on the bravery within and things never to forget

Between towering vacation homes squished tall and snug, we followed the public boardwalk that stretched long and narrow.  And then before us, the expanse.

I walked behind him, as my boy met the sea, months before his fifth birthday.  His plaid blue hat atop his head. He stopped at the edge where the railing turned to meet the stairs, the stairs covered in sand, and his head turned to the left and to the right and back again.  Quietly, he observed, as is his nature.

And after contentment rushed through my bones, the kind that only comes in this place where my soul is at home, I took his hand and said, “Come on!”

We walked together on the sand. He was cautious and when I tried to walk him to where the water splashed our toes, he shivered and reached out to be held.  The winds were strong, the waves crashed, he was so small before the sea.  I held him close and spoke in his ear, isn’t it beautiful?  It’s my favorite.  This is where God lives.  Or, rather this is where you can always find him, if ever you aren’t sure. Intrigue slipped through his trembling eyes. His sister was scared too, which is uncommon for our Wild Eyes, but she saw her brother afraid and so she would be too.

The tide was low and they played in a small pool far from the waves, where giant rocks, covered in a slippery green grass, created shallow streams and caverns. A safe haven of exploration and wonder.  Every so often, they’d look out towards the greatness before them, not yet ready.  Matt and I jumped in the waves while Gigi and Allan built sand castles and collected shells.  We let the waves thrash us around. It was therapy as life and its adult heaviness melted in the power of the water, in the place where God lives.  We could be seen, but not heard in our bubble-sound-barrier of the wind and waves. We were like children and we were free.  And we flirted in wildly appropriate ways. 

We talked about how we want our children to be brave. They looked so small down the shore, playing in the sand.  We talked about how we want them to live with abandon and delight in the wonder of nature, to be able to feel him so closely in places like this, because we do -- so very much. 

We returned, scooped them up, and carried them the water’s edge.  They clung tightly as ever one could.  And safely in our arms we jumped and laughed until they did too.  We sat down and the water splashed over us.  Their cautious laughter grew into certainty, the shaking stopped, and then they stood on their own.  The salt water spray was still shocking, but no longer terrifying.

I want to remember it forever, the way he was brave first, the way his laughter started and then she followed his lead.  How he was then standing on his own, radiant with courage.  Sometimes, he’d fall and the water would wash over him, sending him running up the shore, but he’d turn right back toward the sea and try again.  She stayed close and gripped Daddy’s hands, but her little body shrieked with joy. 

They didn’t want to stop for lunch. They didn’t want to leave. And the days later, in the tiny kiddie pool at home they showed me how they jumped in the waves, like this, mom, like this.

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life is not easy and it was never intended to be, for a life well-lived will always be overflowing with maddening goodness and breath-taking badness, with easy and hard, and with wondrous beauty and ferocious ugly.   and you’ll be tired and weary, you’ll question and fear, you’ll feel confusion and doubt. 

i hope you’ll always know that when the world is dark and you’re absolutely unsure of everything that you’ll find him at the water’s edge.  you’ll see his power in the thundering waves that smash upon the shore.  you’ll feel him in the salty spray that covers you, in the wind that sweeps up your hair and makes it dance.  you’ll marvel in the sunlight and moonlight that sparkles across the water. and that you’ll know in this moment, when you stand before the great big sea, that the creator of the universe is with you.  and find his boundless love pouring out in the roaring and crashing and spraying and sparkling. 

my darlings, if you dare to live, you’ll often be lonely. if you dare to dream, you’ll have to jump into the unknown and sometimes the unknown will be more like a place where you set up camp and stay for a while, rather a brief moment or a quick visit.  you’ll face opposition in a world full of logic and reason and the masses won’t understand.  and you’ll feel small, oh so small, but, my dear ones,  be brave, be free, be strong.  his love is an ocean.

