood that reminds me) — Let it be me!
When we got to the end of a bag on a road trip, my mother always, with a grin, suggested we give the purple jelly beans to the birds by throwing them out the car window. So it’s not surprising that yesterday, in the Petrified Forest National Park, when the crow made no attempt to fly away, even after taking pictures, that I went to the back seat of the car and picked out a jelly bean. (Of course we have them, mostly only purple left, it’s a road trip after all, and I am my mother’s daughter.). I walked right up to the big black bird. Gave the jelly bean a little roll, and the crow plucked it right from the ground. I think he loved it. I watched. You know, just in case. I wasn’t sure a crow could eat a jelly bean. (I was prepared to do cpr.) But he pecked it smaller. Ate it up, like everything in my history told me he would.
I promise I won’t make a steady habit of feeding the birds jelly beans. But how could I miss the opportunity to bring my mother along on our trip?
Gazing out over the painted desert, looking at the trees that now were made of stone, time could have seemed too big to imagine. But maybe there is no time at all. Maybe everything is, all at once. Trees are stones. My mother is with me still. The black wing of the crow, shines blue, almost purple.
Most will never even see it. Let alone touch it. So why does it matter? This sanding of the panel. So smooth to the touch as I dare the thin skinned fingers of my right hand across the top, bottom and sides, knowing it is my left that will reach for it. Grab hold while painting. Pulling it close so my right hand can do the brush work. My right hand can talk to my heart and get all those messages on the panel, stroke by stroke. My right-hearted hand that will get the praise on walls, disappearing all that was held, supported, in order to get this result. So will everyone know? No. Anyone? Probably not, but both of my hands know. Even when the painting is finished, I brush the wood and remember. I remember everything. A symbol of all that has held me. Everyone that has supported me. Supports me still.
These are the people, the left hands that hold me. Not for praise or glory. The teachers. The neighbor ladies. The friends. My grandparents. My sweet mother. All who risked holding the jagged wood for me when it wasn’t sanded. They took on the splinters so I wouldn’t have to. And I hope I said thank you then. But there were so many times. I couldn’t have possibly gotten to them all. This is why I sand the wood. This is why it matters. It is for them. They are within every piece that I create. And these heroes, who never asked for recognition, they need to know that I know. I know it every day. So I smooth the wood. The luxury of this gentle touch holds the thank you I meant to say, the thank you I mean to say, daily, and do.
It seemed easy to make friends in school. They sat you next to about 30 options. Gave you subjects to talk about. Offered common enemies like rules and detention. Supplied the games and gyms. Put you in pools and on buses, all together.
And that was enough for most. But it seemed like there should be more. “Wasn’t there more to it? Wasn’t it all supposed to mean something?” I asked my best friend in my yellow bedroom on Van Dyke Road. Cindy thought about it. I mean, she didn’t laugh, but really thought about it, and I suppose that’s why we were friends. We understood each other. Even in our preteens, we sought more than they could possibly offer at Washington Elementary, or even Central Junior High.
We both agreed that there had to be more. But how did you get it? That was the bigger question. I searched for years. I can’t tell you the exact moment. They came in whispers. Small bits. I wrote words for my mother. And we connected deeply. A poem for my grandfather’s funeral. And I was a part of a family. I began to expose my heart. I suppose I stopped looking for what could be offered to me, and began to offer what I had. And it was bigger! Better! It meant something! It meant all and more than I had dreamed of in shades of yellow. This is how I would connect. How I still connect.
He said I could pick out anything from his wood pile. Maybe that doesn’t sound like much, but for me it was priceless. A way for us to connect. And I had a long way to travel to catch up to this life-long friend of my husband. He helped me load the back of our car.
I cut the first strips of wood to stretch the canvas. No plans yet of what to paint, that would come. It always does if I just give it a path. I gessoed the canvas. And began in blue. The sea and sky and sand opened before me. The boats and nets and the fishermen — all daring greatly.
I searched my newly attained wood pile for the longest, straightest pieces. Sanded each length. And sanded again. And again. I cut them to length. Nailed them with the rusted hammer — once belonging to my husband’s father. Squared. Stained. Sanded again. Cut the strips for the backing. Placed the painting inside. It should also be mentioned that Michel, the man who let me pick freely from his pile of wood, was, for the majority of his life, a fisherman. A fisherman, I pause and smile. The blank canvas knew, perhaps even before I did. And this is how we connect. Connect our hearts. Our stories. By doing the work.
There is more. There is always more. But it won’t be given. We will have to search and throw our nets out to sea, continuously doing the work, ever daring greatly.
