this charming little flower started popping up all over the top part of our yard – between the old brick wall and the garden by the house. striped squill require no special skills, no plant food, no specific watering instructions. it just appears. and it thrives. and every single one of these tiny striped blooms makes me smile. they are incredibly low-maintenance in a high-maintenance world. it’s hard to think of something sweeter to broadcast that spring-in-the-midwest is actually on its way.
because there is wild geranium under barney – the old upright in the backyard – and there are day lilies growing feverishly in every bit of garden and there are the tiniest curlicues of ferns along the back fence over in the corner by the garage and there are sedum’s wee cabbages obstinately ignoring any deep temperature drops – we have to believe that we here in wisconsin are on the docket for spring’s arrival.
years ago i planted hundreds of tulip and daffodil bulbs with the great hope that, well, tulips and daffodils would grow in our yard. but – the squirrels dug them all up and ate ’em all. que sera. it wasn’t to be.
i am not horticulturally derailed by that. i enjoy the bulb flowers in other gardeners’ gardens and appreciate what actually grows easily in ours. striped squill – its delicate flowers – are our gig, it seems. no credit to us.
and i have to say that i really love it that way.
because these tiny flowers – even in what seems their inconsequence – are most meaningful. their presence in our grass signals the hope of fallow-coming-to-an-end. it signals the freshness of a new season, a new time. it signals rejuvenation of a place on earth that has rested for some time – in this case, right here, through winter.
i can’t help but linking-thinking it to the hope of fallow-coming-to-an-end and the freshness of a new season, a new time and rejuvenation….of me, of us, of each of us.
somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we start to thrash our arms at the darker shadows and invite in the light. somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we begin to cultivate the chance of growth, of healing, of rising up through the debris of whatever had been plowed over. from somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we emerge stronger, more vital, chutzpah leading the way.
the little squill stand firm in the wind and the rain, their skinny little stems steadfast. they keep reaching for the sun, grinning. they know they matter. they have no doubt. they are the harbingers of renewal. and they cheer each of us on our way with them.
i wish they had been my size. but they weren’t. and so it seemed right to hand them down – these peace-sign-high-top-converse i had given my dad. and 20, well, he was cinderella in this equation. his feet fit.
he wore them for our wedding. he walked me up the aisle to join david, who i would stand next to for our ceremony and our life. he had tears in his eyes as we walked together. it was one of those moments, when long-term friendship and all its challenges and rewards come to the tippy-top and love of chosen-brother-sister rises above all else.
i love it every time i see 20 wear these sneakers, especially when he tells me about people who comment on them. i’ve never seen another pair.
i have hand-me-down converse high-tops from my girl’s closet; they are solid pink. there’s a second pair that are kelly green, loaded with all kinds of pen-doodles. i wear the pink ones – they make me happy because they were hers. yes…no thread escapes my attention.
but these? these peace-sign-high-tops? right now – in the toxic climate of this country – in this precarious world – if they were my size – i would wear these converse every day.
we ordered small plate tapas. later, they brought birthday churros to our table. there was a candle – lit – and though the server was a bit shy – he seemed really happy to singto me. it was totally delightful. we dipped our churros into the melted chocolate and sweet powdered sugar, sipped our homemade sangria.
there was just one thing.
i found myself grimacing at the blue candle with the stars. it felt a bit too reminiscent of the stars and stripes of this country’s flag. right now i, like many others, have a complicated relationship with that flagand what it supposedly stands for.
because birthdays are like that, my mind zoomed backwards to standing in elementary school classrooms reciting the pledge of allegiance.
