pages 63-74 should be required reading. “don’t make assumptions.”
don’t get me started.
“it is always better to ask questions than to make an assumption…”
don’t get me started.
“if we hear something and we don’t understand, we make assumptions about what it means and then believe the assumptions. we make all sorts of assumptions because we don’t have the courage to ask questions.”
please don’t get me started.
“make sure the communication is clear.”
oh, yes.
i’m guessing the reason we love trails so much is that there is nothing on a trail that isn’t transparent. there is no agenda. there is no discrimination. the forest is not riddled with malfeasance. it just is. it’s quiet, a sanctuary of truth, the sanctity of nature.
i suppose most of us have been the target of miscommunicated or misrepresented or mischaracterized assumptions at one time or another. there is not much one can do about this, shy of broad announcements of clarification or the slow dissemination of true information. damage control is never as successful as creating damage. and that kind of damage can be damning.
we need not ingest information that is untrue – we need not immerse in gossip, spread words that skew clear understanding, speak words that are not impeccable. because we have – likely – each experienced the fallout of some sort of assumption, it would seem just as likely that we would be suspect of anything we hear that appears odd, out-of-character, unsolicited, a complete surprise. it would seem that we would approach anything like that with caution, weighing the possibility of bad intention. it would seem that – in light of the hell we might have experienced in our own time-as-target – we would go directly to the source, ask questions, try to find clarity.
but there are people who have not read pages 63-74 or, perhaps, found any other resource with this same basic human lesson. their lack creates needless suffering in others.
“our house…is a very very very fine house…” i can hear crosby, stills, nash and young gently singing this sweet domestic-bliss song in my ear. it makes me smile and nod my head.
everyone has their bliss. some need gigantic homes with every upgrade. some need rv’s that give freedom to roam. some need high-floor-city-dwelling. some need acreage in the middle of nowhere.
the things we need change.
we are finding that we need less and less. nothing fancy, nothing real shiny, nothing ostentatious, our house is simply an old house. it was built in 1928 and has all the trimmings of a sturdy old home – thick crown moldings and wainscoting panels, solid six panels and windowed french doors, creaking wood floors, glass doorknobs, high ceilings, double-hung roped windows. it also has all the quirks.
and we love it all.
now, don’t get me wrong, these last few days i would have been a very happy girl to have had central air conditioning. other days, i’ve pined for an island in our kitchen or maybe a master suite or a connected two-car garage. but…it’s not so and we don’t get all hung up on that stuff.
instead, we just love our house. and we feel like it knows it. because we can feel it loving us back.
we did not birth a baby together. until all these bunnies. our new-parent-juju is rising. together, we watch over them, noticing how they are growing, changing, their different puff-ball tails, their different markings. truth be told, we are not sure how many bunnies we actually have. we suspect that the number is rapidly increasing – as different sizes are showing up – all in the same day. so we are likely parenting multiples – twins, triplets and beyond.
my sweet momma used to tell me that when she discovered she was expecting – a decade after having my sister and brother – she wanted to have twins. she wanted me to be twins. she didn’t get all regretful or anything, but she just wanted me to know that she wanted me to have a sibling close to my age.
i wasn’t a twin. and my sister and brother grew, lightyears ahead of me, leaving home and marrying while i was just reaching double-digits. i, ever the little-sister, had special relationships with both of them and treasured time and sleepovers at their homes. but i can see the wisdom of my mom’s wish for twins. she called me their “dividend”.
and so i grew up – post-just-turning-double-digits – with older parents. they were already in their mid-fifties when i was a mid-teenager. and they were from a generation a little bit more old-fashioned. so, i s’pose i was a little bit more old-fashioned too.
they were already at the stage where suddenly they had a little bit more time to pay attention to the birds, the animals around our growing-up house, their garden. while i always appreciated their zeal, i didn’t stop in the zooming-around of a teenager to partake in much bird or wildlife watching or spend a lot of time in the gardens. after they moved to florida, in their last home together, they would sit for hours gazing out at the lake behind their home, watching for waterfowl, tiny lizards and traces of lurking alligators. witnesses of nature. it always brought them peace.
and now i get it.
last night we sat on the deck as the sun began to fall behind the horizon. the night air was cooler and the birds, chippies, squirrels, bunnies were busy. we marveled at the hummingbird flitting in to the feeder and we laughed at the antics of a gleeful dogdog, who was outsmarted every time by whichever bunbun was in the yard. we both sighed. the day was coming to an end and our yard-family was getting ready to tuck in.
