to be there is not to be in a nod-to-diversity. instead, the city embraces diversity. it is true to its intention. the rainbow flags and “proud” banners and painted buildings are emblems of this good intention.
but one must be wary of emblems, of symbols, of misspoken intents. to live in today’s world is to bring a bit of doubt to the table, to ask questions, to do your homework, to be informed. for not every mission statement will stand up to scrutiny, not every symbol of goodness will survive real review. it is surprising – at best – to realize that agenda has superseded goodness and has taken your trust for a ride. beware of generalizing virtue simply because it falls under the umbrella of a symbol.
i have been immersed in places in which i placed all my faith, sans skepticism or dubiety. i have been in communities that touted their transparency, their compassion, their participation in good mission. all the while, the flags of opacity, of hidden agenda, of untruths spoken and truths unspoken, flew quietly and deliberately in, usurping any good intention that remained, driving out the hard work of community-building, of the joy of the embrace. out of alignment, were the symbols capable, the symbols would shudder.
and so, i walk into the thick of the city, sensors on. i know there are issues, problems, but i know there is attempt to address these, to ask hard questions, to communicate, to resolve any perceived conflict.
one time – probably about eight years ago – we had a giant argument under this vast ceiling. giant. there are not many places to go stew when you are at olgivie – it’s the terminal chicago station for the metra we take to the city and full of people. an uncomfortable time at best, it basically forced us to look at each other, invite in a little grace and figure it out.
one time – probably last week or so – we had a tiff on the trail under the bluest-blue sky. it’s not like one can go steaming through the woods, looking for a place to sit and sulk. one has to keep moseying on, down the path. and so, seething for those moments, we linked arms – as is our custom – kept walking, invited in a little grace, figured it out.
one time – ten years ago now – under the dropped ceiling of o’hare’s gate f8 – having both just flown in from different places in the country to meet there – david got down on one knee. never-minding the zillions of people walking by, pulling luggage, toting backpacks, crying children, coffee spilling, overhead flight announcements, we started the next part of our journey together – already in grace, already figuring it out.
when we go to chicago, we either drive the backroads or take the train down. we never drive the interstate there. it’s just too much – too frenetic, too rushed, too busy. we both feel that part of getting there IS the getting-there.
so that must translate to relationships as well. part of getting there IS the getting-there. and that includes the tough moments as well as the really easy ones. it includes the times when you are “ucky” (as the guy at the oyster bar said the other night) to each other and the times when you are generous. it includes the times you wonder what you’re doing and the times tears of gratitude rush to your eyes. it includes the times you know very well that your best-neighbors-to-the-west know you are arguing and the times that people-you-don’t-know stop you to tell you they love watching you wander the neighborhood arm in arm. all of it.
the architectural ceiling of ogilvie makes me smile. though we don’t live in chicago, the many times we have exited metra into the station have given us easy time downtown. the getting-there was simple – sit on the train and watch the outside woosh by. and each time we exit onto the platform and head into the atrium of the station, every moment we’ve spent there suspends from the high rafters. the good ones and the rare-but-admittedly-not-so-good ones.
and then we walk out into the day, under expansive sky, arm-in-arm, and get about getting to the next.
we went back to the beach. it was only our third time there but it’s beginning to feel familiar. we know the driftwood to lean back against, the curve in the shoreline where the waves break. the sand is warm, the breeze off the lake is cool; it’s a perfect combination and we’ve brought sandwiches along. we walk with our heads down, searching for hagstones and beach glass. it’s a sanctuary minus the trappings – physical and emotional – one often finds in buildings with sanctuaries.
each rock is intriguing. there are infinite shapes and sizes, rocks of all imagination. i pick up more than i tuck away, but i appreciate the spectrum of diversity and i wonder where they have been before they arrived on this lake michigan shoreline. what’s the story behind each stone, behind the tiny bits of glass, behind the wave-beaten-smooth pieces of brick. each narrative counts.