“i pledge allegiance to the flag of the united states of america. and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, under god, with liberty and justice for all.”
and here we were. in the walker point neighborhood of milwaukee – a wonderfully diverse community – diverse in race, in gender identification, in economics. i was welcomed and, just as every other time we have spent in this community, we felt at home. one nation, under god.
sometimes, in our elementary music class, we would sing the patriotic ballad:
“my country ’tis of thee / sweet land of liberty / of thee i sing/ land where my fathers died / land of the pilgrims’ pride / from every mountainside / let freedom ring.” (samuel francis smith)
sweet land of liberty. with lyrics written 195 years ago, a children’s choir first performed this song. what would those children be thinking now?
trying to slough away any negativity, i tried to think of the stars on the candle like stars-as-in-stardust. but the blue of the candle got in my way and as much as i loved having a birthday candle with my churros, i couldn’t help not being able to push back against the other realities right now – the realities that this country – at this time – is not a sweet land of liberty and freedom is not ringing from every mountainside.
as i am writing this – ahead of when you are reading it – i just now read that the supreme court has ruled against a ban on conversion therapy aimed at lgbtq youth in colorado. read that again: against a ban on conversion therapy.
and as i am writing this – ahead of when you are reading it – the “god squad” panel of the cabinet has voted to disregard decades-old laws about endangered species in the gulf in order to make.more.money drilling, the GOD squad?! ewww.
and as i am writing this – ahead of when you are reading it – the administration has decided to dismantle the united states forest service.
and as i am writing this – ahead of when you are reading it – the epstein files continue to languish in secrecy and the administration is doing everything in its power to keep it that way – including even more blatantly personalizing the efforts of the justice department.
and as i am writing this – ahead of when you are reading it – the supreme court has taken up considering the continuance of the 14th amendment of birthright citizenship. “…granting citizenship to all persons born or naturalized in the United States…” ” no state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.”
and as i am writing this – ahead of when you are reading it – this country – without permission of the congress or support of the populace – is destroying another – using bracing descriptor words like “decimating” and “decapitating” and “lethality” and “back to the stone ages“.
but, well, i guess when you are cavalier and righteous – and corrupt – you do what you want to whomever and whatever you wish. no questions asked. no answers given.
that doesn’t seem to be the right answer for a republic with liberty and justice for all.
i sometimes save birthday candles. to remember. but i need – and wish for – a new relationship with the flag – a revival of the celebration of diversity and majesty of this place on the globe – so this particular stars-on-a-blue-field candle i chose to remember with a couple photographs.
one lit – with light.
one after i made a wish and blew it out.
we ate several churros and our server gave us a box for the rest.
we brought them home and – having our leftover tapas the next day – celebrated this little bistro in our very big land, longing for its healing.
“light of the world / shine on me / love is the answer / shine on us all / set us free / love is the answer…” (john wilcox/roger powell/kasim sulton/todd rundgren)
there is something infinitely reassuring when a pair of mourning doves chooses your yard. these two sweet doves spend lots of time either in our yard or peripheral to it – in the trees, on the wires, on the neighbor’s roof overlooking our backyard – all directly related to whether dogga is in or out.
it’s not just because they are symbolic of peace, love, hope. it’s not just because they are representative of new beginnings and emotional healing and moving forward or are thought to be messengers from the next dimension. their gentle nature, their cooing, their life-long dedication to each other – all suggest comfort. seeing their sweet pudgy selves sitting together on our patio or brick pavers, on rocks lining the pond, or even gazing into the yard from high wires above – all slow my heart down, ease that quivering vibration present in my chest.
i’m hoping that this particular pair is steadfast – that they don’t let dogga’s barking or antics frighten or dissuade them from staying here. i’m hoping that they continue to make our home their home.
in these times it occurs to me that we need to take our cues for solace and serenity wherever we can find them. we need to look to the ever-presence of nature, through its own challenges with thick and thin. we need to welcome the signs and nods of assurance and consolation to which we may not have been paying attention, to acquiesce to the solid news that seasons change – regardless of what we do – there is a natural order, there is harmony.
those little mourning doves have a lot on their tiny shoulders.
it was not warm. at all. though the sun was out, the wind was off the lake and it was a bit brutal.
we huddled in a small cluster in and amongst a lot of other people, all gathered together to rise above the chaos that is this country.
our presence counted. we were merely two in the eight million or more who came out to the protests on saturday. with our little posse we were six.
and here is what i know.
