i don’t remember exactly where it was, but i remember driving my little blue vw to a hidden pond along the north shore. next to me, on the front seat, were my ice skates. i’d get there and bundle up, lace up my ice skates and spend a few hours gliding across the pond. it was silent, save for the swoosh of the skateblades on ice.
a couple decades later – when we moved to wisconsin from florida – i decided that the proximity of the ice arena left me no choice but to – finally – latch onto my dreams of becoming an olympic figure skater…clearly a dream based on reality. so i signed up for lessons.
my first lesson – with all the other eight-year-olds – was a bit of an adjustment. i wondered if i should try to find a time with just-adult-learners. i can’t remember now if i switched classes.
the instructor reviewed the skills we brought with us. i was able to crossover-crossover, go backwards (and forwards) and stop correctly (an important skill as painfully revealed to me on my first snowboarding lesson).
my next skill – along with practicing the finesse of each of the others i had mostly-mastered – was an upright spin. there are one-foot spins and two-foot spins and axels and salchows and camels and the lutz and other beautiful spinny moves. i was ready to learn. i had much to accomplish to become the world’s oldest newest-olympic-figure-skating-champion.
the day for the first spin came.
my instructor demonstrated what i was to do. it didn’t look entirely impossible so i set about practicing it on my little corner of the ice.
good lord.
somewhere – in all the dreamy fantasyland of wishing to be a figure skater – i had missed the part about motion sickness. no one had mentioned how incredibly dizzying this tiny spin would be. i mean, i was going around like twice! and the nystagmus (automatic repetitive eye movement) was killing me. i kept practicing, watching my dream dissipate into the cold-breath-vapor cloud in front of me, my brain unable to quash the dizzies. whoa.
i went back for a couple more lessons, but skipped the froo-froo tulle-skirted-skate-dressed skating recital, not wanting to outshine any hardworking eight year old. it was quickly becoming apparent to me. this was not my future. no medal platforms, no medals, no certificates of participation.
but when we left the trail and stood at the edge of the river – mostly still frozen – the snowbanks an invitation for strapping on skates – i was back on long island, jumping out of my bug, lacing those skates up and spending a few hours gliding in silence.
“it’s full tonight. so we go and the moon rises, so beautiful it makes me shudder, makes me think about time and space, makes me take measure of myself: one iota pondering heaven. thus we sit, myself thinking how grateful i am for the moon’s perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich it is to love the world.” (mary oliver – the sweetness of dogs)
we are on the west side of lake michigan. it’s the cold side, the side with many rocks, big boulders. the sun rises over our lake. the moon rises over our lake. and there are days – magical ones – when the moon is in full phase – a giant ball, moonlining to anyone on shore. wishes that landed on stars seem destined to come true. loving to-the-moon-and-back is potent and visual. it would seem – on those nights that the moon takes over the night sky and all else shrinks – that – in the purest sense -peace really could guide our planet and that love really could steer the stars, constellations with invisible reins tethered to reaching hands and hearts on the shoreline.
we drove home from the snowy trail and the moon was just starting to rise over the trees in the distance as we drove east. across a snow-filled farmfield, beyond the stand of woods, there it was, more intense each minute, dynamic through dusty rose and salmon and blush, finally flushed more golden. i kept driving east, directly to our lake.
we weren’t alone. there were other peace-and-love-rising seekers there and we all photographed our individual moon photos – the same beauty-shudder-rich sky as it turned to night over the great lake, its surface slightly rippled by calmer winds.
it was snowing and we were walking along the lakefront – on third avenue. we cut in through the park and walked along the shoreline. though it wasn’t obvious in just a glance outside, the wind was pretty fiercely blowing the falling snow south, so walking north meant keeping our heads down and imagining that we would look like all our pals on life below zero after our walk – frozen eyebrows, d’s beard all crusty with icicles, my hair frozen to my hat. later, on our return trip home, it was easier walking south than north.
i’m not sure how the tree above the sidewalk melted the snow to be a heart. no person was involved – ours were the only prints on the walk or anywhere nearby; i suppose no one else wanted to be outside in the storm. it was a mystery. but it was a perfect heart.
it’s our tenth valentine’s day. we don’t celebrate this holiday in a big way. it is also his birthday, a valentine baby for his momma. a few years ago he sent me a dozen roses for the first time. expecting them to be exquisite, they arrived – as you remember – disheveled and mostly petal-less. all the buds had fallen to the bottom of the hefty delivery box. i gathered them into a crystal bowl. rose petal lemonade.
it is not likely that he will have roses delivered again. but hearts – on the other hand – we find them together everywhere. on-trail rocks, caramel autumn leaves, tucked inside acorn centers, maple tree winged seeds, puddles, morning glory leaves, pieces of shredded prayer flags, raindrops lingering on the leaves of plants, in snow. i don’t think we actively look for them. but they show up. much like real hearts.