 

 

 

On neighborhood plotting, cat cartel happenings, and a show

Happenings around the neighborhood have been minimal lately, mostly due to summer and the way it greets you at the front door with a big, wet slap of humidity and rain. Humidity and rain. Humidity and rain. Repeat.  We’ve been spending most out of time in the backyard, the kids by the pool, while I hide from the sun, which is public enemy number one to my fair skin.

But, this has not hindered my calculations to become friends with a certain neighbor who is in possession of one hydrangea bush that is falling over and in desperate need of my pruning.  Or is my table just in desperate need of its blossoms? The line is blurry, I can’t say for sure.  I’ve never actually seen the people who live there and perhaps I could coax some information out of Ophelia, next door.  One can never be too informed on such matters. I know for certain, they don’t appreciate it like I would.  It’s the deepest blue, almost violet and it’s breathtaking.  Stay tuned.

Recently, one Sunday morning, when a coolness still lingered in the air, I tiptoed out the door to the front porch, managing to make a cup of tea and gather a book and journal without waking the children.  The street was still, except for one lone ranger of a man doing yard work before the hot hot heat (remember them) and Rose.  Yes, Rose the godmother of the cat cartel, as deemed by a friend.  Let me paint a picture for you, from the top down.  Fiery red hair, wild and untamed, unnatural and shocking.  A housecoat of black with large white polka dots and a clunky pair of black wellies on her feet.  She did a brief survey of her kingdom, checked out her zoo-like cat enclosure, which is a totally normal thing to have in ones yard and then retrieved a half gallon of milk from inside.  I suppose it shouldn’t surprise anyone that at least ten cats appeared out of no-where, no-where, at the sight of that milk. Like, out of bushes and trees and from under flowerpots and perhaps out of the underground community that may or may not exist.  Just a little gift from Rose, your friendly neighborhood cat lady.  Happy Sunday cats!

And then, there was one day when my next door neighbor, a tall, country grandfather was sitting in a tree that grows on the other side of our privacy fence, cutting down branches, with a saw in his hand and a song in his heart.  A song that filled his heart and at least four backyards as he belted out his duet with Cheryl Crow. People, he just really wanted to soak up the sun and he wasn’t afraid to tell anyone. Sing it, Jesse, sing it. 

Well, that’s all I have to report from this little gem of a neighborhood.  I’ll try to gather something good for next time and I don’t just mean flowers.

on the morning of June 21, 2013

I heard the squeak of a bedroom door and soft, rapid footsteps heading to the kitchen. At the table, in the dim morning light, daddy ate his breakfast of peanut butter toast. And for the next twenty minutes, one voice, young and loud and another, deep and calm talked, while sister and mama slept in their rooms.

The hum of conversation passed through hallways and walls, the rise of fall of exchange, between a father and son taking the opportunity for time alone. It doesn't happen too often, the chance for a captive audience, no girls included. I don't know what they discussed, but his enthusiasm was felt all the way to my room, and I know that a deep smile rested on the face of a father. A man who loves mornings and his family. A chance to be with his son, before hours of work that he doesn't love, but will never complain.

When the time came for him to leave, he gave me a kiss and lifted one tall, skinny boy into the open side of the bed, and said goodbye. And that little boy, he pulled the blankets close, rolled over and fell asleep, not even whispering a sound.

We stayed that way for a few hours more.   

On Ophelia and more tales from the neighborhood.

I snuck away to the front porch during bath time, which is always more fun, messy, and loud with daddy.  The darkness that teased of another thunderstorm had passed and the bluest sky was scattered with thick chiaroscuro clouds. 

Four feet away, she was sweeping her front porch and it being the first time we’ve crossed paths in five weeks, I introduced myself.

I wonder at which I point I should use fake names for my neighbors, in case I become wildly famous and one day, they start reading stories about themselves on the world wide web.  Until that point, I’ll call her Ophelia, which may or may not be her real name.  And which allows for the opportunity to say, “Ophelia and Olivia,” in the same sentence, which she thought was pretty spectacular too.  Bonus points to the one who immediately thought of Shakespeare.

