I washed the windows in the studio recently, reminding myself that in order to paint the light, you really need to be in it.
People will always be quick to tell you what to do. Even knee deep in the mud, they will advise you on your path. While all the scattering of their “should-haves” and “supposed-tos” merely block the way. And doubt, not one to miss a dim light, will often seize the opportunity and join in the chatter. And so I turn…
I can’t say I love to wash windows. It is work. And the efforts are never rewarded with longevity. You know it going in, this won’t be the last time. But when it hits you, wraps itself around you, nearly lifting with clarity and grace, as sure as a mother’s embrace, my heart says (with no apology for the pun), “aaaaah, I see….”
It wasn’t obvious. Nor was I looking. And I wasn’t supposed to. I only saw what a child needs to see. A root beer float.
There were no visible sharp edges to Grandma Elsie. She was round and approachable. She was the scoop (or two) of Schwan’s vanilla ice cream in her frequent afternoon root beer float. I can see it now — that it could have been more than just a sugar craving. It was simple. An easy decision with a consistent result. There were no maybes or what ifs to it. And didn’t she need that? In her world of uncertainty — all those kids (because even old they were) and grandkids tugging, and the farm, would it rain, would it sell, would he ever make the walk from field to kitchen — all umbrellaed under the certainty of a root beer float.
I never liked the combination. I always no-thank-you-ed out of it. Grabbing a pack of Sugar Babies, or a Black Cow from the Lazy Susan — a whole corner cupboard of my own certainty.
Without my knowlede or permission, I adopted the habit of giving myself an easy decision. Some days I can tackle a whole portrait, others, simply a tomato. Both victories. There is comfort in that. In a world of how could this possibly be, to simply hold something plump and round and sure is a gift. It is the soft edge of an afternoon scoop, the embrace of a grandmother’s plump and generous love that ever holds. Of this I’m certain.
I missed it the first time checking the mailbox. I went back and read the email. The carrier said it was “delivered to a secure location.” I went back down the driveway. Oh, there it is… I guess for some, delivered to a secure location is simply thrown out of a moving vehicle over the gate and into the bush.
We all have our own definitions.
I don’t know why I called it a bean. Maybe I couldn’t say blanket yet, and certainly not security. It wasn’t big. I’m sure it came with one of my dolls. It had the same smell of their heads, somewhere between plastic and baby powder, and while clutching to my chest, the scent directly went from nose to heart, and I was saved.
There was always a frantic search before leaving the house. I had to have my bean before entering the car that would traverse the gravel of Van Dyke Road. I’m not sure we gave a thought to seat belts, but my mom and I knew that that mini blanket, this would save me.
I suppose it happened naturally. One day it got left behind and I made the journey without it. Maybe it was at the bottom of the laundry. Possibly even in the driveway. Somehow, the security remained. Enough to get me past the railroad tracks, the freeway, the airport.
L’Occitane makes a hand cream with the exact scent. I buy it here in France. It’s funny, with just a smoothing on my hands, I smile. Oh, Bean. I am delivered to my secure location, and I am home.
It took a while to enter my palette. I grew up in a different shade of blue. The 10,000 lakes of Minnesota, while even different from each other, are not the same as the blue specific to Provence. And maybe it’s more a reflection of me, these blues… There was a wet-flung wildness to my lakes of youth. A daring. A “get past the buoys” kind of test. All part of the building of this confidence, I suppose, that it would take to embrace another blue, an unfamiliar, and call it my own.
I stuck to painting Americana when first arriving here in France. Oh, I snuck in a Sainte Victoire, or two, but I was careful, cautious. Would I, could I, be so bold as to say, not just that I see it too, but declare with heart and brush, this is how I see it.
And this blue, that powders between sky and sea, is in my heart now. No longer asking for knowledge or permission. It simply lives within and travels through to brush and canvas. With a heart as open as morning shutters, I greet the day, and call myself home.
I gained balance pretty quickly on my two wheeler bike. It was the stability that I had to work on. Not the staying upright, but the finding my way home. Luckily, I had all the tools (maybe we always do). I had a wicker basket on the handlebars and enough possessions to fill it. A stuffed animal. A doll. A baseball glove. An oversized coloring book. Anything to leave a trail as I set out on my journey. The neighbors were used to the abandonings in empty lots and ditches, so I’m not sure they paid it any mind, this careful placement of goods — my direction home.
I moved the large painting of the girl with the bird in her hand. She’s the first thing I see when I enter the studio, telling me, I already have everything that I need, and just enough to wish for. She is the calm. She is the hope. She is the place from where I venture, and the place that welcomes me back. And isn’t that, I suppose, what home has always been, will always be. Still, it’s good to be reminded.