the joys of dividends are numerous we see. old-fashioned goodness.
my sweet momma and my poppo – over in the next dimension – smiled knowing smiles and clapped their hands as they watched me, as they watched us.
breck is having a growth spurt. like when your toddler suddenly grows inches and miles and you cast aside the tiny outfits, reaching for the next sizes up.
you don’t really know what to expect about how a child will look when a baby is born. every day – in the middle of the chaos that is parenthood – you look at this precious child, pretty much incredulous. there are days when nothing about their tiny face and body looks much different. there are days when you have an inkling of what this little person will look like as they grow. there are days you stare and wonder whose child you are holding.
breck is kind of like that. for years since we brought breck home from – yes, breckenridge, colorado – it has looked like a small quaking aspen sapling. potted and then in the ground in numerous places in the backyard, its leaves were small, easily-identifiable aspen leaves, the classic well-loved shape of mountain breezes and stands of shimmering, rustling.
and then, this summer.
breck is now – apparently – an awkward teenager. the new leaves are giant, the new growth resembles the beanstalk that jack planted. it is as high as the lowest point of the garage roof and each day there are new leaves up there, new inches. we are not quite sure what is happening out there. but it sure looks like breck is having the time of its life.
breck’s vigorous growth this very summer seems really hopeful to us. in these past five summers we have watched breck maintain, keep status quo, a little teeny growth here or there. we’ve been grateful it has sustained. we feel inordinately connected to this little tree that made its way home from the high mountains with us in littlebabyscion.
we wonder about its sudden enthusiasm. we wonder about its new and different leaves. it feels like it is somehow bursting out of slow-and-steady into what-the-heck-full-steam-ahead.
“still, what i want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled— to cast aside the weight of facts
and maybe even to float a little above this difficult world. i want to believe I am looking
into the white fire of a great mystery. i want to believe that the imperfections are nothing— that the light is everything—that it is more than the sum of each flawed blossom rising and falling. and i do.” (mary oliver – house of light)
truth be told, i am pretty easily dazzled.
diamonds on the lake, owl feathers on the trail, first fireflies, an unsolicited kiss from dogdog, the rising moon, constellations pinpricking the sky, tightly-wound buds, wide-open-blossom fragrance. catching my beloved’s eye, the gesture of hand to his heart, the ninth in harmony, the sinking sun through a forest of trees, birds gathering at 4am, sunrise, surprise texts from my grown children, squishy pillows, the first coffee, a bold red, a new thermal shirt, snowfall, the first glimpse of the mountains.
as everything changes – my body, my work, my impact, my voice – it is easier to float above the difficult when dazzled a dazzling number of times a day.
i don’t know who to credit with my easy-dazzability. i suspect it’s my sweet momma. she did not have a high bar for ecstatic. she cheered on the tiniest event, she buoyed even those she did not know. her gaze took it all in…it became fodder for extraordinary within the ordinary.
but, oh, the practice of being astounded, of having your breath taken away, of being startled by that which you’ve seen many times, of holding the horizon loosely like the reins of a horse – without restraint, your knees signaling “gallop”. full-fledged immersion in possibility, unabashed glee, awed.
when the lake glitters, it feels as if the day itself has reason to shimmer.
i realize now – already – and at long last – the shimmer – of light – is always there. no matter.
behind the curtain and between stage-left and stage-right wings, the action is paused and ready. umbel stalks on point, waiting to explode into clusters of tiny white flowers, delicate leaves opening, lacy, inviting the show to go on.
it’s spectacular – this performance of nature.
queen anne’s lace – i first learned of this wildflower from my dear friend linda – can be confused with other plants. bishop’s flower, wild parsley and hemlock taunt many from the meadow and one must be careful to realize that their performance piece is not the same – they are not edible – like this wild carrot of queen anne’s lace – and, in fact, they are toxic. the meadow stage offers up options but only carrots are carrots.
for those who love the stage in any capacity, there is a responsibility, things one must remember.
i knew from the beginning that the stage was not about me, not about what it could bring me. instead, the stage is about what i can bring to the audience. i have played to a handful of people; i have played to tens of thousands of people. i always knew it was simply my job to offer my music, stories, lyrics, song, to put it out there. to be absolutely present – sharing the moment – my jeans stuck in my boot. to connect, to resonate, to move – though my expectation was not to be moved, were i to feel it connect, resonate, move, i, in turn, am profoundly moved.
