because i have this thing about everest, high-mountain-climbing tales and the arctic, we have a propensity to seek out movies we can view that tell these stories. we stumbled upon an explorer series that followed the adventures of an arctic explorer at the north pole. the photography was stunning. so much white. and then the blues. a turquoise aqua that you just can’t accurately describe. the explorer described the north pole as elusive, as theoretical, since it continually moves and the longitude/latitude is never constant, always fluid. he is there at the exact north pole and he is not. both.
this painting BLUE PRAYER feels like there. sitting at the very top of our mother earth, the deep night sky behind her, she prays. for our planet, all people, tenets of goodness, generosity, peace. she is quietly still and bowed in fervently verbose prayer. she is praying for the elusive, the theoretical. she knows it is all out there and she knows it is not. both.
some things just stop me in my tracks. strolling through school days antiques mall i turned the corner and screeched to a halt. familiarity swirled around me as i stared at this painting – a paint-by-number. my breathing slowed. the scene, the hues…all made me feel like i was embraced. by my sweet momma. i texted a picture to my sister, to check in, to see what she said. she texted back that it, indeed, felt familiar and we tried to remember what happened to this painting of my mom’s. every time i look at this photo on my phone i feel ‘home’. even right now.
this wasn’t the first time this happened. back a couple years ago ON mother’s day we were tooling around an antiques store in woodstock, illinois. we had taken a ‘sunday drive’ (i am turning into my parents!) and looked for antiques stores to visit. as i turned the corner from one booth to the next it was there, staring at me. the paint-by-number-jesus that my mom had painted. i photographed it and called everyone that day. this painting was hung somewhere in our growing-up house that we can’t all agree on. but we know it was there. i turned the painting over looking for my mom’s signature on the back, but didn’t find it. i studied the frame, one that was identical to a frame that my sweet poppo had made on a paint-by-number-nude (yes, it’s ok to laugh aloud here) my mom had painted and hung in their bathroom (which i know i have written about before). i pondered how it might have gotten to woodstock, if indeed this painting and truly-identical-wooden-frame might have been my mom’s paint-by-number-jesus. it wasn’t likely. our growing-up-house was on long island and then my parents moved to florida so illinois was a bit off the mark (unless she had given the painting to my brother a million years ago and he “generously” donated it, which would make me laugh aloud.) we left and went home and a few days later drove all the way back, just to study it a little more, to touch it again. i thought holding it in my hands might tell me if i should buy it and bring it home and, well, i had no idea what to do with it then. i mean, what does one do with a paint-by-number-jesus? i didn’t buy it. i left paint-by-number-jesus in woodstock and i gratefully welcomed my mom’s embrace from afar.
so the other day, in the midst of the stresses of life, we took a stroll in one of our favorite antiques stores, chatting and reminiscing and laughing about all the stuff we used to have growing up and all the stuff that we still have in our cabinets that are now considered antiques.
we tried not to talk about the things that were nagging us, the things we are worried about, the things that seem insurmountable.
i just read these words and stopped and re-read them. for no specific reason – just because, i had taken the sarah ban breathnach book simple abundance out of the old wooden north carolina cabinet on the other side of the bed. i flipped open to december 5, old cards and notes and newspaper clippings trying to slip out of the pages into which they were tucked.
the quote at the top of the page read, “most of the sighs we hear have been edited.” (stanislaw jerzy lec) and the meditation for this day was about sighing. in fact, one of my favorite sentences reads, “women sigh so that we won’t scream.” oh yes! sarah continues, in rare exacting form about screaming, “there are several occasions in the course of any woman’s day when, without question, screaming is the appropriate response.” sarah continues, in rare exacting form about sighs, and writes, “the act of sighing is a quiet vote of acceptance – of … moving on. …letting it out. letting it go….” resilience.
sarah’s quiet wisdom touches a nerve: “…sigh more… because … preferences, needs, wants, wills and demands to be dealt with, if there is to be a state of detente in the daily round. more bending in order not to break…” sisu.
i hadn’t thought about my sighing, but i know i do it. the intake of breath and the slow exhale. the thought i-have-no-idea-what-i-can-actually-do-about-this-anyway or the thought i-have-no-control-over-what-others-are-doing-or-thinking-or-feeling. my own feeling of being astounded by someone or something. the feeling of hurt. the feeling of exasperation. fragility. fortitude. both.
the sigh. a release. from my heart into the hands of the universe. isn’t that prayer too?
