blank. it’s blank. this book i carry with me. it’s a journal, but i’ve never ever written in it. created by sue bender, the plain and simple journal has photographs of amish quilts and the shortest snippets of writings, many gleaned from time that sue spent in an amish community. i’m not sure why i haven’t written in it; perhaps it is a very-prolonged beaky rule – to save it. i do know that its pages have both comforted me and made me think. perhaps my own writing-on-these-pages would distract me or, once the pages are filled with scribble, it will detract from the printed snippets and fall out of i-carry-it-with-me grace. either way, it’s blank. and it’s profoundly wise.
“an amish woman told me, ‘making a batch of vegetable soup, it’s not right for the carrot to say i taste better than the peas, or the pea to say i taste better than the cabbage. it takes all the vegetables to make a good soup.” (sue bender)
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“to reconcile our seeming opposites, to see them as both, not one or the other, is our constant challenge.” (sue bender)
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“we all do better when we all do better.” (paul wellstone)
for where is it that we can not glory in another’s success, mourn with another’s failure, weep with another’s grief, dance with another’s bliss? we share the space. in community. not division.
we share the ride – we are all vegetables in the soup – we are not one or the other – and yes, we all do better when we all do better.
there is a moment when the sky turns a delicious shade of pink as the sun sets in the western horizon. each beyond-the-crayon-box-color doesn’t last long; they morph into the next color and then the next. each second, as you watch, counts.
there is a moment when before-night turns into after-day. crossing the pink.
“live in the present/grab onto this time/don’t look behind you/you gotta walk that thin line/of the future and the past/it’s all within your grasp/that second could come way too fast”
there is a moment – one that probably occurs multiple times a day – when you can choose how to react to things. you can linger in the not-taking-it-personally-they-are-hurting-you-not-because-you-are-you-but-because-they-are-them zone or you can step over the line and bite back. crossing the pink. everyone in relationship recognizes this. any relationship, be it spouse-spouse, significant others, parent-child, child-parent, colleagues, supervisor-employee, employee-supervisor, drivers stuck in traffic, customer-customer service rep, strangers in a long grocery line. not biting back doesn’t render you powerless; instead, in the hardly-ever-easy not-taking-it-personally, it aids in your health and well-being. you choose. crossing the pink.
“you look in the mirror/today’s world stares back”
there is a moment – a split second – when you stand still and see all that was behind, all that is here and now. it is impossible to see all that is possible, for surely if you were back many pink crossings ago you would not have imagined the now of now.
and so, this split second should tell us that we have no idea, that our imaginings of the future are both wildly over-feared and inconceivably understated, that with each split-second breath we take, we cross the pink into another split-second that is filled with hope of new. but sheesh, we are human and we are worried, fearful, guilt-ridden, persistently trying to figure out what we did wrong to elicit ‘such a response’, repeatedly weighing everything, sorting, feeling powerless.
what if we stayed in the moment of delicious pink, watching the sun promise rest and a new day.
“take it slow/don’t let this moment go/it’s here and it’s now/use this gift somehow”
we sat, broken down, during commuter hour, just north of milwaukee, in the fast lane of I-94. big red had stalled and would not start.
d called to me on the walkie-talkies i always insist we have with us when we are driving separate vehicles. i was car lengths ahead and had moved from the fast lane back into the right lane in sudden stopped traffic when he said, “k.dot! i’m broken down!” i took the next exit, drove back north on the highway, took the exit after i saw him sitting in the fast lane, cars backing up in stopped traffic. i eventually made my way to be right behind him. sitting in the fast lane of the interstate with angry commuters approaching and trying to resume their 75mph to no avail is not my idea of a fun time. the police officer soon got there, and it was a great relief when he pulled behind us with his lights on, effectually calming things down and blocking us from oncoming traffic.
and there we sat, broken down in spirit as well as mechanically. we looked like the beverly hillbillies and i would have drawn the comparison aloud, but i fear that the police officer was too young to understand the reference. big red and little baby scion were both full of stuff, for we were moving off-island and back home. dogdog and babycat were in the scion with me, none too pleased with the sounds of traffic.
while waiting for the tow truck, d, with no success, occasionally tried to start big red. and i, of course, while relaxing, stationary, in the fast lane of the thruway, texted jen, mistakenly panic-dialed my girl and wendy when i was trying to reach roadside assistance and googled reasons why an F150 would turn over but wouldn’t start after a sudden stop. i, channeling my sweet poppo, decided it was the fuel filter or something to do with that, not that i could do anything about it. i just liked trying to figure it out. and i had nothing but time on my hands. big red hadn’t had a lot of gas in it on island and we had just filled the tank a couple hours before this happened. my guess (truly just a guess!) was that when big red stopped suddenly, sediment that had collected in the gas tank temporarily blocked the fuel filter. sounded plausible to me, dogdog and babycat, both of whom had great investment in my figuring it out.
about 45 minutes into the wait for the tow truck, big red decided to give up the game and started.