to be off-stage for a longer period of time is taxing. there’s expendable energy stoking up, ready to burst off the apron, into the house. shimmering moments, illuminating the glow of faces seated, the warm cloud of laughter, the sighs of sinking in.
i have stood on the giant rocks of the john denver sanctuary, bowing. i have stood on the stump and the downed tree in the forest, bowing. i have danced on the deck, bowing. i have fist-microphoned in the kitchen, bowing.
i googled “what is the difference between an entertainer and an artist?” for i am often called an “entertainer” and, for some reason, that word rubs me wrong. surprisingly, an AI bot responded. “sage” wrote, “entertainment often focuses on providing a pleasurable or amusing experience for the audience, while art is more about expressing ideas, emotions or personal experiences. … entertainers focus on entertaining, while artists focus on expressing themselves through their art.”
sage’s answer indirectly implies a contrived reorganization, a pleasing-you approach. and while i have read audiences time and again, choosing direction of a concert – if possible – as i perform, on the fly, it is still with an intent to share, to impact, not to simply “amuse”.
i think it’s a matter of purity. or order. or intention. a combination of the three. plus gut. intuition. emotion. to bring. to touch. to move. to prompt questions. to elicit change. artistry. to lift up – suspending in midair – a piece of music, to let it soak up tiny jet streams that will carry it, to let it fall – as it might – onto the anyone or the anyones who is or are there – recipients of my good intention, from stage to audience.
hunger for the stage is real. it is pining for that connection, for the very reason i have composed.
one day the curtain rises – one day the delicate leaves drop – and i’m grateful to perform, piano, boom mic, wood under my feet – and the clusters of tiny white flowers explode into daylight.
in the column under the word “detest” i would place mosquitoes.
anything that can be minutely tiny and, really, barely visible, but can instantly wreak havoc on any summer evening or afternoon hike or, geesh, morning coffee, really has no right to be on the “well-loved” list.
that incessant buzzing you hear – in the bedroom – when you are trying to go to sleep…you just know it’s headed for you, it’s looking for you, it will bite you. mosquitoes own big stock in sleeping aid companies, i’m quite sure. they are just – in the voice of my former mother-in-law (who i can still hear in my mind saying this) “MIZZZerable!”.
wisconsin is among the states that has informally declared the mosquito as the state bird. it’s an effort to be humored by these pests, to take them in stride, to share space with them. yuck.
i picked a slip out of the jokes and riddles bowl, sweet mementos of cherished helen. “mosquito – an insect that makes you like flies better.” considering what i know about flies – all the disgusting stuff – in general one would be hard-pressed to like flies better than anything. but – relative to mosquitoes? i guess they aren’t as pathetically-unloved. unless they are the horse flies of the beach or those black flies in new england or midges or biting gnats or the dreaded no-see-ums. none of these deserve much adoration and one has to wonder what their true purpose might be. i know, i know. the whole food source/pollinator/composter thing. (i can hear elton john singing the circle of life now.)
i’d have to agree with this slip of paper. mosquitoes make me like many things i detest – more. and, despite the bats that fly in the summer dusk sky above our ‘hood here near the lake, i still wonder about their self-esteem and self-actualization. i’d be happier to support their life goals if i wasn’t one of them.
mostly, this slip of paper from this tiny-but-powerful 95-year-old is a good reminder about one’s perspective in life, one’s point of view. i’m betting the flies appreciate it.
we don’t always get a rotisserie chicken. we are eating waaay less meat and waaay more vegetables, often choosing a meatless dinner or a plant-based alternative. costco, however, does make serious down-to-the-wire-budgeting a little less painful with a $4.99 rotisserie chicken that we can literally turn into three evenings of dinners.
the other day, we pulled up to the chicken-line, jostling our way past other shoppers who were vacillating “chicken-no chicken-chicken-no chicken”. there was a young woman with half-a-cartful eyeing the chicken-line, not in and not out.
i asked her, “are you in the chicken-line?” she responded, tentatively, “i think so.” she had a little bit of a lost look on her face so i asked her, “is this your first time in the chicken-line?” to which she responded with an emphatic “yes!”. i told her that it really is quite the experience, almost cult-like – to which she looked uncomfortable. i hastened to add that there are many chicken-line things to ponder – ie: the way the clocks on the ovens work – giving you false hope that it’s almost T-I-M-E and then realizing it has numerous cycles and countdowns. i didn’t tell her how much i think about the chickens. i didn’t mention the guilt. i welcomed her to the chicken-line, parallel parking our cart behind hers. then we waited. quietly.
