i was the one. probably the one and only. the single person in the entire school who opened up my re-purposed hallmark card store bag to reveal a wax-paper-wrapped sandwich. now, if that isn’t bad enough, add to it the irreversible damage that this wrought: carrying a cucumber sandwich or liverwurst and mayo on smushy white bread wrapped in waxed paper. i mean, who eats this in elementary school or junior high or even high school??? it’s like that scene in my big fat greek wedding with the mean girls around toula portokalos taunting her lunch, “moose kaka???”. yes, irreversible damage.
and so, i have a thing about wax paper. this is probably not wax paper’s fault. it was innocently birthed in 1927 and has served the general public well. just not me in the school cafeteria.
while everyone else was flaunting their plastic sandwich bags – with their deli-ham-and-cheese sandwiches complete with prepackaged bags of chips and ho hos or twinkies – there i was – with my savory liverwurst on bread soggy with mayonnaise, an apple and, if i was really lucky, a prized yodel. there was no comparison. it was crushing.
so, the wax paper in the drawer in the kitchen comes with a little ptsd. it comes in handy, yes. but i’ll never ever wrap a sandwich with it. ever.
i think it was $250. that is the number that sticks in my mind. the amount of money my sweet poppo spent on the family’s very first calculator. way back when.
now, $250 was a lot back then. it still is. but my dad wanted us to have this newfangled device with which we could add, subtract, multiply and divide to our heart’s content, sans paper and pencil. it was a pretty exciting time and we all felt inordinately lucky to be living in such a technological world. wow.
my big brother was the one who made an abacus for me. in searching through bins in the basement and the attic i was hoping to stumble upon it. but no abacus to be found. amazingly enough, i even knew how to use the abacus.
and then, it was, again, my brother who showed me how to use a slide-rule. he was a surveyor for a time, so it was a tool of his trade. and anything my brother used, i wanted to use. he was that kind of idolized big brother. i’ve come across several slide rules in boxes and pencil cases. i’d have to refresh to figure out how to use them. i’m just certain that my treasured high school math teacher would be proud were he to know how attached i still am to these pre-calculator devices.
the stick on the trail somehow brought all of this to mind. linking-thinking, my dear friend heidi calls it. as we approached it, it just simply screamed “number line” to me. it appeared that each little branch nub was placed exactly the same distance apart. it immediately brought me back to number lines i’ve created in the past…for history classes or for math or for one of those “describe your life” timeline projects that have you looking back and then looking ahead. plotting on the line the ponderous things that have happened in your life that have in turn impacted your life.
i stopped to take photographs of the stick and got lost in plot-my-life-on-the-number-line thoughts. i’ve been doing a lot of looking-back and this stick would come in handy as a visual.
somewhere on that stick it would show our first calculator. somewhere before that it would show the abacus and the slide-rules. somewhere later it would show a first computer. and then, subsequent computers, laptops, ipads, cellphones. it’s easy to place stuff on the number line.
what’s much harder to place is the impact of moments in your life. but for one decision, one meeting, one event, the rest of the number line would be entirely different. it’s profound.
in the way that – in elementary school – you would draw a curved line – to the right – under the number line to show addition or a curved line – to the left – under the number line to show subtraction, it is much harder to reflect – with a simple curved line – the entire impact one nub on the stick might have had on you. though one might try to reflect the way one nub informed the rest, it is nearly impossible to wrap all impact into a few curved lines.
in fact, the number line, the abacus, the slide-rule, the early-bird calculator – none of them can calculate all that.
standing on the trail, mid-photo-shoot with the stick, i realize that it is likely we cannot actually portray ourselves – our lives – on a number line. it occurs to me that – because life and heart and soul are like this – we are living many nubs concurrently – backward and forward – all at the same time. no nub stands alone. each is altered and informed by all the others.
i procrastinate putting away the wrought iron table and chairs. i just want to leave a couple pillows out, a place to sit, the possibility of a meal – one more time – at the table on the deck.
all the other things-of-summer are put away. we’ve cleared the potting stand. we’ve transplanted the lavender. we’ve put the tiki torches and the fire column in the garage. the old door and the black and white prayer flags are taken down and the rugs are rolled up. it’s not easy – this nod to impending winter. and so, we keep out the wrought iron table and chairs and just a couple pillows.
and this week – it has been possible – because this week has been a gift of sun and warmth. and this week we have been able to stretch it out a bit longer, pulling on the taffy of early-autumn just a little bit more.