i know that our energy – our very presence at this event – was part of an energy that strove to overcome the inertia of shock and utter dismay of the populace of this nation. our energy – our very presence at this event – is a statement of pushback that echoes across this land. our energy – our very presence at this event – is part and parcel of the responsibility as a citizen of this republic, of the protection of its democracy, of holding truth to power.
what will happen now will ride on the compounded energy of these efforts. what will happen now will be aided by the acknowledgement that we are part of an aggregate aghast at the illegality of this administration. what will happen now will spread in concentric circles and multiply like cells birthing new life – this time to an aggrieved nation. what will happen now will happen because of hope and dedication, fortitude and the steadying words of the united states constitution and its amendments. what will happen now will be a continuing consolidation of pushback against authoritarianism.
but it’s not the endgame. it is merely the energy of movement, of activism, a path into resistance.
it’s a lot to take in, we agreed, as we held vigil later that day, watching – on tv and social media – the protests across the country. it’s a lot of change to hope for, we worried, as we talked about how fast the latest destruction had happened. it’s exhausting and invigorating – both – we sighed from under a throw as we watched.
but the thing we were glad for?
that on a blustery blue-sky day we walked to the protest and were present in the midst of everyone else there.
the honeysuckle has an early arrival on the trail. it makes me want to sit and write poetry about pioneer honeysuckle growing in the forest, along the edges of the path and deep into the underbrush, right on the heels of winter. poetry about a hopefulness that comes with early forward-peeking signs of spring, promises of growth, a nod making the past distant.
we have a way of holding onto the past – a metaphoric rope, if you will – with people and circumstances strung along it – holding the knots like tiny toddlers in a preschool line hold the knot of a rope to which their teacher is attached. in the case of the toddlers it is for safety. in the case of all of us – who drag along with us all the most toxic of our lives – it is not for the purpose of safety.
the day before my birthday i consciously chose to drop that metaphoric rope that dragged all the yuck with me everywhere i went. i have decided that there is no more good that can come from dragging the worst with me – every recollection of betrayal or hurt or time when healing was impossible. i decided – on that day – the day before my 67th birthday – that i was worthy of putting that rope down and leaving the past distant.
now, don’t get me wrong. as a thready person (and clearly, the use of the word thready must be deliberate) nearly everything is on some sort of connective tissue that stretches back to my heart. a compendium of threads and tissue and rope. some of those i will cling onto and hold dearly – that would be the ones with love and learning and success and hardship, a balance of life’s goodness and challenges, people i hold dear, filmy threads that don’t include people who have been intentionally mean-spirited or who have hunted opportunity to be demeaning or to exploit. those? those heavy loads will have to stay behind. i have finally realized – at long last – that i owe those people nothing and my choice now is laying down the rope with the rope-knots they are clutching – weighing me down – taking up space in my brain and heart. it’s way past time.
and so the honeysuckle’s appearance is like balm. new green. renewal. rejuvenation. a new season. a new cycle of growth.
it is a pioneer in the earliest spring, courageously greening when winter can still dash it, pummel it with ice and snow. but it has the promise of its history – when it has survived even with the change in season, even with threat of the challenge of weather. it both brings forward what it’s learned about survival and puts down the pain it has carried from past ropeknot instances in its life in the woods.
someone – just shy of five decades ago – told me i was dirt. it was meant to belittle me and scare me and it did.
i’ve just realized that i am. dirt. an honorable and basic part of this earth like every other living being. but i am also honeysuckle – and morning glory – and daisies – and peonies. i am house finches and black-capped chickadees and cardinals and march robins. i am poetry floating on the breeze and notes in sequence not yet captured. i am sun and moon and the horizon and the tide.
i am stardust on the edges of the trail, forward-peeking.
she said it so often i wanted it to become a part of my own everyday vocabulary. borrowing from the french, “vis-à-vis” means in relation to or compared with or refers to a counterpart.
finding hearts – everywhere – merely stepping into the hall – a tiny tissue heart – and a quiet reminder: love one another. it prompts me to think of my relationship vis-à-vis the world. do i lead with love?
