anticipation. it’s the stuff of songs. the stuff of great love. the stuff of waiting for the worst to be over. the stuff of all moms everywhere.
we wait. we wait for them to be born. we wait for them to fall asleep. we wait for them outside the elementary school, gleefully skipping down the sidewalk toward us. and then we wait for them outside the middle school, hidden in the shadows down the road to avoid seventh grade embarrassment. we wait for them at the end of sport meets and music recitals, to congratulate or cajole. we wait for them after the day is done at school. we wait for them to return home in the family car. we lay awake, waiting for them a wee bit past curfew. we wait for them to return home from college. we wait for them to come home from afar. we wait for them to say, “yes, all is well,” and we wait for them to sound genuinely happy. we are not settled if they are not settled.
and now we wait – apart. all of us.
we all wonder what day it is and we wonder when this waiting will be over. we look to each other – on texts, on the phone, on social media, on videoconferencing – for words of wisdom, for encouragement, for reassurance, for a chance to say, “yes, i feel that way, too!” we need meet on common ground; we are alive and we are vested in staying well and staying safe. so we compare notes and share ideas and recipes and cartoons and articles and youtube songs and moments that make us weep.
and, like the day that your beloved child doesn’t tell you of their arrival ahead, surprises you and makes your heart swell with joy by walking in the front door, we wait for the hoped-for-but-unexpected. the flattened curve. the antibodies that prevail over the virus. the vaccine. the end of this profound worry, this herculean effort of medical workers, this exponentially terrifying pandemic. in our world, our country, our state, our community, our midst. in our circle.
we know one of these days this too shall pass. and in the meanwhile, we are honing our waiting skills. becoming adept at patience and being in the moment, not sure of what day it is exactly, but sure of the passing of days. time will bring us to a new day and one of these days, just like our grown child unexpectedly bursting through the front door, Next will burst in and exclaim, “surprise! i am here!” and our hearts will explode with gratitude.
she was incessant. every morning she greeted me with the words, “good morning sunshine.” rain, sleet, snow or ice – none would dampen her good-morning-spirit. a new day, a new beginning, another chance.
my parents weren’t complicated people. they grew up with great-depression-survival parents. they were married and almost immediately separated by the second world war, by my dad’s missing-in-action status, by his time as a prisoner-of-war and, thus, they navigated the loss of their first daughter on two continents, my mom without knowledge of my dad’s whereabouts. they processed-without-processing the end of the war and my dad’s escape and return home to struggle through post-war times. they had two more children, another girl and a boy and began to raise a family on long island in a cape cod house with a chainlink fence and a dachshund. after i was born they moved to the house i grew up in, the only house i remember without looking at old photographs. we had a single driveway with a grass strip in the middle. some neighbors had solid concrete or asphalt driveways, no grass strip, and even as a child, i suspected this meant something. they were thrifty and conserving.
my parents weren’t hip. through the rebellious 60s and mod 70s they raised me, older than most of my friends’ parents by at least a decade or more. i listened to jim nabors and doris day and robert goulet in the house, herb alpert and the tijuana brass and frank sinatra on the stereo and the old wgsn on the radio on top of the refrigerator, while friends were hearing their moms sing to carole king and simon and garfunkel crooned in their kitchens, the mamas and the papas and herman’s hermits in the family rooms. my dad would whistle for hours; hearing anyone whistling now feels like a hug from him.
my parents weren’t frivolous. my dad would turn boxes inside out to repurpose them. my mom would assign him tasks first in in his basement workshop and, later, his garage workshop, giving him something to focus on. he was always rube-goldberg-ing everything; he could make or fix anything. they didn’t splurge on stuff, well, until they discovered ikea. after years and years and years of exclusive use, the aluminum colander they gave to me (and after a couple more decades and the loss of a foot, i finally retired) is likely 70 years old.
my parents weren’t problem-obsessive. my mom would do laundry, especially later in life. i think it centered her. the simple task of cleaning a garment or bath towel and putting it away felt grounding; i have learned this from her and you will find me scouring the house for laundry items in times of stress. they were reasonable and rational; nothing needed be too complex.