“this is not goodbye. it’s just farewell to the you i recognize. i’ve got a long, long time to learn how to feel you in a new way.” (lowen & navarro: crossing over from pendulum)
thanksgiving dawns. 2019.
thanksgiving dawns. rewind. 1960s. 1970s. i remember waking with great anticipation to watch the macy’s thanksgiving day parade on our black and white tv. my sweet momma, having risen early-early to put the turkey on at some ridiculous hour and my poppo, trying to appear helpful, both dedicated parade watchers, sipping coffee and snacking on entenmanns crumb cake. made sweeter for us new yorkers by seeing it in person on the streets of nyc, my mom would recollect parades-gone-by with horse drawn floats and she would cheer aloud for the tv version, even in the den. dad would be quiet, but he would be grinning, waiting for bullwinkle or popeye or underdog. these were moments i didn’t memorize. i was too young to know that i should. i was steady in the world, surrounded by family who i loved and who loved me and not necessarily given to thinking in the terms “many years later”.
thanksgiving dawns. rewind. 1990s. My Girl and My Boy were little, in pjs, fully engaged in the turkey dance their dad performed with the turkey on the counter, happily catching bits and snatches of a colorful parade i was still enthralled with, waiting to lick the dessert beaters, while i was making a feast of turkey and casseroles and setting a table with candles and cloth. we let the wishbone dry on the shelf for days and sometimes longer, forgetting about it, but eventually, they would snap it, wishes in their hands. i’m sure they didn’t memorize those moments. they were steady in the world, surrounded by family they loved and who loved them and definitely not given to thinking in the terms “many years later”.
thanksgiving dawns. 2019. it is quiet. My Girl in the high mountains, My Boy in the southern hemisphere. we will prepare for a simple meal. we will hike. we will be grateful for all the thanksgivings of the past, for all the thanksgivings of the future. for the thanks-giving of every day. i know that, indeed, despite all our failings, our challenges, our sorrows and disappointments as well as our absolute joys and successes, we are steady in the world, surrounded by family who we love and who love us. they are all here. i memorize moments all the time these days. for later. and many years later.
i have said farewell to too many. but i have learned to recognize them in the kindnesses of strangers, in the serendipities and synchronicities of wondrous things that happen. i recognize them in the gentle breezes that sweep across my face. i am learning how to feel them in a new way. and i know they – my angels – are there.
but the real question is – do WE improve with age?
yes, lush red wine, dark chocolate, bold roast black coffee – all have risen on my list of chosens. i remember the days of sugar and cream in coffee. i remember the creamy milk chocolate days. and i remember the 1980s and 1990s days of ‘white zin’, the go-to wine of that age and time, a staple of the culture. but those days are past and we have moved on to rich red blends or old vine zins, 85% dark chocolate with no milkfats, and the boldest of the bold coffees with no sweetener or added dairy/non-dairy product. all improved (in my opinion) with my age.
me…on the other hand…i’m not so sure.
i read a brief article which proposed that your thoughts are less important than your feelings. it reminded the reader that, in light of everyone’s hard-to-speak-of mortality, there is no time more important, nothing more important than feeling the present moment.
how often do we get caught up in the swirling mind games of reviewing all the past? thoughts. how often do we find ourselves double-clutching on the future because of something that has happened ‘before’? thoughts. how often do we hesitate as we ponder-ponder-ponder until it’s too late? thoughts. how often are those thoughts – skewed – which have accumulated all through these supposed improving-with-age years – ruling our moments, nonetheless ruining our moments, the ones right-now? stick to the topic/don’t go backwards in time and drudge up old stuff/stay in the “i-feel” not the “you-did”…any counseling master’s program notes referencing ‘conversation’ (read: heated conversation) with a significant other. feelings. do we actually improve with age? do we learn?
i’m guessing the wine cork has it right. the moments you are sipping wine are quieter moments sitting by the fire. or moments of laughter with friends. or moments with a good meal. the older we get, it seems the more value we place on those things. we drink-in the heart of these most important times, with or without wine. feeling.
we gain perspective. maybe like that glass of wine in the evening. a little every day.