Ophelia wore a stylish yet comfortable denim wrap dress and a bright orange tank top underneath with a pair of cute flats.  She’s a single black lady who has lived in the house for 20 years, in her 50’s perhaps?    Upon getting a good look at me as she pulled down her glasses, she asked how we liked the neighborhood.  I felt like it was a trick question.  If I loved it, was I oblivious to its horrors? If I hated it was I an awful and judgmental Northerner?  I went with the truth and responded, “We like it, and we haven’t had any trouble so far.  It seems like it’s an interesting place, but we like it.”  And with that, she stopped judging me.  Apparently, I passed the test.  I noticed her eyes soften during our chat and when she told me that she had been wanting to meet us for a while, but  wasn’t sure if we liked black people, I laughed out loud, at her bold, unhindered honesty and assured her that we did.   I like a person that doesn’t prance around with the small talk. 

And that’s when I learned that Ophelia is full of wisdom and she knows the not-so-secret workings of some of our neighbors, including the ways of the drug culture.   It wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to know which section of the street this may or may not be happening and she is tired of the “visitors” parking in front of our houses.   In her words,

“ The drug culture, they don’t care.  They don’t care because they don’t have anything to lose or anything to work towards. And they certainly don’t care about parking in front of people’s homes.  In fact, this guy, (pointing to an SUV), he pulled up here three days ago, with no overnight bag and nothing but a towel on his shoulder and he hasn’t left since.  Now, he doesn’t live here and he only shows up with a towel, he can’t be up to any good.”   

She’s fed up and she’s tired of the drug culture messing up our neighborhood. She’s going to call the cops.

I mentioned that we had only met the neighbors across the street and that we’ve heard some interesting stories, and as I did, I noticed Rose (the cat lady)  rocking on her front porch with her fire red ringlets and company of cats.  Ophelia’s eyes got a little shifty and gave me a knowing smile.

“Honey,” she said, “everyone has stories about everyone and they all think the other person is crazy,”  she narrowed her eyes over the rim of her glasses. “How in the world are we supposed to know the truth?  I’ll tell you. You believe what you know and what you see, that’s how. You trust your instinct and you’ll know the truth.”

And then she remembered that a blue Frisbee landed in her yard a few days ago,  and that she was keeping it safe until she could properly return it to us.  I went to leave my porch to retrieve it, but she stopped me, “Oh no, I haven’t done this in ages,” she laughed with a twinkle in her eye.  “Now stand back, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”  And she tossed that Frisbee into the air hitting the top of my porch and it fell directly two feet from where she was standing.   She nearly fell over laughing and I started and we both just really laughed together.  It was kind of great.

Our conversation came to a close as the family who lives across the street from her came home and she had to talk to them about all this traffic problem.  Ophelia is a woman of action, I tell you.  And she told me not to be a stranger, to knock on her door sometime soon and we’d have coffee.  And that she’s so glad she met me, she’s probably going to bake us a cake.

This neighbor is a gem, a real gem.  Until next time…

Evening in Missoula, the dance of the water at dusk.

A typical sequence of events on a Monday afternoon, walk to the mailbox, check e-mail, read a text, so ordinary.  We spend minutes and hours, living and doing these normal things.

Yet, there are days when each note plays out like a grand orchestra, conducted by the most brilliant of masters. The skin shivers, the breath quivers, the tiny forming eye wells, I have a friend who calls these secret messages. Yes, indeed.

And you consider how each piece played out, how the sender mailed the letter at a certain time, entrusting it to the system who took x amount of days to deliver it to you, and how a random errand meant you were the one to walk across the grass to the mailbox, when usually it’s him.  After catching your breath, another message is waiting for you, but not moments earlier, right now.  Because in the raw emotion of blessing and awe, these words transcend their usual power, once again taking your own limited breath, so you only can inhale love from the origin of love itself. And it rushes past body and into soul, leaving you amazed at the one who pens the story of our days.