but they were loving and encouraging and accepting. i could tease or cajole my dad into doing almost anything. and, when my dad’s reaction to a circumstance was more impatient, my mom would listen, listen, listen. she would admonish him, “Erling!” she’d hammer.
simple. no fancy titles. no wildly exotic trips. no fancy foods. only one fancy car to try-on-for-size. no fancy clothes or shoes. simple furnishings, treasured mementos.
simple. no emmys, oscars, grammys. no nobel peace prize. hardworking and uncomplaining. a lot of volunteering. a jewelry store failure in early days of big box stores. early retirement and a move-down-I95 south. self-admonishments to do-the-photo-albums and clean-out-the-file-cabinets.
simple. a dedication to handyman magazine, national geographic, jigsaw puzzles, crytoquotes and crosswords. tomato plants and hosta. forsythia and four-o-clocks that ran along the whole side of the house. succulents and bougainvillea. harlequin romance novels and old doris day/rock hudson movies. bird-watching and klondike bars. feeding their family. entertaining their friends.
simple. times around the table coffee-sitting. long conversations on the couch. egg mc-arnsons or waffles and ice cream on sunday mornings. time on the stoop and in the lanai, just talking. time. spending time.
she was incessant. her joy at the day, her exuberance, her kindness, her piercing eyes, her absolute, uncompromised, unconditional love.
i woke today thinking about this day five years ago today, when i was not physically there to hold her hand as she passed from this life to another plane. we were on the way, driving there, on an interstate when we found out. in el paso, illinois. we pulled off and found a park not far from the highway. we walked and walked and walked, trying to process. i have no doubt that she knew i was right there with her, always, and how much i love her.
life will never be the same without my sweet momma on this earth. ever. i can only hope that in some way, as a new day dawns and i think to myself, “good morning sunshine,” that i will be somewhat like her. somewhat as incessant.
on island we rarely heard airplanes overhead. if we did, they were small cessnas and pipers, low-wing and high-wing single engine airplanes, buzzing over the shoreline heading for the small grass strip airport. otherwise, it was quiet. very.
lately, here, we have noticed that it is quieter than normal. we are in what is generally an approach for the milwaukee airport and we often see airplanes overhead heading north or airplanes coming across the lake in line for o’hare, south of us. it seems more of a rarity now to hear a jet overhead. it makes us pay attention. it makes us look up. it makes us ponder.
we wonder where it is coming from, where its final destination. we wonder how many passengers are on board. in these times of no-travel, the contrail seems a contradiction of this time, a plane leaving its mark on the day.
in my previous life i had some time at the controls of both small airplanes and helicopters. the jargon was language i was accustomed to. there are languages of career. we all have them, words, expressions, theories specific to our chosen work; we learn our spouse’s language, even just enough to understand just enough.
i’m better at the controls than in the passenger seat of a small airplane; motion sickness rules less if you are ‘driving’. i never got near the point of solo-ing on any flying machine. there was much to learn in ground school and hours rented on an airplane or a helicopter were expensive for an already-stretched budget. but, stick in hand, flying a helicopter over the woods of new hampshire while employed at an aviation college there, brilliant new england fall colors beneath us, i could see how the flying-bug could bite.
and now it is quiet. a few moments ago, while writing this, a jet flew overhead. i stopped typing to pay attention and looked out the window. i wondered: where is that plane going? who is on that plane? do they feel safe? are they wearing masks? did they turn their blower off? are they sitting six feet apart?
and i pondered: what state might that plane be flying here from? what are the covid-19-numbers in that state? are people staying safe-at-home? are there protests in that state, people who are placing everyone in their ever-widening concentric circles at risk for contagion? are there people who are laissez-faire-individualizing this global-everyone-is-affected-pandemic, rejecting commonsense social distancing and simple respectful preventative measures? are there people making homemade masks, like here, because there isn’t enough PPE to go around? are they wondering why the federal government of fifty states and five territories is hostage-taking necessary supplies, pitting governors against each other, encouraging a competition for lifesaving devices, blaspheming good works, eliminating knowledgeable workers, warping what is important vs not important, encouraging bracing and dangerous practices? are they shocked and dismayed at the ever-widening inequity, the gross partisanship? are they stunned into disbelief at the absolute lack of sane and measured leadership? are they embarrassed and profoundly saddened?
