French Impressionist Claude Monet’s Water Lilies.
I remember the first time I saw the lilies. One of my first childhood memories is that of our museum. My mother has pictures of me and my brother in our matching sailor outfits standing outside the building. I vaguely remember seeing the dinosaur bones that day. I don’t remember the exhibits or the art really at all. But years later as if it were yesterday and not decades ago on an art class field trip, I stumbled across the lilies. I was mesmerized. I sat on the bench across from those tranquil flowers and felt peace. I just sat there and stared. They were larger than life, beautiful. I sat there on that bench in silence staring until someone came to collect me.
Over the years I would think about that painting, trying in some small way to recreate the peace I felt that day. It never quite came. My life was noisy. My brother abusive. My mother always seemed angry. Nothing seemed right. I didn’t believe I had friends or that I belonged. I didn’t quite fit in anywhere, especially at home. I would think about those lilies and yearn to be back there. If even for an hour of peace.
I married young followed by several more years of turmoil and abuse. When I finally found the courage and the strength to leave my first husband I once again found myself in the way. I had disrupted everyone’s plans and upended my parent’s lives coming home with a three year old in tow. I was at my lowest point and in desperate need to escape my mother’s disappointment in me and her constant ridicule. I scooped up my toddler and headed to the museum in search of that almost long forgotten peace. I remember pushing his stroller to that same bench in the museum and we sat. Tears almost instantly streamed down my face. The bench was still there, the painting still brought me peace. For just a brief moment in time I knew everything was going to be okay. My son stared at the painting then glanced back at me me. He let out a sigh and for a moment I think he felt it too.
More years passed and the need to feel the serenity again was almost more than I could take. We packed up and headed to the museum. My son, older, more curious, ran from exbibit to exhibit. He seemed to love it there. I found my bench. I sat down across from my painting. An almost sudden wash of relief. It still made me feel the way it did the first time I saw it. My son tugged at my sleeve… “Can we go now?? What is so special about this painting anyway????” I guess it was just mine to covet. So off we went.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, then months to years. Another trip to the museum and time ran out. We had gone for a specific exhibit and there was no time to make it to the art wing. I was heart broken. Truth be told I sulked for a while after that.
Several more years passed. 10 years to be exact. A new husband and 3 additional small children completed our family. My husband agreed to accompany me and the kids to museum for the afternoon. I could feel the excitement welling up inside me. I told him all about “my” bench and “my” painting and how I couldn’t wait to share it with the kids. I tried to contain myself as we wandered the halls looking at all the pieces of history, the hall of gems, the taxidermy animals, and the dinosaur bones. The day was getting away from us but before we left my husband told the kids we were headed to the paintings to see mommy’s picture. I quickened my step… despite lacking any sense of direction and the decade+ that had passed I found my way to my bench and my painting as if I had been drawn to it. I saw the young dark haired girl sitting on “my” bench and staring at “my” painting first. A lump caught in my throat. I could feel the tears welling up. I followed her gaze to the painting that had once been larger than life. In my memory it was the size of the wall. In the past it had pulled me in and kept me there sometimes for an hour at a time. But today, this painting was small. It was still beautiful but it wasn’t the same. The kids were unimpressed. I could tell my husband was a little concerned by the way he looked at me. Was I disappointed? What was wrong? It just wasn’t the same. It wasn’t what I remembered. We gathered the kids and headed to lunch.
I sat with my feelings for a while. Tried to tame them with cheesecake. What was it about that painting?
Family drama, disappointment… more years… I found myself thinking about my painting. Should I go back and look for it again? I thought better about it for fear that the magic was gone. Then on Christmas morning I opened a present from my husband. The lilies. Framed and ready to hang. The exact replica from the the museum. I cried. My kids looked at me like I was crazy. But here they were laying across my lap in my living room. They were mine. I carried my gift to my bedroom and hung them on the wall. I took a step back gazing at my handiwork through the tears that were now free flowing. What the hell was it about this painting? Was this the actual size that hung in the museum? Was it really this small?
That’s when it hit me. I had been small. My life had been painful and lonely. I needed peace. I found it in that painting. It was larger than life in a life that was so small, scary and closed in. Since my husband came into my life my world has grown. I’ve seen more of it. I have grown my family and the love and understanding and joy that have come into my life on the heels of my husband have brought a peace that I never had before. I still love “my” painting. I am grateful for the comfort it brought me when I needed it. I can still appreciate the tranquil colors and the broad strokes for the beauty that it is and the feelings that it once invoked. But I’m living in the peace, comfort and joy now and I’ve hung the lilies where I would see them every night before bed and again every morning when I wake. A reminder that I am loved and I am deserving. I have finally found “my” peace.
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Happy everyday！