found hearts are different than purchased roses. in pretty much every way. they don’t try to be beautiful. they don’t arrive all glitzy and wrapped. they don’t make statements. they are not haughty nor does the color matter. they are simply waiting to be seen, to be recognized. and they don’t cost anything.
there are likely few decisions that a squirrel must make. certainly, one of those would not be whether or not to save something for a special occasion. what would they save? there are no accoutrements, no accessories, no cute or practical boots, no fancy necklaces or earrings. no new tunics or jeans or jackets or, well, anything that i, on the other hand, am likely to “save for good”. life must be easier as a squirrel – in some ways. sometimes i think about these things.
my sweet momma was a paradox this way. she, along with mary engelbreit – who indeed would have been her friend – surely believed that being alive was a special occasion. at the same time, she saved things for “special occasions” though she believed those were every day. in the way that things are passed down, i inherited this trait – to save things for “good” – and i am striving to eliminate my resistance to using the special stuff on ordinary days. paradox-baggage-laden from my momma, i, too, believe that the ordinary is really quite extraordinary, yet using new or special stuff has remained tough for me. philosophy-at-heart vs practicality-in-action. sheesh.
we had dinner together a few evenings ago – the up-north gang. we glanced into the dining room from the kitchen – where we were loading up our plates with happy hour snacks – and exclaimed, “china! you are using your china!”. it made us all smile. it wasn’t an ordinary day.
we dined on momma’s-china-now-passed-down in florida one evening. all the holidays of younger life came rushing forward and the soft pink rose on white set a tone of celebration. for moments, i was back in my growing-up dining room. and then i returned, sitting at the table, the china generation-passed-through with everyone a little bit older. it wasn’t an ordinary day.
and as i sat at these tables, with fine settings of beautiful china, surrounded by dear people telling stories and laughing, i was struck – once again – by how really extraordinary it all is. no ordinary days.
i thought about the squirrel, whose sweet prints i had photographed, who dashed here and there, never looking crabby or like things were just ordinary. the squirrel just set about to living, each and every day of its shorter-than-our life, instinctively happily doing squirrel things.
right now i can think of a tunic and a canvas crossbody purse – both of which are brand new (and have been brand new for quite some time). i truly like both of them and purchased them in towns we love, so they are practical souvenirs, remnants of experiences in those places. but i haven’t used either one. yet. i’m not sure what i am waiting for; it’s just that inherent thing that makes me wait. my sister did not inherit that; she has no propensity for saving new stuff. she is clearly more happy-go-lucky-in-the-moment-squirrel than i am in my squirreling-it-away-squirrel. she and my poppo – he’d get new shoes (something he loved) and he’d wear them right away. another paradox. this from the man who would turn boxes inside-out to re-use them. but, in the category of new stuff, my sister has poppo-use-it-now-tendency.
and then i think about squirrels a little more and how those squirrels gather, gather, gather and store away all they have gathered. happy little savers, they have a cache of food, untouched, waiting. perhaps there are tunics and boots and purses and flipflops and new jeans, new notebooks and pristine journals in there as well. all waiting for “good”.
i guess – in actuality – i am more squirrel than my sister. me and my momma. but i’m working on it. wear the crystals. use the good china.
because both my momma and i know it’s all a special occasion.
we’re running out of room. the nightstands to the side of our bed are overly-laden.
if you take away the lamp, the clock, a few pictures and a jelly jar of pens and pencils, it barely leaves room for the water bottle, tissue box, readers, cellphone, flashlight, itty-bitty-booklight, backscratcher, pad-for-the-stuff-you-want-to-remember-but-know-you-will-forget-by-morning, ankle socks and – when we plan ahead – the midnight bananas. if we determine anything else is of absolute necessity inthemiddleofthenight we will have to purchase a new night-table. bigger.
i wonder if aarp has grown-up night-tables on discount.
roller-coaster-soap-opera-never-a-dull-moment-ever-changing life gifts us with people along the way.
some of them are in it – with us, as it’s said, for a season. we fill each other’s cups with the companionship of friends or loved ones, but time has a way of placing itself between people and proximity of place or heart push at the ability to spend time. schedules and responsibilities and changes interrupt the flow together and we drift.
some people are in it – with us – for specific reasons. they are colleagues, they are universe-drop-ins who walk alongside as we grow and evolve, in our work, on a walk we have chosen, a trail we have been set upon. they stop at waysides as we travel on and we lose touch.