My heart basket is full. Today’s adventure begins.
I remember the first time I signed out a book at the Alexandria Public Library. Who could forget such a moment? Because with each letter, I was formed into the stone lion that should have been guarding the front entrance. Just with the signing of my name on that yellowing card, (beneath all the other lions), I not only became part of each word, each sentence, each book that lined the shelves, I became the welcome to the next reader, the stairs themselves, to this sacred place.
I think it’s the very reason we put things in books. Images and words. To tell the stories of our lives. To share the sacred places we have been to, we have gone through. Because don’t we look to them, the other lions, those who have made it beyond the places we are struggling. They are the strength that lift the feet. Up each stair. Until we can proudly write our names, claim our positions in each story, and become the lions for those still looking up.
My mother loved to read by the window. Of course the light was better, but knowing her, always in search of more air to breathe, she no doubt wanted the same for her open book.
I suppose that’s why I crave it too — the crack of a window, or the spine of a book. I think that’s what reading does, opens up everything. Allows more information in, and lets go of preconceived ideas. A refreshing. Simply put, more air to breathe.
The first time I really understood was on the playground of Washington Elementary. I mean really on the playground, after falling from the railings where the teeter totters used to be. Landing flat on my back, my internal wind ran like a rat from a ship and left me gasping. Like a fish flopping on the dock’s edge. That’s all I had, metaphors, no air to breathe. So this is how she felt, my mother, I thought, in those uncomfortable situations that only adults knew. Being judged for status or money or anything else a small town could measure you by. And I knew I would hug her after school. I would take all the air that I had inside of me once again and use it to run from the bus, through the garage door, into her arms, and give her that much needed air.
Empathy. It only comes from being open. I sit by the window with my open book. There is so much more to learn. To love. And so I breathe.
They loved them for different reasons. My grandma’s a bit more practical. She needed her pockets for Kleenex and treats — we needed candy she said, you know, just to be sure. My mother kept her dreams in her pockets, be it skirt, coat or pants, needing a place to coddle them in hand, you know, just to be sure.
So maybe they weren’t that different after all. They just found their way to comfort through different pocketed resources. And after all, didn’t they both love the autumn candy at Walgreen’s.
We have no candy corn in France. No mellowcremes, or Autumn Mix by Brach’s. Yet, my pockets remain full, with the same magic as the heart, I suppose.
We get to decide the magic that we carry. The love we hold on to. The hopes and dreams and comforts that fill our pockets. Sometimes I find myself leaning up against a French wall, and rolling it all between my fingers, you know, just to be sure.
A painting will dictate what it wants for a frame. Or some will not need one at all. But once in a while, the sequence reverses, and I will paint an image for a frame. That’s what happened with this little one. It was alone in the thrift store. Empty. But not for long.
To see a need and fill it, before the asking, it’s nice within my artistic world, but my sincere hope is that I can do it in real life. With real people.
I was told once that when someone near you is going through a difficult time, you should never ask them “What can I do?” Of course it is well intended, but now you’ve only added to the situation – given them another problem to solve – how you can help. It’s never easy, or a sure thing, but I suppose the best thing is to just do something. It may not be the thing to solve the problem, but doing something nice can never be wrong. And you can always do another thing.
In that spirit, I’ve painted several small pieces for this frame. They can always be switched out. Mostly it serves as a reminder for me to just keep doing. Keep trying. And I’m not going to lie, it simply feels good. It fills me at the same time as the frame. So I smile and point the question, not outwardly, but inwardly, “What can I do?” And I do something. And that should be celebrated.
It’s Grandma Elsie’s voice I hear. When I sold my first original painting, I told her about the gallery, the people, the price. She clapped her hands in front of her heart and said, “Isn’t that something?!!!!!!”
She stood in front of the original painting. Tracing the movement from the woman’s feet to her hand. “She’s so light,” she said, “it’s like she’s being lifted.” I smiled and replied “That’s actually the name of the piece — Being Lifted.” Her pleasure doubled. It was not only the view, but that she could see it.
And isn’t it always the way. It’s what we bring to the situation. How we want to see things.
Knowing her, I’m aware of the weight she is wanting to release. And the fact that she can see it, right there in front of her, I know that she will.
It’s why I painted her in the first place. This release. This letting go. I suppose I’ve always wanted it. Ever since I swam out to the diving board on Lake Latoka, I have yearned to fly. Since I felt the weightlessness of springing from the board. The wind in my feathers. My momentary wings. They carry me still.
It’s why I stand before her each night, the woman in the painting. Because I see her. And I know, when morning comes, one way or another, I am going to fly.
