On painting and gloss

A repost because the sentiments largely stand and I did, in fact, paint a room today!

Under the Gloss

Originally posted Oct, 2015:

For the past several months, the color of our basement bathroom's walls has made me feel peevish. I get a burr in my butt every time I go in there.

The lovely shade of green I once found peaceful and whose name, Sweet Caroline, I continue to adore, lately smacks of institutional hallways in need of scrubbing and better lighting. 

On Tuesday, Jack stayed home with an upset stomach, and during our hours together, I began outlining the dingy green room with thick strips of bright blue painter's tape. Pull, rip, align and press. Pull, rip, align and press. And on and on, in fits and starts, long strips and short ones, around the corners and up and down.

Yesterday, I finished the first coat of Smoke Embers plus 25%, a soothing dove gray. Already I feel the burrs slinking away.

I love to paint walls, or any flat expanse really. There before me lies the proverbial empty canvas, ready to be given new life with little more than a clean brush and a freshly shaken gallon.

Up and down I roll the brush, pausing only to dip it in more paint or check for spots I’ve missed. It’s meditation in action. Not only is a room transformed, colored anew with promise, but so too is my mind, blissfully unfettered now from having focused on just one repetitive task for the unknown number of minutes that have swept by.

This sort of focus, on a basic job that requires concentration but little other effort, allows me to both lose myself and remain present. My subconscious mind can flit and flutter, processing all manner of idea and query on which I may have been noodling.

During the brief, intimate time I spend with the walls, I see cracks and imperfections that I didn’t before. I run my fingers over slightly protruding nails, the drips and scuffs, the unknown gunk that landed on the surface one day and decided to stick.

It's not a perfect plane underneath an aging coat of shine but rather an imperfect thing that's been added to and taken from over the years. It has supported and weathered, been asked to hide and also to bare itself completely. I like being reminded of this. I like knowing these walls better.

The walls are much like people really, even those who seem glossy and impervious to bump or fault but who, of course, aren’t. It’s worth taking time to get to know people, and it’s worth letting people really get to know us.

In all the ways society today makes us feel more connected, I think it often does so only superficially. It’s so easy to show and share only what we want others to see; impressions more than selves. A coat of paint rather than the supporting structure.

But what’s lost is depth. History. Knowing. Being known. Being proudly unique and proudly fallible, for each of us is both original and imperfect. That’s what makes us human.

Three girlfriends came for breakfast this morning. One brought fruit, unwashed and still in the plastic clamshells, and apologized for that. Another teared up as we talked about our kids and our pride in and worries for them, and she apologized for that.

But I couldn’t have been happier because plastic clamshells and random tears are just real life slowing down long enough on a busy Friday morning to wash fruit and share a Kleenex or two with unvarnished friends. That’s what’s under gloss. No apologies needed. 

Do you know?

Do you know that some of my days are the happiest I've lived? That after twelve years, my favorite date night is one spent laughing in bed with my husband?

Do you know that when I awake to the gentle nudge of a little hand attached to a young voice saying "Mama! Mom! Mommy! Are you up?", I shrug in the weighty haze of sleep, open my covers instinctively, and eagerly welcome into my nest one or both of my small offspring?

Do you know that I never tire of seeing my sons' faces as they first see mine in the pick-up line after school? Do you know that on the day they stay until 4:30pm because one loves chess and the other loves science, I miss them and dare the hours to pass more slowly?

Do you know that my boys saying, "I love you" is some of the sweetest music ever sung? That the notes they write me in awkward handwriting are perhaps the best love letters I've ever received? That I still smile when I hear my husband's key in the lock?

Do you know that in the moments I allow myself to consider what life would be like were something to happen to one of them, both of them, all of them, I can't stand it? Can't fathom it? Panic?

***

Do you know that I am sometimes crippled by tremendous anxiety? And that it is sometimes, or even often, brought on or exacerbated by my darling children and their love for me? 

Do you know what it feels like to need a good deal of alone time but to push that need away daily? As if you're running a marathon in the summer sun but must eschew the rehydration stations along the way.

Do you know what it's like to have almost nothing left for your partner when finally he or she returns home?

Do you know about the challenge of finding good child care and of affording it?

Do you know about counting on the minimum sleep/days at school/you name it and being cheated of that? Do you know what that does to you? To your friends? To those you don't know?

Do you know the feelings of failure and shame all of that knowledge elicits in women who want to do best by their children? And who feel that the smallest slips set them back dramatically? Mar their children beyond what's "normal"?

Do you know the feelings of failure and shame and worry that knowledge elicits in me?

***

Do you know that each time someone like Sarah Silverman or Hayden Panettiere or Brooke Shields or Gwyneth Paltrow or Catherine Zeta-Jones publicly admits to depression or anxiety or postpartum depression, so many women breathe a collective sigh of relief and are saved by knowing they are not alone?