and i wondered: when will we go on an airplane next? where will we go? when will we feel safe? will everyone wear a mask? will everyone sit six feet apart?
and i thought, as we are apt to do after-the-fact: i should have gotten my pilot’s license.
when you watch extreme mountain climbing videos every night you are bound to find morsels of wisdom and inspiration. chris, one of the denali climbers, tossed us this one: “i think it’s important to learn how to suffer gloriously.” he added he “tries to put a positive spin on all his suffering.” chosen suffering, that is, for who would doubt that there would be suffering on a climb up the highest peak on the continent. alternatively, his suffering yields reward, a summit, or, at the least, an attempted summit, traversing in elevations few have scaled.
in the early 1980s i taught music in the poorest school of a small county in florida. z was one of my students – he was in first grade. i know he suffered. his home was not far from the school campus with buildings attached by covered walkways, my music shed tucked into a swampy corner, complete with 3″ banana spiders.
z was a student who needed a lot of extra attention. he craved it. given his grave family situation, i know his heart had to be heavy, but his smile was light-itself and he loved hugs and music class. in that school, tucked into the middle of an impoverished neighborhood, where people spent days sitting on rotting porches waiting for the next day, there was much agonizing. and, clearly, a hell of a lot of surrendered acceptance. it was deeply inspiring to see children being glorious, even in the midst of hurting.
i heard somewhere along the passing years that z was in prison. i shudder to think of all who might say it was inevitable. he was truly stuck in a system that allowed very few to escape. the ‘subs’, as the area was called, was a breeding ground for glorious suffering, proud faces lined with sweat and worry, ponderous minds sorting for ways to survive.
we went back there about five years ago, drove to what-is-now a fenced-in complex and no longer a neighborhood school so i could stare for a few minutes at the old shed in the swamp. we drove around the neighborhood and stopped and got out to talk to a couple people rocking on a porch. we talked about the old school and, with shining faces, they spoke with pride about attending it. glorious faces.
when we pulled away, they went back to the chairs on the porch, under the collapsing portico away from the steamy sun and tucked into trees covered with spanish moss and yards of dry dusty dirt. still suffering.
we drove away, a few moments of silence as i took it all in. in my mind i hugged the little boy z used to be and wished for something better for him. for a summit.
“…Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.” (Robert Frost)
a product of sunday-drive-parents, i am a meanderer. i’ll choose a backroad. i’ll choose the woods. i’ll avoid the six-lane interstate. i’ll avoid the leader-led-coach-bus-travel tour group. i blame my sweet momma and poppo.
in an obvious life metaphor, choosing to be an artist of any medium -for the long haul- is choosing to be a meanderer. it’s choosing to live life looking for and celebrating layer cakes – a layer cake of work. it’s a continual wracking-of-the-brain for the next idea, the next project, next pitch, the next initiative, the next validation of your artistry. it’s continual exploration and continual growth, surprises and intrinsic rewards of the heart. and it’s continual worry: how will what you earn equal or be greater than that which you owe.
my parents encouraged my every musical moment. neither of them was a musician, but their steadfast support reinforced the decisions i made that were more out-of-the-box. their prideful applause inspired and fed me, lighting a fire even when the embers were falling to ash. times i would rise and fall and rise again, i blame my sweet momma and poppo.
in somewhat recent days, when i was bemoaning the exponential cost of healthcare, someone asked me if i needed to see a financial counselor, someone who could ‘teach me’ how to budget. i was stunned at the lack of sensitivity and actual empathy. “no, thank you.” i responded, while trying to maintain the sound of calm in my voice, “i am actually quite good at budgeting and truly love math. this is not rocket science. it is simply a case of not having enough income, even from several jobs, coming in.” a meanderer. those sunday drives.
i’ve read plenty of ‘being the youngest child’ articles. it seems that my profession, lean toward autonomy, artistry, careful rebellion are all because of my place in the sibling line-up. so, once again, i blame my sweet momma and poppo.