it’s like a gear-up moment. a chance to sit – for no other purpose but sitting – in the sun. a chance to ponder the coming holiday season. a chance to daydream a bit. a chance to let go – even momentarily – of worry.
and when bellaruth – in my guided imagery meditation – asks me to imagine a place, to see it, to feel it all around me – i would guess that one of those places might be sitting at this outside table, pillow behind me, feet on another chair, eyes closed in the sun. or maybe, sitting on the edge of the deck in the taffy-pull of glorious fall days.
parsley and rosemary. in what would seem their prime, it was time to harvest, for another frost might damage them and a freeze most certainly would. we covered them – along with the basil and the mint and the lavender – but it’s november and it’s wisconsin, so it was time to make some other choices. because it’s what we do, i researched. and then, with snippers, went out and snipped off stems, laying them gently on a cookie sheet so that i might freeze them and pull them out mid-winter to use: fresh herbs in the winter from our own potting stand will remind me that spring will, yes, arrive again.
and yes, i know it’s simple to run to the grocery store and pick up a fresh bundle of parsley and one of those little plastic containers of rosemary. but there is something to be said for these herbs that we grew, that gave us so much joy to watch as they flourished this summer. we simply bought them at lowe’s, planted them in good soil in good old clay pots, placed them in the sun, watered them as needed. and we celebrated them as they grew. mighty and strong.
it’s a little like children. you try your best to plant them in good soil, in solid but permeable pots, expose them to the sun and nutrients as they need them. and they flourish. and one day you are watching your daughter fly down the biggest mountain run in summit county – one of the highest inbound ski terrains in north america – on a snowboard, her skills generously coaching and instructing others. and another day you are watching your son’s hands fly across the mixer board, spinning electronic dance music, bringing elation – even rapture – to beautiful people expressing the freedom and joy of living. and then another day and another and another…mighty and strong.
it’s good dirt, a good pot, sun, nutrients. celebration.
and a whole lot of love.
maybe next year we’ll also plant sage and thyme – to complete the old folk song that goes through my mind every time i think of parsley and rosemary.
the shaggy manes clustered in front of the stage. it was a crowded mosh pit and there was no allowance for height. they were all just smushed in there, trying to see in-between pogo-ing to the music.
i couldn’t tell who the artist was. i was simply watching the audience reaction. it was clear to me that this was big. the artist had drawn a large crowd and all the shaggy manes were jazzed to be there. with rapt attention, they engaged in the concert, though all i could hear was silence. they were still there when i left, still standing, still moshing.
we create – paint, draw, compose, write, mold clay, cartoon, dance, act – for the shaggy manes in the world who wish to engage in our art form and, also, for the shaggy manes in the world who do not. we are noisy. we are silent. whether they walk away, stand quietly or pogo-mosh is not up to us. it is only up to us to put it out there. after that, we have no control. no machinations can force our work to resonate with a shaggy mane.
and as our work floats about in the universe – gaining or losing momentum, either – we trust that following the imperative is what we can do, what we must do.
and i am reminded – time and again – even if one shaggy mane gets it – one shaggy mane is moved – one shaggy mane is changed, even for a moment – then i have done my work.
well enough – is not quiiiite there. well enough – is under the bar. well enough – is status quo. well enough – is not really trying. well enough – saves time. well enough – is not holding life as a tiny flame in all the universe.
fine – is not quiiiite there. fine – is under the bar. fine – is status quo. fine – is not really trying. fine – saves time. fine – is not holding life as a tiny flame in all the universe.
i suppose there are many who really love leaving well enough alone. it doesn’t push any limits. it doesn’t poke at false bars. it doesn’t question. it doesn’t hold accountability as a north star. it doesn’t sort and ponder and ruminate. its tolerance is dubious. it’s easier.
and then, there are the other tomatoes.
those are the tomatoes in the bunch that won’t suffer well-enough. these tomatoes poke and prod. these tomatoes ask questions, research, study, extrapolate, piece together something better. these tomatoes make other tomatoes crabby.
though we take turns with the existential questions of life, he is the one who asks most of the ones – aloud – that are -sometimes annoyingly – foggy. the kinds of questions that require lengthy, long-winded, circular, pondering dissertations, steeped-in-wisdom-devoid-of-wisdom yada-yada, first-person-experience tales, prolonged dialogue, yin-yanging polar opinions, all the reddiwip of solid answers.