Do you know that this is all hard? That life is hard? That motherhood is hard? That unearthing and living as our truest selves is hard? That gilding those lilies is a profound disservice to individual struggle? That honesty would make individual struggles less solitary?

Do you know that in unabashed truth there is not only relief but joy? Connection? Empowerment?

***

I know all of these things now. I know them even when they're hard to accept. When they're difficult to say aloud. When loved ones frown or shrink away from what I know and say aloud.

I know that my friends know these things. That readers know these things. That strangers do.

I want to own them and share them with you because when others have done so in the past, I am strengthened and made more brave. I am comforted. I am normed. As are you. 

And what better to know?

Touch, lies, a cat and connection

On a regular basis, I fib to Tom. You see, I really like to sleep with Nutmeg curled up by my feet -and on occasion, I like a new pair of heels even if they don't get much action- and T most definitely does not. When we first adopted Nutmeg, and forgot to close our door, he would sneak in and join us in bed. This was sweet until just before 6am when, without fail, he would begin biting Tom's toes through the comforter. I do not recall him ever biting my toes; he once nipped my nose which, while surprising, was kinda cute. I'm not saying he loves me best, but then again, maybe I am.

www.em-i-lis.com

Anyway, T was very patient but finally and emphatically declared our room a Nutmeg-free zone come bedtime. I decided to give him some time before attempting to embezzle my cat back in.

T has a very finicky internal thermostat, and when he's on his way to the wonderland we call Sleep, he does not like to be touched or even "encroached upon." Yes, those have been his very words. When we married, he pleaded for a king-sized bed and has since basked in its expansive size. He knows I'm there but feels like an island too, and he likes that.

I myself like a bit of snuggling, so Cat seems like a clear fix. And he is. And so I lie. I know that if I say I'm just gonna nuzzle Nut a bit more before tossing him into the hall, T will fall asleep confidently. He does, I don't put Nutmeg out, and there you have it. This works for all of us really, except when Nut is seized with hunger, and then he claws and bites our comforter. I'll be honest, that is annoying. We have a dozen holes to prove it.

The other night, the house quiet but for the snore of T and the muted purr of Nut, I lay in bed contentedly. My right hand rested lightly on Nutmeg's torso, rising and falling with his cadenced breaths. Our blinds were tightly shut, but a full moon, shining like the most magnificent bulb, beamed in with such earnestness and determination that our room was brightly illumined.

I thought, while surrounded by people and pets I love and accompanied by the steadfast moon, of the power of touch and proximity, both literal and figurative. Of the incredible rarity and value in things that are unfailingly there. The friend who knows intuitively that you need her and who shows up without asking, stays without complaint, and simply holds your hand. The partner who envelops you in a hug and doesn't try to solve but only be present and offer a shoulder, an ear and some fighting words if need be. The pet who wants nothing more than your nearness, your hand brushing his fur affectionately ever so often. Of Nanny, whose hands radiated peace and love and everything-will-be-ok'ness. And the memory of her which still does all that.

I considered just how intimate silence can be, how much can be said within its spaces. We laud extroverts and networkers and connectors for the ways in which they bring people together; I am one of them in many ways and proud of it, but I'm repeatedly grounded and rejuvenated by more silent connections.

Nutmeg stirred briefly, but my hand remained, a bit of flotsam riding the waves of his undulating ribs.

I thought of Yen, the woman from whom I get pedicures, who always starts by placing her hands on my feet, looking me in the eyes and asking, "How are you, Emily?" She asks like she means it, and I answer because I mean it too. We are so unable to speak to one another because I have zero skill with Vietnamese and she is only slightly better with English, but through regular interactions and smiles and clasped hands (and feet) and mangled attempts at verbal communication, we have grown quite fond of each other, and I find our goodbye hugs some of the warmest and loveliest ever. I know that her 90+ year old mother is frail but getting by. I know of her daughter and that they're close. I know that she knows how much I care for her and perhaps she even senses that she reminds me of Nanny. I know this because we are there with each other.

www.em-i-lis.com

I considered how Nutmeg now takes walks with Percy and me. He is off-leash (hell, he's even lost his collar) and sometimes ventures from our path. But he always finds us, following to and fro, keeping us in his sights. I used to be so scared of him running away or leaving, but I realize now that he won't. He'll always return to the loving hands that await him, those hands that comfort him now. We all would.

There is so much to be said about experiencing others in the most basic and real of ways. Not through the film of shoulds or the veneer of social media, but in the flesh, really and truly. To simply see others and be with them honestly, as the moon or a faithful pet or happily entrenched memories are.