the urge to be off-the-beaten-path, literally and figuratively, to quietly sit in the middle of the woods or i-wish-more-often the top of a mountain, to stand on a wooden stage with a piano, a boom mic, a few songs and a story to tell: things that are part of my very soul. the core. i blame my sweet momma and poppo.
we watched global citizen’s concert ‘together at home’ on saturday night. this virtual concert featured a wide spectrum of celebrities and musicians and raised about $128 million for the world health organization as well as local and regional frontline healthcare workers in support of covid-19 relief. despite wildly varying opinions about this effort, i would have been proud to play in the midst of this. it was about humanity. some of it was pretty raw. people were in their homes, many the likes of which i will never enter. they were with their instruments, they were playing or singing songs they felt would resonate with those watching. a few were, as expected, clearly voice-tracked. a few were, as expected, a bit ego-tainted. split-screen performances and technology raised the bar for musicians everywhere. but it was a moment in time – eight hours in total between online and on-air – when you could see that all of us grieve and yearn the same way. no matter the size of your mansion or tiny house, no matter the grammys on your shelf or the lack thereof, this global pandemic is just that – global- and is not discerning of your privilege. it does not care. it can take anyone. and so we weep.
if there is a painting that depicts the face-holding grief and prayerful yearning for hope, it is this painting WEEPING MAN.
i wonder if he weeps for those who have fallen ill, those who have died. i wonder if he weeps for those who refuse to acknowledge the seriousness of this pandemic. i wonder if he weeps for those on the front lines, helping. i wonder if he weeps for those who have hidden in extravagant bunkers underground in far away countries. i wonder if he weeps for our isolation. i wonder if he weeps watching people intolerant of the isolation that will protect others, people who are selfishly and arrogantly protesting stay-at-home orders. i wonder if he weeps for the unrelenting non-discrimination of this contagion or if he weeps for the divisiveness of responsibility-taking, the it-doesn’t-affect-me attitude. i wonder if he weeps for the continuance of humanity. or if he weeps for the loss of humankind. or, if he weeps for the lack of humaneness. i wonder if he weeps because, in the middle of this trying and profound now, Next will come. i wonder if this painting is tomorrow’s tomorrow and he weeps with relief and hope.
THIS all exists. for each of us. it isn’t always good. it isn’t always not-good.
there are those moments. the moments you weep openly, the moments you cover your face to cry, the moments of overwhelm, the moments of absolute weariness that, despite all evidence to the contrary in your tired mind and body, actually do lead to Next. times you feel alone, times of sorting, times of grief, times of fragile vulnerability, times of regret. the times you put your face in your hands and weep…
and there are those moments. the moments you weep openly, the moments you cover your face to cry, the moments of stunning awe, the moments of sheer exhaustion at your goal-line, moments that actually do lead to Next. times you feel enamored of life itself, times of incredulity, times of unquestionable good fortune, times of serendipity, times of simple all-consuming sweet love. the times you put your face in your hands and weep…
we recognize it. we can feel it. and we know that in another moment he -or she, for there is no pronoun-hogging here- will slowly raise his head out of his hands and Next will have arrived. (reverse threading, and so he weeps, january 17, 2019)
20 years ago. apparently the last time gas was 99 cents a gallon in wisconsin was 20 years ago. i don’t remember that in particular; my children were young and things were busy. how strange to now be able to purchase gas for 99 cents a gallon, filling up little-baby-scion for about $10, and not be able to go anywhere.
20 years before 20 years ago i remember gas being 79 cents a gallon or so. on long island, i would go to the citgo station on the corner of larkfield and clay pitts road in my vw bug, filling up for well under $10. they pumped your gas for you back then. i had one of my first credit cards, a citgo card, in those days. on one occasion, a couple days after i got gas, i received a phone call. it was from the guy who had pumped my gas. he had saved my information post-pumping and looked my last name up in the phone book. he called to ask me to go on a date. he was always nice to me every single time i got gas, so i thought it perfectly innocent to accept. i don’t remember where we went, but i do remember thinking that i would absolutely not repeat the date – the somewhat unusual way he got my number (i’m thinking that would be against credit card protection acts these days) was befitting of his um, unusual-ness. “she’s not home,” my mom would tell him time and again when he called. after a plethora of calls over a series of days, i told him i wasn’t interested. i started going to mobil.