others are just there. they may be constant companions; they may be in-and-out. but, whenever we wish or they wish, they are there and we are there. they ride the coaster with us, laugh with us, ponder with us, cry with us, get pissed with us, celebrate with us. we share stories, we share the truth, we share disappointments, challenges, impossible summits. it can be weeks, months, years and it is just as easy. they are touchstones in our lives and, likely, always will be. we spend time together and time apart, but they are never far away. they are our posse. and we could not do life without them.
we stopped on the trail and i sat on a bench, pulling off the boots that were making my feet beyond sore. jen offered her socks; she offered her boots. instead of rendering her shoe or sock-less, i used her bandaids. we loaded up my feet with bandaids and i didn’t tie the boots, clomping through a few miles in the snow, curling my toes to keep them from falling off. i whined about it and i apologized for whining about it. and i promised that next week – in our next hike – i would wear different boots. two times hiking in these was enough. we talked about feet most of the way back, for there is not much we won’t discuss – at length. brad yawned through my health insurance rant, but he listened intently anyway. we cheered with dark beer and brandy-old-fashioned-sweets at a neighborhood bar next to the railroad tracks. we made plans and talked about life and the previous week, another episode in the sitcoms and serial drama miniseries of our lives. right there, listening and caring. there.
we’ll have snacks at happy hour – though it will be followed shortly by a huge dinner together. but we all love to eat and the up-north gang does it well. we’ll talk about everything under the sun and we’ll laugh. nothing is off the table as we all age together, listing the things we are concerned about. we are an all-inclusive in-service about all that stuff, comparing notes, making recommendations, giving advice. it’s totally reassuring. we know who to call if – any time of day or night – there is water in the basement or if the tv antenna falls or if we need new tires or a pair of glasses. there. they are right there.
the perch a couple nights ago was done to perfection, as were the potatoes and cabbage slabs. 20 was in his glory; his wheelhouse includes fishhhh (as he says it) and cabbage. we eat together twice a week. every week. we take turns cooking and every meal includes wine and chocolate. he goes way back – 30 years almost – and his presence is a rock for us. through thick and thin he has remained steady. we keep track of the week by our mondays and thursdays together. there.
and there are those people – who can call on the phone from far away or across town – and with whom we can pick up as if no time has passed. we can laugh about the seinfeld episodes of mutual time, we can pine for time spent, we can rue how quickly time has passed. the thing we know – no matter what – is that they – and we – are there. whether we see them or not, no matter if it has been a long while, these people are always part of the very fabric of our lives and they are vital. they remember who we were, how we changed, what we went through. they know the gumption it took to get us to where we are now. they recognize us. they are from our elementary schools, our high schools, our colleges, our first jobs, our professional ladder rungs along the way. they are the people we met on airplanes, while shopping, at tennis tournaments, across the street. they are random and superbly unique and we celebrate meeting them – wherever it was. they are in our mind’s eye standing aside us through it all, whether in person or in spirit. their souls entwine with ours.
and then there are the beloveds. people whose dna is connected to ours in some way, people whose curve-of-face resembles ours, whose expressions we know by heart, without whom we would never be who we are. they are scattered, too, around the world and, though we wish – yearn – to see them often and more often, it is not so. nevertheless, they hold the prime spots in our hearts and are always right there, a breath away. our families.
so many chances to love, to feel love. so much time spent together. so much gratitude on the coaster.
the front of the garnet hill catalog features a collection of stones and says, “there’s beauty in simplicity.” yes. i recognize those rocks – they are scattered through our house…pebbles of mica-laced igneous, slices of red rock, chunks of granite, smooth water-worn river rock. small cairns stacked on the windowsill or the sunroom table, a vase with rocks that are special but can no longer be traced back specifically to why. simple beauty, they remind us that we are all a part of it. no less, no more.
as i get older i realize that i am leaning into simplicity. i am less inclined to be moved by fancy stuff, more given to the unembellished. we hike on trails and are reminded of nature’s brilliant eye for decorating the world. no tchotchkes or trinkets, just no-frills and unadorned life.
i’m guessing this propensity – this leaning – has something to do with my love of arvo pärt’s tintinnabuli minimalist exquisiteness. spiegel im spiegel on repeat. not fussy. not ornamented. straight up gut-wrenchingly beautiful, much like the pine needles in the snow. two monodic lines – melody and triad – woven into the simplest tapestry and “expressing the composer’s special relationship to silence”. nothing bombastic. no blustering. purity.
