Tag: going home

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Behind the Eyes

A little more than 40 years ago, my grandfather gave me a painting he’d created from my 7th grade school picture.  I had no idea I’d be receiving such a gift.  I knew he painted.  I’d seen plenty of his paintings – always landscapes with a boat or a cabin or a lone figure fishing.  I wasn’t aware he painted portraits.

Anyone, other than a 13 year old girl, would have been thankful, maybe even pleased, with such a gift.  I, like most 13 year old girls, was self-conscious.  The painting was large (12″ x 16″) and bright and, well …  it was me.  I hated it.

I didn’t hate it because of his painting style, I hated it because of the subject matter.  There, in a frame, were all the things I felt ugly about: the pointy chin, the unruly eyebrows, and the awkward smile.  My too-big eyes were even larger on the canvas.

(You might not remember the long pointy collars of a button-up blouse from the 70s – a fashion statement I still don’t understand.  I wore that blouse under a light-blue sweater vest on picture day.  I have another picture of my 70s self wearing a thin leather strip as a headband.  It matched a fringe vest.  As I write this, I realize that she was every bit as full of contradiction as I am, now.  She was self-conscious, yet had the confidence to wear a headband, and a swingy fringed vest.  I see that in my kids, too.  They are self-conscious, yet they try on different “costumes” in an attempt to discover who they are.  Some of us do this all our lives.)

I still have that painting.  It’s made every move I’ve made.  It’s currently standing between an end table and one wall of my bedroom.  I have never hung it on the wall.  (Sorry, grandpa.)  I can’t imagine ever getting to a point where I want a large painting of my face on a wall.

 

It’s happened twice in the last month.

I’ll be backing the car out of the garage, heading to an appointment, and look up to see if I have something in my teeth.  I see my eyes – those 7th grade eyes – in the rear view mirror.

(If you aren’t yet in your 50s, you can’t know how often you will be checking a mirror, once you get here.  Not for mascara smudges or smeared lipstick or bad hair, but to see if the seeds from the morning’s toast are lodged between your teeth.  They almost always are.)

The eyes I see are the eyes in grandpa’s painting.

The first time this happened, I was racing to the office.  I remember thinking, “Slow down.  You must be anxious.  That’s just weird to see those eyes.”

The second time, I wasn’t in a hurry.  I’m slightly embarrassed to admit this, but I liked seeing those eyes.

(Even if I had the resources, I wouldn’t invest a lot in anti-aging concoctions.  I have no faith in them.  The last time I tried one, it scorched my face.  Because I hate waste, I applied it to my cracked heals.  It worked so well, I’m now on my second bottle of the stuff that promised to take 18 years off my face.)

The eyes in the rear view mirror are creased with lines from lots of choices, mistakes and successes.  Lines from life frame those eyes now.  The lashes are naked and the brows are thinning, but they are the eyes I saw in the mirror when I was in 7th grade.  The same warmth and intensity are there.

My soul is in there – the soul that has been guiding me since long before 7th grade.  Recently, for some reason I don’t understand, I’m recognizing my soul.

Finally.

Hell, maybe one day I will put that painting up on the wall – probably in the bedroom, tho’.

 

I hope you look in the mirror, not to pluck or conceal or wince, but to recognize and acknowledge.  I hope you see that spark behind your eyes.

It’s there.

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I Used to Hate Cleaning the Bathroom

The list for the weekend included baking, writing, bill-paying, getting out to work in the yard if the rain quits, and cleaning the bathroom.

I used to hate cleaning the bathroom, but my mom would tell you no one does that job better than I do.  (Freud would probably have something to say about that.)

This morning it occurred to me that I don’t hate it anymore.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not like I jumped out of bed excited about the prospect of grabbing the white vinegar, paper towels and scrubby, but there are worse chores.

It takes me about 25 minutes to do it right.  That’s 25 minutes without interruption or phone or email.  I play music loud or enjoy the silence, depending on my mood.  Once the tools are gathered, I start scrubbing.

Those 25 minutes lead to a quick sense of accomplishment.  How many chores result in that kind of success rate?

 

I have a system for getting it done.  With years of practice, my mind is free to wander as I clean.  I can sing along to the music, or solve a nagging problem.

By the time I’m done, I’m breathing a little harder.  (The excessive scrubbing is clearly an attempt at scrubbing other “stuff” out of my life.)

Niggling thoughts of situations people, compel me to grab an old toothbrush and attack the lime deposits at the base of the faucet.  The situation hasn’t changed in that 25 minutes, but I have managed to make a little corner of the world nicer.

While working through the plot line of a novel, I’ve virtually written a page and a half, and look down to see that the tub is free of soap scum.

The end result shines, smells better and looks pretty.  It makes me feel like I can have a positive impact, even if it only lasts until next week.

