How a Table Inspired Me

The other day, my friends, Amber and Joe, delivered a one-of-a-kind coffee table that Joe had made.  I loved the story of the table--the window was from an antique shop in Columbus, the hinges from an interior door at their house, the drawer boards from a pallet, the sides from "throwaway wood" from Joe's work, the legs from an old stair railing, and the intricate pieces of oak supporting the frame, pieces of wood from a bed Amber's artist dad had built.  It was truly a gift that actually inspired much of this post as I sat and looked at it this morning. 

I feel extremely lucky to have grown up in Iowa, and even more lucky to be raised by my parents.  As an independent adult, it is easy for me to look back and recognize the moments and life lessons learned from my time in the Hawkeye State.  Today, I share two of those lessons.

Lesson #1: This is all we have.

Time and time again I consider the value of land.  Not in dollars and cents though (clearly, being in Iowa--land of big corn and soybeans, there could be a lot said about this.  But I digress).

I think about the old house on Hickory Street with its apple tree that my sister, brother, and I climbed, the lilac bushes with a fragrance that makes me smile to this day, the grapes grown on the vines turned into sweet jam, and the pride with which my father cared for his garden.  To this day, his garden is like a piece of artwork, each year producing an abundance of vegetables, flowers, and herbs.  As an adult, when I visit my parents in the summer, I love hearing stories of the rabbits and squirrels and critters that dance around the garden as if it was their playground.  I love coming back in the winter and making chili with the frozen tomato sauce Mom made with remainder of the summer's harvest.  And I love watching Dad with his cup of coffee marveling at the different birds making their home in the yard. The connectedness to the land, for Dad, seems almost spiritual.

And I see the value in that connection.  Growing up, my siblings and I were fortunate to have parents that encouraged us to play outside, dig in the dirt, skip rocks, and enjoy the woods.  I remember Dad pointing out a bat in the night's sky one time ( I, of course, was looking for something shaped like a baseball bat).  As  a kid, on a dare, I remember kissing a garter snake in the woods behind Grandma and Grandpa's place, following the creek to see where it flowed, and hiking through Hartman Reserve and George Wyth as Dad pointed out the deer (and as adults, my sister, the ornithologist, helped identify the birds).

I think, for my siblings and I, this type of connection resonates with us.  The idea that the Earth and all that is in it, is truly a gift that we must protect, is a lesson that must be sustained for future generations.  This lesson has taught us to bring a bag on our hikes in the case we see trash to be picked up, to stop and take time to observe and listen, to consider the interconnectedness of the plants and the animals and the insects and the birds and the soil and the humans, and to not take these resources for granted.  And I think the greatest lesson in this is the joy of those moments with family and the content of time that is simply being in this world-being grateful for the stuff that is nor purchased or advertised or built.  It is the raw uniqueness of being part of nature that is experienced by every person differently that weaves a world that is alive and whole.  My brother and his wife are raising two boys who know the way through the woods to the creek, know the sound a woodpecker makes, and can appreciate the vegetables from their own garden.

In the wise words of Mr. Wendell Berry, "What I stand for is what I stand on."

Lesson #2: Beauty is in the HANDS of the beholder.

I love hands.  Maybe that is a weird thing to say, but I love them.  For awhile, I obsessively drew hands--with pencils and charcoal and even attempted (rather unsuccessfully), using a sharp knife to sketch a hand on scratchboard.  I just love hands.  I love what they symbolize.  I love what they can do, what they can create, what message they can send, what energy can be shared through them.

When I think about where this love comes from, I can distinctly recall two places.  First, I remember holding my Grandma Edie's hand when she was staying in a nursing home.

She had a stroke when I was in 5th grade.  My mother spent much time flying back and forth to St. Louis on a puddle jumper of a plane to care for her mom and be with her dad.  At Christmas and in the summers, we visited my grandparents.  I played Christmas carols on my viola in the nursing home and we recalled the beautiful gift of voice my Grandma had prior to the stroke, vivid images of her smiling from the choir loft sharing this gift.  To see her in the nursing home was hard on all of us.  The smells.  The roars of people in pain.  The uncertainty of the food being served.  Frankly, it was sad and it was scary.  It was the first time I truly recall seeing how much my mother loved my grandparents.  She was patient. And kind.  And caring.  The day I remember holding my Grandma's hand was Mother's Day.  The nursing home was having a Mother-Daughter Tea, and I remember all of us with our "hat broaches" on listening to a fairly entertaining program, and recognizing Grandma's hands.  My mom's hands were so similar.  The way in which the skin looked on her delicate hands was the same way in which Grandma's looked.  Her long fingers extended  out to mine, clasping my own hand, squeezing me with such gentle love.  I was overwhelmed.  I could see my mother and feel that sense of connection and love.  To this day, I love looking at my mother's hands.  My sister's are nearly identical too.  Those hands represent so much life and energy and history and love that fills me with joy.


My second love for hands stems from my father.  As an artist, his hands are one his greatest gifts.  He takes good care of them.  They are the tools through which he expresses himself.  I love the ruggedness of his hands--the way in which he can transform a piece of wood or a stick into a lively caricature or an abstract representation of something in his mind.

I love that his hands created the coolest bean bag toss board when I was kid.  Or that almost every drawing or sculpture or painting that adorned our walls at home was created by him.  I love the fact that my dad is not afraid of hard work, that his hands not only represent his artistic craft, but his ability to fix things, to solve problems, to transform materials.  I love that his hands are resourceful and strong.  I love the fact that he read a book on how to build a canoe and did it!

I love the fact that his handshake is as firm as his bellowing voice.  And for some reason, when I think of his hands, I think of the way he turned pages reading books to us as kids.  I remember watching him read a book this past Christmas to my nephews and recognizing that familiar way with which he held the book, turned the page, and read the book with such great voice inflections.  I even wrote the following poem for him as a Christmas present a few years ago that is almost an ode to his hands.

Father

Creatively expressing his inner thoughts

Carving out his place in this world

He chisels away at life, quietly thoughtful

Smoothing out the rough edges with a firm hand

Continuously striving to improve and grow

An artist who loves with his whole heart

A mystery of sorts, a complicated puzzle

A fine line he carves with precision and decisiveness

Yet often unsure of where the hand will lead him

Letting his mind reach out and his heart take control

Pumping ideas and thoughts

Observantly taking in the world

And releasing it through his work

Update: My dad was just featured in the WCF Courier (complete with a picture of his hands working):  Artist Finds the Zen in Carving

I find myself truly thankful for the gifts that people possess that reflect some of what I have learned as an Iowa girl.  I consider the gifts of the many hands that I have witnessed help build and repair houses that are warmer, safer, and drier.  I think of the hands that have penned memorable stories or played notes, strummed guitars, and controlled a bow.  I think of the hands that helped girls tie their shoes before their first Girls on the Run 5k.  I even think of the outstretched hands that danced together on a porch in Jonesville, VA. 

Today I am thankful for the natural world, for the connectedness across generations, for the gentle life lessons learned, for the time to reflect, and for the gifts of hands that can work and create and protect and reach out.  

And to think, the inspiration comes from a table.