i find myself – in these moments – thinking of the practical, the reassuringly tactile, the basic. the homemade chicken soup.
and we are witnesses. to the thistle. to the meadow. to this slice of the earth.
we watch, as time passes. we note changes, dramatic and subtle. we are aware of the nuances of these moments – transitory. we are inside the ephemeral.
we are intentional; we fritter away.
and the thistle is witness to us as we stand still – for little bits of a while – in admiration. our gaze is focused, memorizing beauty, not questioning the randomness of our attention.
just holding it all in wonder. just perceiving the glorious. just unmoving and moved.
sharing this space of time – together – within the perpetuity of it all, what do the thistle, the meadow, this slice of earth see – looking back at us?
viriginia creeper…after the leaves have fallen. blue berries. it’s also called woodbine. and the instant that david told me that, i was back in northport.
for on the corner of woodbine avenue and main street sits skippers pub. it’s just on the other side of main from the park and the gazebo and the harbor boatslips and that place – at the end of the dock – where i have sat for hours and listened to the clanking of metal-rigged sails in the moonlight. it’s visceral.
some of the berries are gone now – only a few days since i took this picture. but as the temperatures drop, the critters have been busy, i suppose. and i hope that the woodbine berries help them prepare and stoke up.
in daydreams, i go back to skippers. sit at the bar and talk with crunch about fishing or diving or life, eat lobster bisque and baked clams, maybe sip a beer (back in the day). i go back when i was 18 or just barely 19; those earlier times were different than later.
a bunch of years back, david and i were on the island and we spent time walking around northport, spent time on the docks, spent time at skippers. we sat at the bar and ate baked clams and buffalo calamari. he sipped a guiness and i had a glass of wine. it was a little bit of heaven. i pointed out the window and, as he looked out, i knew he was looking out the same lettered window i had gazed out of decades ago. the view was a little changed – both from inside and out – of me.
but i could feel the energy of those times past and i could feel the bits of goodness that still floated about from happy moments spent there. skippers will always be a place of refuge in my mind – not because it was a pub – but because it was a place of joy, a place of innocence, of fun and friendship and tales of fishing and diving.
there will always be places we internally feel good about and, of course, the complete opposite – places that are inherently negative, that drudge up things toxic or painful. each of us can likely rattle off a few examples of each category.
skippers – on the corner of woodbine and main – will remain one of the good ones.
and now, each time i pass our dear westneighbors’ fence along our driveway and see the woodbine curling and stretching and growing on the wooden posts, i will likely smile and think of baked clams and lobster bisque and the long island when i was 18.
neither orange nor red are my favorite colors. but as i glance down nearby, i see two pencils – one a red mechanical pencil and one an orange colored pencil. they are the closest to me and, because i am a pencil person, i’ve been using them for days.
i remember many years ago, my son mentioned that some day he would like a montblanc pen. it’s pretty funny how a little time changes things. now, i’m quite sure, he would not care to have a montblanc; as a matter of fact, i’d bet he wouldn’t care about any brand of pen – even a bic for that matter – as he rarely writes down anything on paper. it is a generation – now grown-up – sans the need of paper, sans the need of pencils, sans the need of fancy-pens.
i’m not sure how i could function without pencils or pens. or, for that matter, notebooks and pads. i am a lover of paper and all things analog, while at the same time also loving the digital world and its conveniences. (take this blog, for instance.)
i have a box of fifty colored pencils that is brand new. it was a gift, along with an adult coloring book – if you haven’t tried this activity, don’t knock it. it’s zen-like coloring pages. i haven’t yet used these new pencils because i have older pencils and didn’t want to use up the new sharp points. ahh, i am my mother’s daughter.
the other day i took out the new tin of pencils and just gazed at the array of color – all beautifully laid out in a spectrum. i suddenly realized that it might be time to try them out. because after taking this photograph of this amazingly beautiful bush out on the trail, i could see that crayola wasn’t going to touch the nuances of staghorn sumac orange and red and yellow. i could see that it would be impossible to shade all the variations – rich – prayer flags burning a place into my memory. i could see that maybe fifty won’t be enough. there’s a set of 72, of 174, of 220, even 520 – the montblanc of colored pencils.
and i could see – gazing at this sheer beauty – i guess i like orange and red a little more than i thought. there’s more to them than meets the eye.
reverse threading 