citgo, dairy barn, king kullen, genovese drugs, the card store – these were all around the corner, up the hill and turn right. to get there you’d go right by tommy’s house on the hill. and just today i found out that tommy, one of the absolute cutest-boys-in-high-school, has died. a man taken by coronavirus, i read the posts on facebook remembering him. it seems, as we lose track of people in our orbit, that they freeze in time – i never knew tommy as an adult so he remains age 18 in my mind’s eye. we lose track of them and we don’t know their successes or their challenges, things they struggled with or how their lives were shaped as they ‘grew up’. we make assumptions and find out later that their lives were impacted in ways we never could have guessed, in ways we would have never wished for anyone. it saddens me deeply to think of tommy, the cool-boy-in-school, struggling in his life, trying to get a firm hold on steady. the things we don’t know, riding our bikes up that hill just to get a glimpse and maybe wave to him.
20 years go by. and another 20.
and we sit at the pump where it’s 99 cents a gallon. there is a global pandemic. we have a blank triptik. as we drove away from the pump, we looked at each other and pondered without answering, ‘where would we go if we could go?’
but right now, there is no where to go. were i to be on long island, i would go back to my growing-up house and sit on the curb for a bit. then i’d go around the corner and up the hill. and i’d wave as i’d pass tommy’s old house.
out of necessity it was only a few days after i broke both of my wrists that i played. it seemed that i had nine fingers that were attending this event, and i, relieved to have these nine, worked with what i had.
in the last couple months, my left hand progressed faster than my right. i had two breaks in my right wrist and, yes, i am older now than i used to be, so the doctor warned me that i needed to be patient. make that NEED to be patient; healing will take six to eight months, she said. but all five LH fingers participated in this early-on merrymaking and only my immobilized thumb was excluded on my RH. and both wrists. they were excluded too.
they changed the cast on my RH from over-the-elbow to one a tad bit shorter; this was happy for me as it gave me more mobility. i kept playing, despite the wad of cast that ended in the palm of my hand. i am a mom. i am used to working around things.
later, they changed it yet again to an exos cast, which is removable but much less designed specifically for your hand; it was actually quite uncomfortable and made my hand hurt in places it hadn’t hurt with the ‘regular’ cast on. i kept playing.
at the point when the coronavirus ceased all my regular doctor appointments, and after only one occupational therapy appointment, i kept playing.
finally, with the phoned-in blessing of my OT, i ordered a splint for my RH – the same one i wear on my LH, releasing my thumb from its cast-prison. i kept playing.
and then i noticed that my pinky wasn’t responding properly. nor was my ring finger. nerve pain was shooting from my fingers up my arm. and nodules in the palm of my RH were burning, stinging. no professional pianist i know wants his or her hands to hurt. i could draw hundreds of analogies here with other body parts and ways-of-living, but i will refrain from doing so and just say that this was disheartening and incredibly worrisome for me. and i kept playing.
i emailed the doctor and then sent pictures i labeled in photoshop so that my worry would be clear, since i was unable to be there in person; social distancing had put aurora on the don’t-call-us-if-this-isn’t-essential status. when she called me she said i really needed to come in. she said that they would take some x-rays and the hand specialist would look at my right hand, in particular. frankly, i was beyond nervous to walk into a medical center. they have their hands full (absolutely no pun intended) and i was reticent to be privy to whatever germs were hanging around or to take any focus from the more essential. but, because i am playing and because playing is what i do, i went.
although there is a slight chance that there is something else going on here, it looks like the palm tendons of my RH fingers are inflamed. this is likely because i have been playing with casts on. what’s the expression? damned if i do, damned if i don’t.
when i asked the specialist for a range of time this might last, his answer was ‘probably up to a few months’. he didn’t ask me a lot of questions to discern what was happening and i tried like heck to fill him in on every-single-last-thing about my hands, but, in as-quick-as-a-flash fashion, he was gone before i knew it. a-few-more-exercises-and-some-regularly-scheduled-advil advice later, i left the hospital, took off my mask and climbed, sighing, into big red in the parking lot.
