back in the day, when i was a small child, we laid shells in sand cavities we had carefully dug out of the beach, filled in plaster of paris and a little water and made sculptures, castings of shapes. mine was a fish. not a very good fish, i might add, but a fish nonetheless. my brother made an anchor and my sister made a seahorse. the castings instantly came to mind when we passed by this leaf impression in the snow.
soon, others would walk on the trail and it is likely that their footprints covered the leaf. or, possibly, the sun came out and the edges of the leaf – so clear on our passing – melted. i don’t know. what counted is that the leaf was there when we passed by.
the last time i sat by my brother’s side, he told me a few stories about being my big brother. i still remember how that felt. his words – a little fuzzier, with a little less clarity – echo in the bank of memories i have, my heart ever-full, his little sister. though the impression has melted a bit with the thirty years of sun since he died, it is no less profound than it ever was.
even if it doesn’t look quite like a fish – or a leaf – each impression is actually indelible and its invisible sculpture takes up a tiny space in our hearts and minds. castings you can look at any time you want.
kind of makes you want to make sure each moment is worthy of plaster of paris, a few shells and a little time to cure.
i went to school for nineteen years. when i finished my master’s degree my sweet momma asked if i would – one day – work on a doctorate. i emphatically replied, “not a chance!”. i felt that i had reached my terminal degree, so to speak, and that all the rest – all that education, work experience, talent and intuition and tenacity and wisdom gained along the way – would serve me well.
i am 64 today. sixty-four. six decades plus four.
and i am a woman. woman. she/her/hers.
and this is the 21st century. the 2000’s.
yet, sitting on the couch the other day, watching new amsterdam – cast with actors in many female physicians’ and specialists’ roles – i stood up and cheered for the female character who firmly stated, “i didn’t go to school for twelve years [med school] to learn how to smile more.”
what – exactly – is the propensity for people to tell – specifically – women to “smile” or “smile more” or “just smile” or some similar iteration in answer to conflict, to agenda, to management riddled with prejudice? the question i ask – would you tell a man to “smile” or “smile more” or “just smile” or – truly – any iteration as such?
the continued thwarting, silencing, harassing of women is insidious. and forever. as in – forever.
“there is a pull, a fiercely ingrained pull, to mute a woman’s voice until it coos. to press it down until it is as small and sweet as a pastel after-dinner mint. to control it. to silence it.”
“and still, she speaks. she tries to be heard. but very—too often—her voice is ignored … or belittled, mocked, critiqued, or shouted down.”
“if a woman utilizes her voice in a powerful way, or shakes up systems that are firmly in place, she will be subject to an abysmal, hack, silencing-method known as punishment.”(fiona landers – we have always silenced women – damemagazine.com)
“learn how to smile more…” i put new amsterdam on pause and rolled my eyes.
smiling more and keeping silent…when is that appropriate action in one’s workplace? is it appropriate – palatable – with a minimal salary and no benefits? is it substantially more appropriate – indeed more palatable – with a substantial salary, full benefits and retirement? do leaps and bounds of higher financial reward translate to keeping-one’s-mouth-shut even in the face of maltreatment? is a silent smiler in the upwardly-mobile ranks helping those on the lower ladder rungs? where is the line (or is it a ladder rung?) between generative transparency and closed-lipped acquiescence? where is the respect?
my sweet momma – who died at almost 94, a woman before her time – was a smiler. i – like most people – love to smile. i can see her smile in mine, the thinning curve as she grins, the crinkling of her eyes and the crease just above her top lip. she was a promoter of joy and kindness and – as the basic tenets of all the work i do in the world – i would like to think i have brought those forward, from her.
i found a small pocket calendar she sent me. i had saved it in a drawer in my studio for fifteen years. there is a handwritten sticky note on the back in which she directs me to “read the motivations through these pages” and to “start with the cover”.
the cover quote reads, “you must be the change you wish to see in the world.” (mahatma gandhi)
smiling-on-demand – even being a “sweet pastel after-dinner mint” – does not get one anywhere. conversely, not smiling-on-demand, not being a “sweet pastel after-dinner mint” can get one destroyed. but, in fact, smiling-not-for-a-real-smile’s-sake and the act of being a “sweet pastel after-dinner mint” and staying quiet about any prejudicial wrongdoing or malfeasance is an abhorrent manipulation, a coercion, shutting down strong, smart, valuable women – employees – time after time. and for what purpose? is this not perpetuating the oppression? just what responsibility do we have to each other, to the next? are we the change or aren’t we?
and in the way that getaways slip into the wind, i know that this one will as well. time spent in the snowy up-north will slowly peel off and fly, seeds for the next time, the next few-days-away, the next memories.