we brought a book but we didn’t read it. we hadn’t started it yet. we do that later in the day. rebecca makkai’s “the great believers” – a good read for pride month, a profound novel highlighting the aids crisis starting early to mid 1980s. there are places familiar to us in this book – chicago, boystown, door county – we find it easy to immerse as we read aloud. we are transported in time – back to those days of early recognition of this dreadful viral infection. human immunodeficiency virus has not ceased and there are still millions of people with life-threatening and chronic symptoms. there are stories familiar to us in this book – for we are both artists and we both finished our undergrad work in the early 80s. there are people familiar to us in this book – though these are characters, in life they have been our friends and, now, they are the friends of our son, the tight-knit unconditionally-loving LGBTQ community. they are all treasured and unique hagstones and beachglass – gorgeous in human form.
the stash of rocks ended up on the dining room table, all fanned out on its worn surface. they are glorious bits of a stunning day. the stone that looked like a guitar pick with a feather beret cap stayed on the beach. i took it home in my camera instead.
we have plans for the next time. more snacks. maybe swimwear.
we have plans for pride in chicago. more compassion. maybe tie-dye.
we are merely two people walking on a vast beach, among zillions of beautiful rocks of all sorts, zillions of people of all sorts. it’s all familiar. it’s all unfamiliar. but it’s all a sanctuary under one sun.
it stands on a small-town iowa hillside. it’s been there well over a hundred years, this carved headstone at almost-the-highest-point of the pioneer cemetery. in front of us, the earth falls off into fields and fields of green. if you didn’t know it was there, you wouldn’t know it was there.
we spent the afternoon on the lake michigan beach, searching for hagstones and leaning against a big piece of driftwood watching the waves. mostly deserted, the stripes of soft sand, rocks, aqua, blue sky were serene. we had stumbled upon this beach, discovering it. if you didn’t know it was there, you wouldn’t know it was there.
there is a spot high in the mountains surrounded by lodgepole pines, the scent strong and inviting. it is cool under the canopy of trees and the log sits next to the stream in a bed of pine needles. an upstream glance reveals a snow-covered summit; downstream is a tiny waterfall. it is a slice of heaven. if you didn’t know…
another spot, a different mountain, we have hiked past the aspen stands and are past the end of the trail. we sit on rocks and play in the brook that swims past us, curling around red rock and granite. there is little noise, save for the babbling. if you didn’t know…
high on the edge of a deep canyon, the sun set over us as we echoed our voices into the deepening dusk. my daughter brought me here and it will always be a pinnacle moment in my heart. that very spot – that canyon – that sunset – that breeze – that stillness – that echo – that power – that humbling – that love – is profound. but if you didn’t know…
places that have made an enduring impact. places unmarked by signs, specific places many do not even know exist, they are carved into my mind’s eye. places – specific spots – of relative anonymity. places that changed me.
it is likely that hillside, that beach, those mountains, that stream, that brook, that canyon will maybe last forever. they will certainly be there long after i will be here. it’s sobering. it gives one pause for thought. it seems a natural hop and skip to: if you didn’t know i was there, you wouldn’t know i was there.
but the hillside, the beach, the mountain stream, the end-of-trail brook, the canyon became a part of me, of the stuff in my tapestry. and, in symbiotic turn, i became a part of them, of those spots.
and somewhere along they way, we have done the same – a tiny part of us has become a part of someone else and they a part of us.
the columbine grew on the east side of the house. colorado’s state flower is blue columbine. but – here – it grows pink on the farm and is called origami red and white. delicate and beautiful, healthy and thriving, it clearly loves the dirt and air and sun of iowa.
we were sitting in a circle on the southside, trying to avoid the windy wind. it was happy hour, on a day fraught with emotion. we had said our final goodbyes to columbus, d’s dad, bringing him back to his hometown in iowa – a tiny morsel of a town, bustling with family and traditions and giant farm equipment and passed-down farms. the southside – where most of the tractors and machines and accessories-of-which-i-know-no-names were parked. the southside – the direction the deer ambled from, late in the day, waning light their protection. the southside, the old farmhouse blocking most of the gusts, letting the sun warm us.
we had had lunch up at the hillside bar and grill – the place where you could get humongous pork tenderloin sandwiches – where the tenderloin hung off both sides of the bun. just the sheer mention of those used to bring a big smile to columbus’ face. many of the people at lunch chose those in his memory. we didn’t, but we snagged a tiny bite from cousin kate’s plate, an absolutely necessary respect-nod to david’s dad.
and now, here we sat – adirondackchair-bagchair-adirondackchair-bagchair-adirondackchair-bagchair – all in a circle, just sitting and talking and being quiet.