the costco chicken-people extracted the roasts from the oven and – incredibly deftly – containerized them for the chicken-warming-station-counter. we moved forward.
the young woman was waiting by the packaged quinoa salads, straight ahead, about ten feet further down. as we passed, she looked at us, catching our eye, smiled and said, “thank you for sharing that experience with me.”
i’m trying to decide just how vulnerable to be, how brutally honest, how much to share. it’s like sitting on the fulcrum in the middle of the seesaw…you can choose either way from the pivot point.
this lovely couple – who we considered extended family and saw every sunday – was next door at the garden club’s secret garden event. we saw them from our deck, waving to us over the neighbor’s fence. we gestured we’d meet them in the front yard. giant hugs later, we started a little catching up, having not seen each other in years now. they had family tales and travel tales and many tales of adventure.
they told us they missed us. we were grateful to hear they missed our “energy” and “the fun we brought”. they asked about us.
he asked if i had a position now. i don’t. being terminated during a global pandemic at the age of then-61 with an injury to my hand doesn’t naturally lead to a new position, particularly in the arts. i’m 64 now and we can both agree that age discrimination is alive and well in our country.
she asked if i was composing, if i was “doing my music”.
i sat in the middle of the seesaw.
i’m asked this fairly frequently – people expect someone who has 15 albums already and who has also spent decades as a minister of music – to be fully immersed in music now. after. usually, i somehow deflect, saying something like ” you know, the pandemic…” my voice trailing off. then i quickly ask what they are up to, how their family is, the new grandchild, the retirement, the vacation, the joint replacement…
this time, though, with these dear people standing in our driveway on a beautiful day – post-hugs – tears sprang to my eyes and i began by saying, “eh, this might be too much information.”
and then i told them that i am not composing, that i am not “doing my music” and that i haven’t been able to. that it’s too been too much, that it was too hurtful, that – as much as my studio is a part of me, my essence – being fired devastated me in more ways than anyone can really imagine. it is not as simple as walking back into the studio, sitting at my piano, grabbing pencil and paper, placing hands on the keys. it wasn’t just any old job they took away. it was part of my soul. and – to be honest – i am having trouble recovering. still.
the fulcrum teetered and the seesaw arm – the resistance arm or the effort arm, i wonder – fell to the ground, jostling me. i apologized for the over-abundance of emotion.
they stared at me. they looked surprised; they looked sad. we were quiet for a minute, while i regained my composure and climbed back onto the fulcrum pivot.
but the words were out there. and they were the truth of it all.
with the string you tie around boxes of cakes and pastries from a bakery or sweet patisserie, small bundles of dried lavender hang around my studio. from the big old black window frame that sits on the chifferobe i use for supplies to over by the djembe in front of the turned-off radiator by the window. bundles of lavender.
i used to have a lavender garden out back, started with cuttings divided out from the same bed these bundles were from. then the snow-on-the-mountain snuck under the fence from my neighbor’s yard and, despite my best efforts, took over the lavender (and anything else in its path). snow-on-the-mountain is like that. it barrels down anything in its way and takes much effort to eradicate. it’s aggressive and a tad bit bullying, not unlike some people i have known. i didn’t invite it into my yard, but there it was, anyway. i’ve tried to – now – incorporate it while still somewhat controlling it – the new normal. sounds a lot like the stuff of life.
each year we plant a big pot of lavender. each year, it is a slightly different strain of lavender. last year, our daughter chose the plant, as she was here at the time and we visited a nursery. it exploded into a gigantic plant – the bees seemed to love it as much as we did. this year, we chose one that seemed unique, it’s purple petals growing out the top of the stalk – french lavender, with butterfly-like narrow petals.
lavender is known for bringing serenity, for its calming soft scent. for me, it’s a balance plant. it is – without any real effort – growing in its giant pot.
i walk over and, with the slightest of touches, am caught in a whirl of its beautiful aroma. i think about tying some branches and hanging them to dry at the end of the summer season. or maybe making small lavender sachets. anything to keep it going.
i can add some to the gifted lavender in my studio. bring serenity in. and push out the ghosts of invasive snow-on-the-mountain.
reverse threading 