We don’t always see how our actions touch others, how one small ripple shatters the smooth, glassy surface and prompts the dance of the water at dusk.  My lovely friend was drinking tea the other day, it was called Evening in Missoula.  If this dance had a name, the dance of the water at dusk, it would be Evening in Missoula. Lights once still flicker and sway extending past their origin, tiny currents lap the shore and wash over the stones, smoothing them, in contrast to the gritty sand.  One event sets this scene in motion, creating a masterpiece to behold, but no one dwells on the exact boat or breeze or rock that started it. 

In the same way, life can feel trivial, the stirrings we respond to, the encouragement and light we send, but perhaps it’s the best way, so we step out of view, letting the true masterpiece shine.

It’s magic really, and not the card trick kind, but something so much bigger than our wildest imagination, something that connects us all to each other and to the heavens.

 

The Story Collector: Hardly cheerful, but heavy and true.

On a Wednesday when the sky was heavy with the grey of winter, masking the sun and the sky in a monotone blanket of haze, I found myself at a small square table.   It was tall and the bar below was perfect for locking in my boots.  The coffee shop was full of chatter, alive with people fleeing from the cold, dismal weather; seeking haven in the cozy, lodge like café and warmth in the caffeinated beverages.

A grand wooden beam sectioned me off on one side, creating the perfect spot to enjoy my black thai latte and read. Often,  I found myself so lost in these pages that all other noise evaporated, but pauses and lingering sips brought perfect opportunities for watching and listening of which I am frequently guilty.

Once we were having dinner with friends and we (the wives) confessed our love of watching and knowing everything that happened outside our windows.  Nosey, they called it.  We’re writers, we said, we’re looking for the stories. Stories are happening everywhere.

Coffee shops are full of people with stories.

A few tables over, a man and a woman, middle-aged, successful looking sat with a comfortable discomfort.  A date perhaps, a meeting of old acquaintances, I’m not sure.  No one reached across the table to touch hands.  There was little laughter. She had perfect posture and long, well groomed, black hair with a luxurious collared coat that reached her ankles.  I imagine she used to be a dancer in her youth.  Perfectly polished fingers wrapped around her small skinny latte.  Much less suave, but not disheveled, the man in a leather jacket and sweater sipped his coffee, black.  His face showed signs of many days spent in the sun. His smile never reached his eyes.

Her face was hard to see for the wooden beam and her voice soft, but his was deeper and stronger, and I heard…

A sigh, heavy with baggage, weary with a dash of lingering anger,

“I mean, she’s the mother of my children.”

And he went on to say how the summers were divided and the conversations about the kids and how they parented after everything ended.  It was an exhausting few paragraphs and his regard for her was somewhere between his greatest foe and someone he wanted to respect.  His tone was matter of fact, but emotion betrayed itself. 

Then the lady in black shared her tale, one of tolerating each other in public, but little more.

Heavy wafted in the air, buzzing with the sound of the steaming milk.

I couldn’t forget the sigh that preceded, she’s the mother of my children.  It felt fragmented and out of place, as if it has been one of many items in a long list, but now the last standing ruins.

No longer the girl of his dreams, his best friend, his wife, the love of his life… all these causing her to be the mother of his children.  Just the mother of his children, was a tune that faired better with the accompaniment of love and struggled when solo. 

In my journal I wrote, my darling, let us protect our love, for I never want to be just the mother of your children. I always want to be everything else too.

And then I went home to the man I love and found him sandwiched between two beautiful children.

Stories are happening everywhere.

 

(I do not intend to be insensitive to anyone in writing this, that is not my wish. I am merely collecting stories of humanity and life, as I notice them around me.  Some stories are happier than others, but all are worthy of being told.)

She would have painted.