by the time you are reading this, the third no-kings protest rally will have taken place over the weekend. we will all publicly acknowledge our tolerance or intolerance of this administration’s regime-like policies and cruelties. we will publicly show our feelings about the current state of our country. we will push back on corruption, on explicit authoritarian advances, on extremism, on downright mean-spiritedness. we will stand for goodness and the republic this nation was meant to be.
my vis-à-vis and i will express ourselves vis-à-vis this country and its subverted stance vis-à-vis democracy.
these aren’t my favorite. i don’t regularly wear my favorite jeans, wanting to keep them “for good”.
but this pair is the runner-up. pretty distressed, these ripped jeans aren’t just a bit frayed. they are downright holey.
ai says that “ripped jeans are best for people with slim or skinny body types”. goodness gracious! i mean, who asked you? i would venture to say that if one wants to wear ripped jeans, one should just wear ripped jeans – without a pretty-little-head thought to whether ai thinks it’s appropriate or not.
i’ve been wearing these for years. decades, actually. some of the time it has been by accident. my jeans just got old and worn. some of the time it has been by design. i’ll never forget – and always cherish – the days at abercrombie with my then-teenage daughter, ferreting out the best ripped jeans on the sale rack.
i have worn ripped jeans to unimportant events and important events, to beautiful places and grocery stores. i have worn ripped jeans on high mountain tops, in midwest meadows, in paris, in the canyonlands. i have worn ripped jeans in recording studios and i wore ripped jeans at my wedding. i have performed on the smallest and biggest of stages wearing ripped jeans.
so, here we are, on my 67th birthday and it is likely i will be wearing my fave ripped jeans to go and do whatever it is we will go and do – unless it is hiking – because, as you know, i have to save my fave jeans “for good”. some other destructed denim will have to do.
there have been moments when i have looked in the mirror and pondered my jeans. (and yes, also, my genes, particularly as they are aging.)
i’ve wondered if mid-sixties was ‘getting there’ – there being a place where ripped, distressed, fraying, holey jeans might be better retired.
and – after some wondering, some pondering and a little bit of googling with downright obnoxious results – like this video narrated by a twenty-something guy – guy! – informing me that “women after 40 should not emphasize imperfections” – i have decided.
just like the amish leave a slipped stitch here and there in their quilts – to allow spirit in – and maybe for the same reason – i will continue to subscribe to the jeans i love to wear. perfection doesn’t exist and each quilt is an expression of beauty-in-that-moment, of artistry, of someone’s very soul, of the chutzpah of spirit. ditto my jeans.
so…if you don’t like my ripped jeans, don’t look at them. they are me and i’m just out here trying to emphasize my imperfections – especially now.
the seedheads stay present all winter. thimbleweed is ready. eventually the wind will carry it, dispensing it, seeding new growth, spreading it far and wide. the wooly tufts are evidence of nature taking care of nature.
the concentric circles are all around us. in reminders we get every single day, we are prompted to remember that even the tiniest of our actions will impact the next and then the next and then the next and then…
it is what makes me feel so utterly disheartened with what is happening here and now. it is not just the cruel actions of others that ripple out. it is also the mindbogglingly complicit inaction.
once again – and over and over – i see the absolute transience of this moment. once again – and over and over – i see the silky filament that exists between am and am not. once again – and over and over – i try to take in – to make part of my being – the presence of mind to be present, the ability to be stopped in my tracks, a nod to wondrous, utter gratitude for breathing.
to be amazed by the tufts of thimbleweed, to carry a sunrise or sunset, to drink the sun into our bodies, to hold one another.
and once again – and over and over – i wonder how it is that there are so many who would choose cruelty over kindness, who would choose corruption over goodness, who would choose marginalizing others over lifting others up.
how are we taking care of each other? what are we spreading in rippling concentric circles from our very center? how are we carrying, dispensing, seeding, spreading life – living – far and wide?
look to thimbleweed. its resilience, its anticipation. the seedheads seem to be ever-looking forward, planning for its survival, anticipating its continued beingness.
maybe – just maybe – nothing less than what humans should be doing.
reverse threading 