the pressure. gee-willikers! you simply cannot browse through any social media platform without seeing family’s and friends’ beautifully-prepared foods or rustic breads fresh out of the oven, off the grill, sizzling on the griddle, staged and plated for photos.
the pressure. my first question is always one about wondering how, in the middle of this socially-distanced-stay-at-home-pandemic, all-these-people have all-those-ingredients in their homes at-the-ready. we must be pretty basic shoppers; our larders are not filled with the likes of these ingredients. we plan ahead; like you, we are shopping very rarely, limiting our exposure. we miss our peeps at festival; we used to see them almost daily, as we would cruise about town to get fresh fruits and veggies.
the pressure. neither of us wanted to go out to the store the other day. we had chicken out to prepare, but, low on or depleted of fresh vegetables and potatoes, a side dish escaped us. we did, however, have a multitude of pears, because you can’t purchase a normal amount of pears at costco; instead, it is assumed you have an army of pear-eaters and you will all devour them before the dreaded brown spots form on the outside of its smooth green-pear-skin.
the pressure. what to do with pears, other than just, say, slice and eat them. we googled. every pear recipe has goat cheese in it, for good reason. i love goat cheese and wish we could eat goat cheese, but a dairy free diet precludes that. so we had to move on.
knowing that you must be sitting on the edge of your seat as you (maybe) read this, i’ll tell you what happened: we looked in the freezer to see what else was there. bacon! now, i really love bacon. i probably shouldn’t, but i do. thinking we were being brilliant, we googled what you could make with pears and bacon. those of you out there in perfect cooking/baking/inspired feasting social media land will say ‘no duh’ when i tell you we found -drumroll, please- bacon-wrapped pears! simple! you slice a pear into quarters and wrap bacon around the slices. place in 400 degree oven and bake. that’s it! they were freaking amazing!
the pressure. so then the pressure was to NOT post this pear-bacon-pairing-extravaganza on social media. we sent a picture to a couple friends who knew of our facebook-meal-snack-drink ogling and we sent a picture to The Girl and The Boy.
our friends responded enthusiastically but our more recipe-savvy children did not. i suppose they just thought to themselves: yup. pears. bacon. pears + bacon = bacon-wrapped pears. yup. the pressure.
i unfriended someone today. i was so shocked at his response to the vital importance of continuing to social distance in this global pandemic i found it reprehensible. his crass “everyone will die eventually” was deeply disturbing. he actually used the term ‘survival of the fittest’. i, in browsing for how my family and friends are doing, found no peace in his words, only a shortfall of empathy. i shudder to think of anyone who read or who will read these callous words who has been ill, has had a loved one ill, who has lost a life in their circle of life, who has been deemed unemployed, who has missed paying their rent and who stands in line for food, who is frightened. anyone with a heart.
i’ve unfriended a few people along the way these last few years. this hasn’t been because i merely disagree with them. i am open to disagreeing with you if you are open to discussion. but these have been folks who have been closed. closed to facts, to truth, to research, to conversation. closed. to me, it feels as if their hearts are closed.
for what is the importance of the next morning if what you care most about in the world is copious amounts of money or holdings? my sweet poppo used to say, “you can’t take it with you.” what is the importance of the next morning if you will throw others under the bus to elevate yourself? my sweet momma used to say, “be kind. be kind. be kind.” what is the importance of the next morning if everything is measured by black and white, an excel sheet of differences, all listed and highlighted. my big brother used to play his guitar and sing, “there’s a new world coming…” what is the importance of the next morning if you only measure yourself against others, their net worth, their houses, their jobs, their wardrobe, their vehicles, their exotic trips, their success? in high school i recited these words from desiderata, “if you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.”
instead, what about that morning someday? the one that presents you with the challenge of a lifetime, the one you have worked on honing your whole life. the challenge to accept who you are. the challenge to stand up straight in your integrity, to freely and generously love, to do your work, to look out into the world with open eyes. the challenge to not compare yourself, to believe in the betterment of humanity, to be kind, and to know that you can’t take any of it with you. the challenge to surround yourself with goodness and live now. this morning. tomorrow morning. the next morning. heart open.
reverse threading 