I was talking to my mom one Saturday as she played on the floor with my kids.  I told her of how I had learned so much this past year about making my own needs and interests a priority and how I’m certain that being an artist makes me a better mom.  I asked,

Is there something that you would have done more for yourself when you were raising us?

Her answer took me by surprise.

Painting. I would have painted more.

I remember three paintings that floated around our home, mainly one of the sea, driftwood scattered with gulls on the shore.    It’s a beautiful piece of art, the way she captured depth, dimension, and light. I want to be in that place every day of my life.  Her love of  driftwood was one we all knew, anytime we traveled to the beach, she would search for it, I remember her always trying to find a way to bring home these massively large pieces, we often suggested leaving one of our siblings behind to make space.

I thought about her answer  and  I only remember one time in the eighteen years of my childhood that I saw her sit down in front of a canvas and this latched tin of crinkled oils.  I was a senior in high school and she had set up the supplies for my little brother, she was painting next to him.  I remember a sky washed in the palest pink and the water was the softest blue, it was a foggy.

At first, my stance was disappointment in lost opportunities.  I wanted to feel sad for her, for not making time to paint, in the midst of raising five children and helping run a business.  I wanted to feel disappointment at the years that she missed out on doing one of the things she loved, while she was doing so much for the ones she loved. 

I gazed out upon the world of light and dark, the pure, white snow made radiant by the shadowy brown of the tree, where approximately ten regenerate leaves have not surrendered. Tiny branches shivered in the bitter cold wind.  Surfaces dusted with the latest snowflakes.  And that is what I was watching, when my whole tone changed.

Because on this particular day, the one time I saw my mother sit down to paint, I walked in the room and I looked at the table covered in crinkled tubes of burnt sienna and titanium white and wooden brushes. I looked at her and said, I want to paint. 

And friends, that was the day that I fell in love.

Without this day, would I be an artist now?  It’s impossible to say, but thankfully, this is not a story about missed opportunity, it is not a tragedy. 

And for all the days that she didn’t paint, she can do that now.  And because of the one day that she did, I will too.

 

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dear readers, tell me one of your stories.

stories from the park

We were playing in our ‘secret garden’ after delivering some friendly packages to the post office.  The sun warmed us and painted dozen of shadows across the earth.  My little boy was on hands and knees peering into a flowerbed, hunting for rocks and sticks and other important discoveries.  Happily playing on the blanket near us, the girl is content in the fresh air. 
A man enters the park, much to our surprise, I guess we aren’t the only ones who go beyond the wrought iron gates of this magical little place.  He finds a bench and pulls out his cigarette.  Then, he starts chatting with the boy explorer as if they were old friends, “What are you finding there, buddy?”  He holds up a rock and shows it to him and then a stick and an acorn and a leaf. We chat a little bit about the fresh air and how nice this park is.  I mention how it’s perfect for me, not having to worry about the lake, marina, and parking lot that surround the other park in town.
Which led him to a tale about the time he took his four year old son to a giant sledding hill and he was so scared the whole way down.  At the bottom of the hill, he was yelling, “Jump off, jump off Danny!”  He did and was soon met by his dad to calm his nerves.  It was a few years later before they returned, and then he loved it.
“Yeah, we lost him way too early though, Danny liked to drive really fast.  It was a month before his eighteenth birthday and he liked to run from the cops. We sure do miss him.”
“I'm sorry, that’s terrible.” I said, not really knowing what to say.  “Was he your only child?”
“Oh no, I have three boys, well three boys now.” He said, “but I guess, Danny’s just getting to do all the things he loves now, and we’ll see him again someday.”
“Yes, so, really you still have four, he’s just not with you here right now.” I replied, not really sure if I thought that one through, but it felt okay to say.
“Yeah, you’re right, he’s with us in spirit, and one day, we’ll be together.  Can you imagine it, a place with no pain or suffering? It must be pretty amazing, huh?”  He said and then got up to head back across the street
I paused and smiled, “absolutely.”
He left after wishing us a wonderful day and I stood there, as my son said, good- bye towards him.