this weekend we’ll have dinner with our son. he owns a new home – his first – and this will be our first actual viewing of it. i can’t wait! time spent with our adult children flies all too fast. already it’s been six months since i have seen our daughter; already it will be three months since we saw our son. their lives are busy and active and they are not in the same town. their homes have been anywhere from an-hour-and-a-half to twenty-seven hours away. it takes time and planning. and life is full of things – many things, for all of us – that take time and planning.
in what will feel waytoofast, our time spent together will zoom by. visiting and catching up and doing the yes-of-course-i’m-staring-at-you-i’m-your-mother will be followed quickly by goodbyes at the door and me, as ever, wiping happy (and wistful) tears as we drive away. and the tiny layers that comprise this time will feather, drifting into air streams where our mind searches for details and they are just a little further out than we can reach.
the wind brushes past us and time passes in its grasp. we – as ever – attempt to hold its filmy contrails, but time and vapor cannot be held. they are part of the wind that swirls and we simply are witnesses to its magic. we experience, we create memories, we stand next to those memories and gaze back as time’s half-life multiplies before our eyes. on friday, we are astounded by a long week’s end. on our 60th birthday, we are astounded by the six decades. as we sit at our child’s table, we are astounded by their maturity and place in the world, their mark.
we – and the stars – float in the basket of the hot air balloon of the universe and – if we are wise enough – glory that we are part of it.
one single deer walked across this frozen marsh. it left its footprints behind and we could see that it was alone, at least as it crossed. we wondered where it was going, if it would be meeting other deer, if it was young or older, if it had been seeking food or a little open water. we’ve seen many deer on this stretch of trail. they are usually in the woods, gazing out at us as we pass. they stand silently and watch, making sure that we mean no harm. and, of course, we don’t. i always whisper to them how very beautiful they are and i thank them for their quiet presence.
i wonder – after we leave and our boots are printed in the snowy trail – if the deer ponder us. if they wonder where we are going, if we are meeting others, if we are young or older, if we are seeking food or open water.
one of the reasons we love being on the trail is to mutually share that space with wildlife as it surrounds us. we know that there are many creatures, many critters we will not see, though they likely see us. and while we can usually identify them and whether we are in jeopardy – if we see them – we know that identifying humans is harder. for creatures and critters do not know the intent of humans as they pass. they do not know who humans are nor if they are in danger because humans are nearby. the sun rises and sets in their neck of the woods and they must always be vigilant. few natural predators, their vigilance is mostly because of the humans.
they do not realize that it is also necessary for humans to be vigilant of humans. for not all are well-intended and some mean harm. some are singularly focused on hurtful agenda, some are dedicated to marginalizing others, some are dangerous.
i hope that our footprints – now and later – reveal goodness, cause no alarm, are no menace. there’s already enough of that in this world.
the fine line between snow and water. it curved along the shore, made more obvious by the mudline separating the two. the edge between frozen and watery marsh appeared like a crayon thickly outlining the coloring book image, colored in with either whitish snow or blueish water.
standing on the shore – away from the edge – it’s pretty easy to see it…the place where, if you step, you will fall in. undoubtedly, there is also an area close to that place – but not as obvious – where you are also likely to fall in, where your boots will get all wet and perhaps you might lose your balance. you will be – maybe – covered in snow and mud, but you will be laughing there, because you will not have been in danger and it is not likely that you will be hurt. cold and wet, yes. but in real danger – no.
in a time of reorganization of our life together, we are trying to step closer to the edges…the ones we can see and the ones we can’t see. there are places and things that are oh-so-familiar to us, comfortable smushy places into which we sink, easy places to live in. there are places that push the envelope, places that push back and question and, even in that less-smushy-but-necessary zone, we steadily take steps. then there are those places that are a little frightening, a little less solid, a crossing-over place. these are the places we are finding we need to go now. we carry with us all the tools of our lives – education, experience, work, learnings along the way. as artists, as people working in the world, we toss our work over the open water so that it might float around and land – sometimes inside the edge, sometimes out past the buoy and the ropes that designate safe swimming.
and so, in the edge-approach, we glance down and see that our boots are getting wet. the leather – quite worn and no longer waterproof – is taking on marshwater. our socks are getting damp. but, we remind ourselves, we are not in danger. we are simply at the edge. there is much room for growth here, with our feet all wet. there is time to breathe and slow down our fast-beating hearts as we keep going. there is no worry about having to swim or tread water, for it is shallow. and the shallow water offers plenty of nutrients to feed us, teach us, keep us going. the edge looks scary and unfamiliar, risky, but we can see the horizon and the sky meets the land and we can recognize that.
every time we release an album, hang a painting, publish our words, stand in public with our art, openly protest unfairness – whatever it might be – we stand with feet on either side of the edge. we vulnerable ourselves to the world and we are in open water for the moments in which we allow ourselves to consider how our work – our standing there – is being received. but the foot that remains on solid ground – the one on the other side of the edge – holds us to terra firma. and, each time, i suspect, we have found it to be less scary to take the leap, not knowing.
i suppose right now should be no different.