the very-nice police officer got us off the highway and we all stopped in a parking lot to chat about our fun time together.
we googled back roads home and while we were slowly driving these back roads, d crackled over the walkie-talkie to me, “well, i wish that our good angels would make something good happen.” i answered, “maybe they just did.”
angels are indeed all around us. it is possible, of course, that there was a reason not to be on the highway at that particular time. maybe there was a reason we needed to pause in our trip. perhaps there was a reason we should drive the back roads home. surely, there was something.
we pulled into our driveway safely about two hours later.
i don’t purport to understand this watercolor WRESTLING WITH AN ANGEL. i, instead of wrestling with angels, will express a gratitude for all the ways we remained safe in an event that could have had many difficult turns.
in the last few days, both of us have heard the deeply sad news that someone in our lives – each a unique voice of great wisdom – has passed. it’s bracing. we are here and then we are not.
in all the difficult moments we have had these past months, both on-island and off-island, these past few days once again remind us of what is actually important.
it’s not the work challenges or politics. it’s not the worry over details and relationship snags. it’s not competition or one-upping someone else, nor is it about power-struggles and issues of control. it’s not about being undervalued or serving those who do not appreciate you, nor is it about the tippy-top of the ladder where lower rungs are no longer visible to you. it’s not what you don’t have or what you wish you had.
instead, it’s what you do have.
it’s the simplest of moments. when you look over and dogdog and babycat are butt-to-butt snuggling. or you are sitting next to your beloved, writing or reading together. or your grown children call to chat a bit, out of the blue. you spend time together. you do good work and stand in it. or you take a walk, in fresh air, under a sunlit sky or in a night full of stars. you savor a hot cup of coffee or raise a glass of wine in a toast with friends. you embrace or hold hands with someone you love. the simplest.
with gratitude to a man, alan walker, who encouraged me to love both the piano and open-faced peanut butter sandwiches. and my thanks to a man i never met, quinn, who, in innumerable conversations in his study, brought many moments of wisdom and perspective to david. you both remain reminders of what is really important.
there is something about firsts. a novelty. and it was no different the first night – a week or so ago – when we lit the wood burning stove in our littlehouse. the first fire of fall. excited, we watched as the fire got hotter and the bigger pieces of wood started to catch. as it all started to be aflame, the chill, that a grey misty fog, an angry lake and a stormy day had created, left the littlehouse. we sank into the new warmth of the living room, our feet up and grins of satisfied appreciation on our faces, staring into the dancing fire, grateful for its presence. at home we have a fireplace inside, and a chiminea on our patio, but no wood burning stove. it’s a novelty for us.
how many times will it be before getting wood for the stove and starting the fire will not be as gleeful? how many times before we don’t just sit with our feet up and stare into those flames? how many times before we take it for granted, this divine little maker of fire and warmth? how many times before the novelty wears off?
i once read a card i found quoting marcel proust, “the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeing new sights, but in looking with new eyes.”
because the novelty does wear off. in all arenas, i suppose. not just in how you see others, but also in how others see you. suddenly it is forgotten what IT was like before you (whether IT is a home, a relationship, a community, a work environment). instead, the novelty has faded and so has the ‘before’. suddenly, you – in any of those places – are just a bean counter, a placeholder, and the novelty of you, for we are all novel, is no longer a matter of interest or value. instead, all becomes black and white, the relationship of you to those places – a home, a relationship, a community or a work environment. i wonder what we are all missing with our under-appreciative eyes. i wonder what they are all missing with their under-appreciative eyes. the novelty is gone. and you have thus become dispensable, all for the lack of new eyes. wow. ouch.
we need take stock of what is around us and how it all works together. before it is gone. we need remember that -in every arena- we should appreciate each other – as if it was the first fire of the season.
we were walking in the middle of the street and the sun was going down. it was two days before we were to move off island. i was suddenly struck by the comparison between two days after we arrived on island and two days before we were to leave. three months have passed. the whole summer. it felt like way longer. looking back, it went by fast. it felt like way longer. looking back, it went by slow. crazy.
i wondered aloud about three months from now. i did the math on my fingers and said aloud, “what will two days before the end of december be like? what will have happened? what will we have accomplished? where will we be that day? how will we feel?”
this period of time has been pretty fraught. with more than i can, or wish to, list in this post. in the multiple simultaneously ever-spinning plates of life, there has been more than one wobble, more than one plate off-balance. it has made me wonder, “what, pray tell, is going on?” it all has seemed a bit crazy.
as a person who just wants to bring idea, passion, joy to jobs, i’ve been diving to avoid spinning plates as they seemingly veer off course, as they spin outside the gravity of what actually feels important, as they go haywire, as they head to strike the floor.
“you don’t have to be crazy to work here. we’ll train you.” a familiar hyperbole or idiom of sorts. maybe that means this: we’ll try to waylay you so you never get to the real work. we’ll ask you to make change but will rail against it. we’ll try to undermine or undervalue you. we’ll try to withhold information and still expect you to function. we’ll try to put boxy definition and constraints on the art you are attempting to create. we’ll try to grab the stick under the spinning plate and wreak crazy.