People everywhere are walking this earth full of stories. Stories full of happiness, courage, love, sadness, loss, and hope.  It’s beautiful.

a weekend at grandpa’s. part one.

This weekend we traveled North to a small town in Minnesota to visit my Grandfather, (my mom’s stepfather, her father died before I was born).   It was the very first time that my husband and son ever met him.  It was the first time I was able to show them his house, which I have always admired.  Sadly, this was also the last opportunity that we’d be able to visit him at his lake front, dome shaped home. 

My grandmother passed away last year and he is eighty-nine.  He still lives alone.  His vision is very poor and it’s too much work to maintain the place and he’s starting to need more help with daily activities.  The beautiful home  that he built in 1988  has been sold and he is moving within the next month to a sort of assisted living place.

It’s the saddest thing to know that he won’t be there for much longer.  It’s a place that feels so familiar, but ironically, before this weekend, I can’t remember the last time I visited.  The past few days were such a mix of nostalgia and bizarre unfamiliarity, I wonder if these words will do my thoughts justice.

The truth is that I’ve never been close to my grandparents.  I never lived by any of them.  I never rode my bike to their house after school.  I never visited for the ritual Sunday dinner.   We’d see each other on rare special occasions and we would receive birthday cards and Christmas gifts in the mail each year, but I can’t say that I really felt close to them.   Both of my parents moved away from their small hometowns and never really looked back.  I knew they were good, kind people.  I knew small pieces of their life stories.  I know they always loved to see us (and still do, of course), but our relationships don’t go much deeper.  I admit it sounds a bit depressing, but that’s all I’ve known.   

This weekend, I was so excited that Matt would be able to finally see in person, all the stories that I’ve told him about this place.  Then, I literally spent a good part of the four hour drive, trying to remember all the “memories.”  I counted five.

1.  I remember an old photograph of my parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and some of us older cousins (who were not so old then) all sitting on the grass and playing in the lake.  I was a baby, so it’s not my memory, but I remember the picture.  I am certain that was a wonderful day.

2. I remember my whole family, maybe six of us then, crammed on a small paddle boat fishing on the lake.  I remember catching a fish and naming him George.  He was small and I couldn’t keep him.  I gave him his freedom.  I’m sure he went on to live a wonderful life.

3.  I remember my Grandmother telling me that a banana would spoil my dinner.   I remember feeling so hungry and that it took eternity for dinner to actually be ready.

4.  I remember as a child sleeping in the loft, above the living room, which I thought was the coolest space ever.  They had the evening news on below, quite loudly and my Grandmother told me that I had to sleep instead of peering over the edge.  It was too loud, I told her, but she informed me that I still must go to sleep.

5.  I remember the house.  For some reason, this has been my favorite of all the memories and I’m trying to understand why.  It’s just a place, a rather spectacular home on a lovely lake, in the middle of Minnesota nowhere.  This home doesn’t fill my mind with wonderful stories of the best moments from my childhood; it is a small side note in my story.  It’s somewhere I visited a handful of times in my life.  Yet, I love it there. 

Now, I have a sixth memory to add to that last. 

This weekend. I loved sharing this place with my husband, this place that I cherish so idyllically.  I loved watching our son call after the ducks and throw sticks in the yard.  I loved listening to the story of how my Grandfather met my Grandmother and how this month they would have celebrated 30 years of marriage, if she was still alive.   I want to share those stories with you this week, because they are memories worth sharing. 

While it’s easy to understand why this new arrangement will be so much better for him, it’s still sad to know, he won’t be there, in this place that I remember so well and at the same time, so little.

What about you?  Is your childhood full of memories of days spent with your grandparents and relatives?  What are you favorite memories of those times?

-Olivia