“…there’s something to be said about keeping prayer simple. help, thanks, wow.” (anne lamott)
the quiet simplicity of this painting SOFTLY SHE PRAYS draws me in. it makes me yearn to close my eyes and be softly in this moment, there, here. its invitation is clear. its message is universal. the location is unimportant. on top of a mountain, next to a stream, in the woods, next to your bed, on the kitchen floor, under a starry sky, in the pouring rain. all worthy.
“…you might shout at the top of your lungs or whisper into your sleeve…” (anne lamott)
the words, the thoughts, the imploring, the confusion, the shouting, the gratitudes. all worthy.
on an unusual foray into facebook-scrolling, i came across a post by a friend that quoted tom petty. “the waiting is the hardest part,” it read. yes. the hardest part.
i remember d telling me that arnie’s mom had an addition to the adage that when one door closes, another one will surely open. she said, “it’s the waiting in the hall that’s hell.”
i feel like i am waiting. just like this sunrise, there is a division of light and dark – a line you can see. the hall. it’s not still dark. it’s not quite light. it’s the in-between zone of co-existence.
i suppose we can co-exist with waiting. we can co-exist with not-knowing. not-knowing about tomorrow. not-knowing where it goes. not-knowing what will happen. not-knowing if dark will linger or if light will overtake the dark. not-knowing how the story turns out.
questions on the keys. answers somewhere in-between the notes. quarter tones of ambiguity. i stand an arm’s length from creating. i wait. there is no sign, there is no clear indicator of any return-on-my-creative-investment. the hall doesn’t provide a reason to write. it is not a door. it is full of question. it is a gathering storm of hope. it is a waiting place.
the hall is just for me. jumbled and clear, both. a stew of hearing all the old notes floating – thousands of them – and seeking the new ones. lyric snatches appear on scraps of paper, waiting. melodic gestures fall from my hands as yearning to keep-on-keeping-on falls from my eyes.
i’m trying to be patient in it. to reconcile all the other mysteries and issues and complexities before i step closer. to do the ‘other work’ first. to be solvent and steady. for the time on the bench to be worthy.
why does a composer compose? why does a composer wait?
when i asked d for a summary of this children’s book he wrote and illustrated called PLAY TO PLAY he told me that the gorilla teaches the little girl the value of playing simply to play, not to win.
my son played tennis. after growing up playing competitive baseball and soccer he decided, as people who are gifted athletically can, to “take up” competitive tennis. he didn’t just go hit the ball around. he dove in. he was persistent and worked hard. i drove him to lessons, individual and group, to high school team practices, to tournaments. when he was in college i drove to his matches, regardless of where they were.
not familiar with the psychology of tennis, i, too, dove in, in my own way. i read articles and books, asked questions of his various coaches. an individual sport, tennis is a mind game and i needed to understand a little bit of what was going on inside my zealous son out on that lonely court. indeed, sometimes it was hard to watch, hardly breathing in the stands. when wendy wrote to me the other day that she just wanted her son’s hardworking football team to win and that she was unduly stressed, i could totally relate. it’s your heart out on that court, out on that field, out on that diamond. so much pressure.
a couple years ago we had the opportunity to once again see the boy play softball. on a league in boston, that team, and another he played on, traveled all over the place to play, including paris. they were all adults, all working hard and playing hard. the thing i loved most about watching him now was watching him laugh. laugh. teasing and laughter were a part of this ball-playing. they were playing to play. winning was a bonus – and they actually did that often – but playing seemed to be the point. it did my heart good.
we often forget the point of play. we often forget TO play. in days of great stress, days of worry and sorrow, play seems so far away. it seems unlikely and unworthy of our time. but i suppose it would do us all well to remember how invaluable to our well-being playing is. how giggling or fun and games, teasing and laughter make us feel. and how they do our heart good.
the illustrations in this little book are dear and the lesson important: just play to play.
at this very moment, at this very time, with stacks and stacks of paintings and music, we both succumb to the realization that we are – indeed – under construction. the rests between the notes are there for a reason. space to breathe, to comprehend, to make the color and the music a part of your fiber.
the rests change you. they change how you see, how you hear. they give you pause. to re-appreciate what you have done and to wonder what will come. to be aware of the light.
it is the skill of an artist to learn how to sit in the rests without fidgeting. to just sit. it is an even higher level skill to create the rest. and then sit in it.