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maybe it means that you will endure all these things. you will encounter havoc-wreaking and you will encounter messes. you will find others in the ‘here’ who will stand by you and spot you as you plate-spin. you will find your sisu and you will stand in the integrity of the work you are doing. you will survive, outlasting the crazy. and, you will, in the end, do some good work. crazy good.
your toes curl. your breathing is shallow. adrenaline rushes. your legs are a little shaky. your hands feel tingly. butterflies in your belly. you are on the edge. in that tiny place between before and after.
i gingerly walked to the edge of the canyon, my daughter encouraging me. at the moment i stood there, feet firmly planted, no guardrail, nothing between me and canyon wall, my heart slowed down and i breathed in both the enormity of the moment and the taste of both before and after. my girl and i laughed, loudly, the sound echoing across the vast canyon. and then, it was after.
i sat at the piano, ready to record this first piece GALENA of the first album, 24 years ago, savoring the safety of before but ready for after. at the edge of the put-it-all-out-there canyon, i walked onto the stage, brand new cds in the lobby, ready, with quivering knees and boots that gave me confidence. and then, in what felt like a minute, it was after.
now, many album and stage edges later, many life and love moments later, many work and play split-seconds later, i wonder what the next after will be. i can feel the edges; i can see them. i’m aware of my toes curling. my breathing is shallow and adrenaline rushes. my legs are a little shaky and my hands feel tingly, butterflies in my belly. there is a canyon beckoning.
the fresh simplicity of this painting makes it feel scandinavian to me, clean lines, blues, yellows. i recognize it. its warmth. its less-is-more-ness.
i also recognize the image. the moments we stop, head down, turning inside. pondering, wondering, musing. the palette of our hearts, our lives, a mixture of emotions, we try to wrangle a few minutes of quiet to sort it all out.
this painting – INNER LIFE – is a breath of fresh air for me. a reminder of what a few silent minutes can offer.
babycat’s work ethic is clear. he is not dedicated to screen time, nor is he dedicated to long portions of work-related tasks. he prefers to nap. anywhere. anytime. his eyes squeezed shut, he pretends to be unaware of the things going on around him. because he is “big-boned”, a-lot-of-cat, scooting him out of the way is like gently easing a massive concrete block a little to the left or a little to the right; there is no give. yet we work around him, we absolutely accommodate him. if he is sleeping on the bed, taking up perpendicular space, we will squish to the side, choosing to list starboard or port, whichever direction he is not. he rules supreme.
i wake in the middle of the night, d jostling me, a clear sign to turn over and stop snoring. only i am not snoring. from the foot of the bed or perhaps under the bed, where jostling is impossible, it is babycat who snores loudly. his contented breaths both amuse us and keep us awake. a gentle poke-at-the-cat yields a temporary lull, but his sweet hulking body settles back into sleep and snoring commences. the white noise of our overnight, he rules supreme.
dogdog wants to get a drink of water from their mutual bowl. but babycat stands over it. dogga reaches his paw out to try and drag the cat from the bowl, but babycat is firmly planted and dogga is unsuccessful. so, even though he whines with frustration and looks at us with a “do something!” plea, dogdog, at least twice the size of this supersized cat, waits. because babycat rules supreme.
and yet, even with the snoring and the bed-hogging and the torture-of-the-dog and the clear reign-of-the-house, we cannot imagine life without the babycat. his presence and the fact that he-saved-me-i-didn’t-save-him rules supreme.
we loved the old dock on this property. with the exception of the spider webs that formed in-between the metal tying posts and the snakes that took to sunning on the warm old boards of the walkway, it was charming. the old bench at the end of the dock invited us to sit. it stood stubbornly during rougher waters, its weathered patina and rusting pipes.
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they decided it was time to refurbish the dock and two strappy island guys came in to do the job. they took a few days over the period of a couple weeks to re-construct, to lay new boards over the old, to eliminate the spider-web-gatherers and to build a new bench. then they were done and the new dock was open for business.
less than a week, only one brief sit-on-the-bench moment and probably-before-the-bill-arrived later, the storm blew in. the waves crashed on our shoreline, eroding away a good two to three feet, throwing debris onto the grass.
the dock tried. it stood firm against the waves, larger than they said they had ever seen them in twenty years. but it didn’t last. the bench blew apart into the water, the new boarded walkway listed, listed. and finally, gave way. pieces of the new dock were angrily tossed to shore; even still, wood floats in the bay, riding the waves ever-closer to our little beach.
the best-laid plans, carefully schemed and financed. much thought and choosing, each angle pondered. solid weather-proofed wood purchased, big wood screws that could withstand stress chosen. yet, the storms come.
with the exception of the spider webs that formed in-between the metal tying posts and the snakes that took to sunning on the warm old boards of the walkway, it was charming. the old bench at the end of the dock invited us to sit. it stood stubbornly during rougher waters, its weathered patina and rusting pipes.
reverse threading 