“there’s beauty in simplicity.” stark, unpretentious, natural.
there is nothing, weather-wise, that dogdog likes better than snow. he is invigorated by it. he’s not particularly fond of rain and he is definitely not a heat-wave dog. but snow is a different story entirely. when asked, “what’s keeping you in wisconsin? why wouldn’t you want to move to florida?” i have to answer, “the dog doesn’t want to live in a hot clime.” period. i mean, really – every summer – he suffers (cue up maria portakalos in mybig fat greek wedding – “she suffers” as i cannot write the word without hearing her voice.)
as i write this, dogga is at the end of the bed, curled up on the quilt, sleeping. he’ll be ten this year and that is astounding to us. he is slowing down a bit, sometimes acting like an older dog. but there is nothing that makes him seem younger than a good snowfall. running out, he eats the snow off the deck, licking it – like a sensational ice cream cone – as he goes. we look out the window to let him back in and there he is, curled up in the snow, covered in giant flakes, happy as a clam. snow is his gig. it floats his boat. it’s his cup of tea. it makes him happy, gives him the energy of a puppy, it’s his thing.
i wonder if we are as wise as this. our snowdog is not thinking about his reaction to snow. he’s not analyzing it or weighing its costs v benefits. dogga is not wondering if it will last or when the snow will melt, thereby rendering him snowless and less blissful. he is not asking when it might snow again, banking on the next time, forgoing some of the joy of this time. he is just out there, laying in it – full-out, napping, accumulating snowflakes like seconds of ecstasy. he’s fully immersed in something he loves, paying no mind to the rains of spring or the heat of the summer, unconcerned about the turn of the seasons. he is simply in snow and he is happy.
on a cold and cloudy day, the colors are muted. it is stunning. the trees have reached out and caught the snow as it flew by. the branches have held onto it, inches of white topping a narrow spectrum of greys and taupe, some tree trunks black in the dim. it’s quiet. we are – on most of the trail – first there, save for the deer and squirrels and rabbits who have left behind evidence of their passing. gorgeous. i am not cold, though the temperatures have plummeted. i feel wrapped by the woods, embraced. the paradise of winter is not on some beach somewhere. it is right here, in the middle of fallow.
it occurs to me that the colors there – in the woods – are the colors in our living room. i see now why – both – they are the colors we have chosen and why they feel so peaceful. the woods is in our living room.
i turn out all the lights – each lamp – the standing lamp, the side-table lamp, the lamp in the window nook, the lamp on the secretary – but leave on the twinkling white lights on the tall branches. they light the room just enough. they are the outside, brought in, a branch from the cherished tree in the front yard, a branch from the woods. they rise high above the old wood floors and bathe this room with starry light. they do not hold the snow as it falls any longer, but they hold memories and profound reminders of the rhythm of nature.
this is, yes, i suddenly see, why this is the palette from which our living room has evolved. it is muted, a quiescent slate from which anything can grow, in which any burst of new color blossoming is celebrated, a serene woods any time we need it.
we had never parked in that section of the daily parking garage, so we never saw it. creatures of habit, we didn’t park there this time either, but we walked across the driveway to use the elevator and the interior moving walkway on that side. for how many times i have flown out of the milwaukee airport, i was surprised to find we could walk inside instead of through the cold terminal parking garage. the walkway was much warmer than the damp parking structure and, since we were going to florida coatless, it was a much better choice.
we rounded the last corner – the one that takes you to the third-level-skywalk to the terminal – to find ancient words of wisdom marking an entrance to the airport’s meditation room. simple, beautiful, quiet – we never knew it was there, though it was completed in late 2017. “airports can be busy, hectic, and stressful places. the MKE meditation room provides a quiet, tranquil location for thought, reflection, prayer, and meditation.” (www.mitchellairport.com) we stopped into the meditation room on our way home. we sat for a few minutes, reading the inspirational words on the wall, closing our eyes in contemplation. it was surprisingly silent. it was right as the liminal space between the flight and home.
a few days ago – in the later afternoon – we hiked one of our favorite trails. we were stressed and needed the space and quiet of this familiar woods. we had been there days before, boots and snowpants through deep snow, trees stunning against the whiteness. it was beautiful. we find the ancient words of the talmud on this trail…we are sustained by its peace, we feel more hope for truth and justice as we walk in nature.
but this day was not quiet. and, though researching the mayhem revealed that it was a “woody invasive species clearing project,” we found the noise, the machinery, the devastated forest disturbing. nothing looked the same and, as much as we know this trail, it was hard to locate within it; without familiar trees and underbrush each bend in the trail looked different.
“removing invasive shrubs and trees in oak communities allows for enough sunlight to reach the ground level to encourage the growth of young native tree seedlings and other native vegetation.” (www.lcfpd.org) we felt somewhat relieved reading these words after our hike, understanding that these big changes were intentional and that the purpose was growth and sustenance of the savanna, prairie, and marsh wetland.
the talmud, the milwaukee meditation room, the preserved woods in northeastern illinois…all the same, i suppose.
it is the removal of the invasive, the obnoxious, the noise, falsity, injustice, all that is conflict-riddled, that allows the sun, that encourages, that sustains the world.
reverse threading 