“life is a travelling to the edge of knowledge, then a leap taken.” (d. h. lawrence)
it is entirely and utterly exfoliated. delaminated. naked.
the slender tree stands alone in the marshland, like a graceful ballerina in allongé. barely a side branch, it is stunning against a blue blue sky.
and, yet, in all its raw nakedness, its vulnerability, it stands proudly, stalwart, determined. it is still alive.
we stand next to our canvases, in front of microphones, in recording studios, on wooden stages, at qwerty keyboards, poised in front of 88 keys, with ballet shoes or tap shoes or jazz shoes, behind the cine-camera, in front of the cine-camera, at the potter’s wheel, baton in hand, holding sculpting tools or playscripts, focusing lens and aperture, holding written words in our fingers.
we are naked trees in the marsh. we stand – vulnerable to the elements – unprotected. we brave lack. we brave abundance. we withstand the inbetween.
we are exfoliated every single time we put it out there. we are artists.
we are binge-watching new amsterdam. we hadn’t ever seen any episodes, so now, on the binge-couch, we are up to season 3, episode 2. we just watched episode 1 of that season – where they very respectfully nodded to the pandemic. it took our breath away.
instantly we were back there. the early season of covid. pcr tests, cdc numbers, masking arguments and people feverishly sewing masks and then masking everywhere, washing our groceries, leaving our mail on the table in the foyer for two days before opening it, zoom-work. lonely isolation and social distancing. a million questions. uncertainty. boosters. a divided nation. the dreadful images on our tvs and in the news of overwhelmed medical staff everywhere, the lack of supplies and semi-trailers serving as morgues and the common use of the word “ventilator” and a shortage of isopropyl alcohol, toilet paper, sanitizer. it was stunning to feel it all up-close-and-personal again, having had a bit of space and time since the absolute peak of the crisis. wow. we felt sickened to the core.
in those moments of watching we realized that there is likely no one who experienced this profound time of global pandemic who does not have some PTSD associated with it. how – on this good earth – could you escape that? the virus devastated people’s lives and livelihoods and isolation and worry tore apart the sense of community so important to all of us. we will all never be the same.
feelings have a way of finding their way. yes.
i am trying to establish a practice of mindfulness, a time of quieting my mind and body. in life – fraught with busy thoughts and lists and angsts of all sorts – this is not easy. there is a symphony going on in my mind at all times – many plates spinning in the air.
but i started listening to some guided imagery. quiet non-thematic music. a quiet voice.
the first time i listened, i wept. i thought it would be the exception. it wasn’t.
because, well, feelings are gonna find a home and, on the days you allow them, the days you grant space, the days meditation creates a safe haven, they peek out.
and, like a lazy river in the marsh, you can follow them or get out of the raft, disembarking for now.
either way, those feelings have all found a home. the gossamer-tied memories are all right there, somewhere. so is the grace.
maybe we all need be a little softer on ourselves.
it’s a no-win. the classic rock-and-a-hard-place. a lose-lose. a pickle. a crunch. a conundrum. a double-bind. a dilemma.
yup. there is no truly right response here for that man.
i have learned to preface things i talk about – for instance, “i just want to tell you this. i want to go on and on. i want to _________ (choose: rant/think/ponder/ruminate) aloud. please do not try to solve this. please just listen.”
but sometimes, yes, indeedy, sometimes i just talk. with no preface. and then, in the way of conversation, especially in the middle of the night pillow-talking, he talks after i talk. and – whammo! – that’s where he makes his mistake.
and – up close – if you choose – you will see the foreleg of a winter-dressed pony, the extra cold-weather-coat trapping hair next to the skin of the horse, keeping him warmer. he is stopped, gazing at the distant field, ready to canter into it, the exploding of freedom of movement.
and you blink and it is a cattail. one of many in the field, waiting in the marsh through autumn and winter for early spring. as many as 250,000 seeds, white fluff sailing and transported by birds and breezes. and the life cycle continues.
it is winter in my studio. the rhizomes are gathering underground, together with the cattails. maybe around the spring equinox, maybe a bit later, the shoots will rise out of the ground – like a phoenix out of ashes – and new sprouts will grow and grow. the cycle germinates and pollinates and seeds will fly again. the birds and the wind and i will play for you – seeds and notes flying.
in the meanwhile, i wear my winter coat. it is keeping the heat in. it protects me. insulation for shelter in this long and cold winter, to shield in the storms, to brace in this fallow.
but soon, soon, with the sun and fresh air, the pony will run free.
reverse threading 