in the wee hours of the dark night, long island sound is quiet. crunch and i would sit in his boat, inky skies punctuated by a million stars and the lights of the shore, our fishing together comfortable, a thermos of coffee to share, some conversation. treasured memories now, i was adrift with one of my best friends and completely at ease.
we were probably 12 or 13 when the sunfish sailboat we were in became becalmed. sue and i sat out in the middle of the big pennsylvania lake and, with no wind from any direction, started laughing. we were in no danger; we had already capsized a couple times and had survived that. but we were a distance from the shore and i don’t remember there being any paddles in that little sailboat. at some point my uncle must have realized our predicament and came out in his speedboat with a towrope. the sunburn decades-faded, i was adrift in that lake with one of my best friends and completely at ease.
as we sit in the middle of this pandemic, this time of change and this time of no-change, we feel motionless, even stranded. we are learning patience, we are learning to slow down; we are learning. we are changing our expectations and our measurements of success. we are marooned in a vast water, drifting, unsure, way out in the deep. but all around us are others who are generously sitting with us, sharing, nurturing us, also drifting. our sails are buoyed with winds of kindness, our anchors a steadfast dedication to the well-being of all. we are grateful for the goodness of brilliant minds, the commitment and sacrifice of front-liners, the respect and honoring of that which keeps us all safer and healthier.
and one day, as we look back at this time, for surely it will someday be a memory, we will see that we were adrift with our best friends and, though trusting and in the care of each other, it truly was a time of unease, the shoreline was not visible and the fathomless water in which we were stranded was way bigger than us.
ty cobb’s career batting average over 24 seasons was .366. this is the number of hits divided by the number of at-bats. i know that is an extraordinary batting average and yet my math-brain looks at that and thinks, “wow. that’s shy of 37%! only 37%!” what if only 37% of my recordings were complete? or 37% of dinners cooked all the way? or 37% of the work for our employers done? or 37% chance of wearing appropriate clothing outside our home? disregarding the possibility of grading on a curve, my school-brain thinks, “37% does not look like an A!” so when david went on about how his painting has been a miss, i thought, “well heck! you need to lower the bar a bit!”
artists are harsh. we are generally not self-congratulatory, although there is definitely a percentage that defies that. we have a vision of where a project is going and we will jump at the chance for perfecting it every time. there is a point when you know; the time has come to stop, start over, wipe clean the slate. (pfffft – can you hear lifting up the cellophane on those cool vintage magic slates made of cardboard and equipped with a plastic stylus?) david walks away from the easel, huffing. i walk away from the piano, sighing. the muse has left the room before us. at least that is what we invariably think, when it’s our own work.
and yet, it’s so often the case that i will stare at his work, downstairs on the easel and think, “wait! stop! don’t do ANYthing! it’s perfect!” but it’s his project and his creation and he fought with the vision he had in his head. they disagreed; they went to battle and the easel reigned supreme time and again as he walked away, disgruntled.
for me, the third iteration of this painting (see above) is the moment. he could have stopped right there and i would have loved it. it had a dreamy, surreal quality to it. it was graceful and lovely. i’d say at the very least a .375. ty would be proud.
because one can only lament so much about the current divisive atmosphere. and then it need cease. at least for a moment. for a breath.
we look around for randomness – arbitrary, non-thinking imagery, things that will effect little to no rise in blood pressure, little to no anxiety, no hot flash.
today, this image is ‘pear on wine bottle’, a still life depicting the ingredients of a 5pm cocktail hour. the time of day when maybe the pressures of the day are easing up a bit or the weariness of the day is catching up. a time of a deep breath, a long walk, an old-fashioned or sliced pear and a glass of red wine.
we are fortunate to have these moments at the end of the day when we can take a step back, sit in broken adirondack chairs on our patio and watch dogdog run circles around his roundabout sign in the garden.
we wonder, like you, when we can gather together again. we sigh, not knowing.
when the waning sun warms our faces out back this day, we will tip our glasses to each of you, sending you love, good health and a breath of peace.
and as yesterday passed into today and i drifted off to sleep i knew, despite that she is on a different plane of existence, my sweet momma was holding me close to her. it was bracing to think of the five year mark that has just passed now since she has been gone and the every-day-missing-her that goes along with that. no different with my dad. in a month it will be eight years and i can hear his “hi brat” in my heart. i have no doubt that he is right there, holding on tightly. both of them. forever and ever.
it is a fact. this parenthood thing is mind-bogglingly paramount. ever forward from the day they are born. it is all-consuming. in every good and every daunting way. every most-jubilant and every brutally-difficult way. every securely-confident and every tumultuously-distressing way. every way.
in this pandemic time of chaos we pine for a sense of normal which escapes us. anxiety barges in and replaces our regular routines; peace escapes us. we long to see each other. we feel tired; we feel restless. we sleep more; we cannot sleep. we are astounded by the surrealness of this; we are crushed by how real this is. and we worry. it is hard to be away from those whom we love and knowing that right now we cannot go to them compounds it. my heart needs to hug My Girl and My Boy and see that all is well. we feel anxious. our wishes go unfulfilled.
and yet as today passes into tomorrow and they drift off to sleep i know, despite how busy they may be or where they are in the world, that i am holding them close. that no doubt can exist – i am right there, holding on tightly.
and i hope, like you with your beloved children, that they can feel it. forever and ever.
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.
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.
“…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)
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.
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.
