Little Stories, Big Truths

gathering jewels

I have long been a sentence collector. Sometimes, in my sessions, I will listen for the essential statement. It will be there, sure enough, and if I am quick, I can highlight it. I ask my client to repeat what they said. They do, and then continue their story, but I interrupt. No, no, no, I say, you just gave me the perfect sentence. Don’t say more, let’s look at it!

I’ll give you an example of one of my favorite sentences. This one was uttered by a five year old little girl. Her parents were separated and going through a contentious divorce. (Please, parents, don’t let the conflict go on and on!) We were playing on the floor and had set up two households with dolls. I had collected a random assortment of figures. We had a dog and a cat, and we had a couple little cars. One area on my oriental rug was designated Mom’s house. Another floral curlyque was Dad’s. Back and forth we went with the dolls in different configurations, the dog and cat dutifully posed in the back seat of the car.

Then, softly, I ask the girl, where is your home? She looks at me thoughtfully, and tilts her head. After a moment she looks up and says, If my mommy and daddy were together, the whole world would be my home.

Sentences like that.

I also collect random conversations. Once in a while, you will hear one that is a perfect little story. On a bus ride, when I was an undergrad, two adolescent girls were chittering away behind me in a very animated discussion. It turned out that one girl was describing her first kiss with a boy, blow by blow-a bit like the narration of a sporting event. This particular first kiss had a twist, however. The girl had a pet tarantula! It was in a shoe box. I was wearing my best blouse, you know the one, it has a low neck. He sat right next to me. We were in my room. I could see the shoe box over my shoulder, he leaned in. I saw her furry leg reaching out of the box. I didn’t want to move because he had his arm around me. She was trying to get out. Mike has soft lips. She started to climb down the bookcase.

You are going to think I made that one up, but I didn’t. Even after all these years, I remember the girl’s excitement and her intense desire not to disrupt her romantic adventure to recapture her arachnid. And yes, it is a truth. I am sure your imagination can follow the thread, webs and all.

I’ll tell you one more, a brief snippet from the late 80’s. Again, children. I was working at a community counseling agency. It was the pattern of the staff to go into the waiting room to retrieve their clients for sessions. I had just entered the waiting room to introduce myself to my person for our appointment. Settled on the floor near the window, were two children, little girls of about 5. One was saying to the other, You make the mega bucks, I’ll be the super model.

That sentence stayed with me for a long time. It was a strangely sobering sentence. What have we done, I wondered, reflecting on our society, our culture, our world. And how will we be judged by these children as they grow up? Those girls, and the other ones in my memories, are now well into adulthood. What sentences do they speak today, I wonder. Have those threads continued?

I would like my paintings to be like a perfect sentence. I am not there yet, but I have ideas floating through my head. Scenes really, that spoke to me from far beyond the moments of their happening. My ex-husband, in his fifties accepting cookies from his aged aunt for our car ride home. He bent over her, hands outstretched to receive. She herself was stooped, offering the treasure of her hands; the two in an archetypal moment. He was Boy, still, and she, Mother. It was one of the moments that shifted my relationship with him-a slow one hundred and eighty degree turn until it vanished, in an instant, and I would know I could never stay. It wasn’t the cookies, or his relation to the Mother, though those things played a part. It was an essence, revealed in gestures; this scene only one of many; unfolding the secret turnaround in the dynamics of a long, long conversation.

Other moments. My grandmother telling me to put my name on a little piece of paper and tape it to the bottom of her vanity. So it will go to you, she said.

Can I paint this?

Can I paint the moments that speak volumes? Just now, I only have the kittens playing to show you. But perhaps, with practice, I can paint the paintings that bear witness to our truths.

Namaste,

Leslie