 

Added bonus:  No one is going to tell me how to do it better, or that I’m doing it wrong.

 

Many moons ago, my grandmother had gone to the doctor to try to figure out why she’d been so blue.  (This was back before the word depression was applied to every conceivable ailment.)   I picture the doctor tapping her knee with that little rubber-headed hammer to check her reflexes.  Next he would listen to her heart and then check her pulse.  He probably looked down her throat and peeked into her ears.  After confirming that her physical self was fine, he prescribed something for her mental health.

His prescription:  Go home and scrub your kitchen floor.

 

 

*This post is dedicated to my aunt.

She was a well-read, articulate, quietly funny, compassionate INTJ.  We used to get together on priceless afternoons when chores were done, kids were occupied, and our lists allowed for a couple hours of coffee and conversation.

I would simply send her a text, and she could sense whether this would be a “Let’s catch up” chat, or an “Oh, No! I messed up!” chat.

We talked of crochet patterns, raising kids, teaching (she was a teacher and a principal), family dynamics, marriage and relationships, writing, genealogy, and most recently, the marvel of purchasing books “for only 99 cents on BookBub!”

I remember one particular afternoon when we talked about the years she and my uncle had been married.  She spoke of magic mixed with frustration.  She honestly shared difficulties, but she would be quick to say that difficulties were always framed by the sweetness of knowing someone for so many years.  She understood yin and yang before it was cool.  She told me that until she met my uncle, she’d never known what it was like to have a cheerleader.  He supported her, stood by her, encouraged her and believed in her.  Together they encouraged and believed in their family and friends.  He was her cheerleader until the very end.

Many years ago, she introduced me to the heavenly combination of peanut butter and honey.  (Did you know that peanut butter and honey sandwiches are even better when followed by butterscotch pudding?)  Sporting pigtails, shorts and Popsicle-stained cheeks, summers felt safe and endless with their three daughters, in their backyard.

She also taught me that a family could never be too big, and that there was always enough love to go around.

Thank you, Aunt Pat, for being my cheerleader.

 

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If Walls Could Talk

“They’re back!  Did you see that?  They’re unpacking!”

“Do you think they’ll be staying?  Oh! I hope so.  I’ve missed them.”

“How come they’re switching bedrooms?  How come Will gets the bigger room?”

“Haven’t you noticed?  He’s too tall for a twin bed, and there’s no way a queen would fit in his old room.”

“I suppose that makes sense.  He’s too big for the blue bathroom, too.  What’s she been feeding him?”

 

“Look at Jen!  She’s gotten so tall.  Where’d her long hair go?”

“Is she stirring paint?  I hope so.  I’m so tired of this brown.  Some new paint would cheer me up, cheer me up almost as much as seeing those familiar faces again.  They look happy.  Dontcha think?  Are they glad to be back?  Do you think this is a good thing?”

“There you go worrying again.  Just look at them!  Listen to them laughing!  Listen to the way they banter and giggle and tease each other.  They’re glad to be back.  I can feel it, can’t you?”

“I guess you’re right.  I feel the energy shifting in here.  It’s familiar.  I remember this feeling.  This is good.”

“Hey!  I like the colors Jen picked.  This will be fun and new and lighter.  Out with that brown.”

“I thought you liked the brown?”

“I did.  But now it’s time for a change.  Nothing wrong with a change.  You’ll get used to it.  You always do.”

“Where’s Nina?  Is that a new feline?”

“Didn’t you hear?  I heard Jesse say something about missing Nina in this place.  That one’s called Pansy.”

“Does Pansy ever leave Jen’s side?”

“Nope.  I think that’s the point.  I heard Will’s getting a canine.”

“Yay!  A dog!  That’s so good.”

 

“Look!  Will’s mowing the grass.  Can you hear the yard?  Even the yard is glad they’re back.  I’d swear the grass is smiling, even as he cuts it.  Oh!  That’s good.”

“He cuts the grass a lot faster than he used to.”

“No kidding.  He’s a man now.  He’s not a boy anymore.”

 

“Jen still does her art!”

“You mean painting the walls?”

“Not just the walls, silly, she still draws and paints on paper.  I can’t wait to see what she draws next.  I’m so glad they’re back.  Now we get to see what happens to these kids.”

“Do you think they’ll stay?”

“I hope so.  They had it real good here.  They’ll have it good here this time, too.”

“I heard Jesse say she’s never moving again.”

“Oh, no!  Will’s leaving.  Look at him!  He’s walking out of the garage.”

“He’s got a fishing pole!  Don’t worry.  He’s heading to the river.  He’ll be back.”

“Yeah!  He’ll be back in time for dinner.  Just watch!”

 

It turns out you can go home again.