we sipped from wineglasses and bottles of water in the later afternoon circle. we all talked about life-we’d-missed-together, life-now and life-one-of-these-days.
kate looked over at us and asked if we’d ever move from wisconsin, if we’d consider going to the mountains. though we hesitated a moment to clear space in our current-angsting for actual dreaming, we nodded, and i added, “of course we’d love to be in colorado. the high mountains always call us.”
we don’t have any idea what that might look like. we don’t know when that might be.
we just know that we feel like happy-go-lucky columbine when we are breathing the air of the rockies, our feet in the dirt of a deep aspen-lodgepole-pine trail, under a colorado sun.
boomerang betsy was shot out of the bulgarian sky on the way to the ploesti oil fields in romania. it was 79 years ago today. i’m grateful for the tenacity of my sweet poppo, taken prisoner-of-war and missing-in-action to everyone back home for months. he survived and came back home to – one day – tell the harrowing story and combat the unnamed ptsd that became part of his strong fabric as a man, a husband, a father.
without our knowing it, the veterans administration named my dad #VeteranOfTheDay on july 19, 2019. i stumbled across this a couple days ago and wondered how it was we did not know this. he was – and is – our hero every day, but it was a thrill to see a day devoted to him and his dedicated service, celebrating him, seven years after he moved on from this plane.
today we arrive in iowa. david’s family is gathering to celebrate columbus/aka chuck/aka charles/aka his dad. a time put aside to inurn his ashes in his little hometown in the farmlands. we are in a farmhouse – one with a back porch, a working silo, green grass on which to play bocce ball. the family will come here for dinners, to reminisce, to play and laugh and, likely, weep a bit. i know it will be a time rich with moments.
these dads of ours were like great white trillium. somehow – despite everything – growing easily in the world, faithful, not-too-picky, gently spreading seeds of wisdom.
the chicago botanic garden says, “in the constellation of singular spring flowers, there are a few stars that shine more brightly than the rest. perhaps the fairest of them all is the great white trillium.”
i haven’t stopped. since march 2020 when my son – at the beginning of the pandemic – in an effort to help me feel connected to him and my daughter – suggested we have a shared text with photos taken in our day. a picture-of-the-day. and every day, not-failing, i have sent one since. i am in absolute delight when they now share a photograph on this thread; i know busy-ness and work and life have picked back up some time ago and picture-of-the-day is no longer on their radar. but, because i am a mom – and i know moms everywhere can relate – it’s still on mine. i look for something that somehow represents my day, every single day.
i have to say – this has been a good thing, this intention to seek and snap the picture-of-the-day. i take lots of photos, so some days this is easy. but there are others when my photo is of mashed potatoes or chicken soup or the accuweather tornado watch or glasses of wine at the end of the day. some days are just life. normal, regular, not supersized, life.
the trillium placed itself in front of the fallen log, clearly, on purpose. ready for its photo shoot, its bud profile at this stage resembling a mighty tulip, the toadshade waited for someone to come along and take its picture. and there i was.
that very day i ended up using a graceful fern in our backyard as my picture-of-the-day. the composition was just a little better, the curve of the fern beautiful. but the trillium knew it would end up featured. i had whispered thank you to it after my baker’s dozen shoot. it stood proudly as we hiked away, knowing.
paying attention – to the littlest details of a day – requires intention. i know i could get lost in the other details of our life, the more pressing, the more complex, the minutiae and nuances of moment-to-moment adulting.
but one text from my son changed that and offered me a continuing reminder to find something – any thing – big or little, positive or disconcerting, dreamy or a little bit scary – that was a real piece of my day. it also offered me a chance to physically let them know i was – at that very moment of sending – thinking of them.
i know there are days – i don’t want to think about how many – that my grown children look at their phones and – in unison from 1400 miles apart – roll their eyes as my picture-of-the-day drops in.
apparently, tucked into the dried grasses next to breck-the-aspen-sapling and surrounded by fallen leaves and mulch, the mama bunny tended the nest for about a week. it was the first time we had had a bunny in the backyard. squirrels and chippies and many birds and even a fox, but no bunnies.
there was a day we saw the bunny for the first time. she hopped and scooched under the deck, hiding. we saw her at the base of the birdfeeder, munching. and we saw her nibbling on the green sprouting up around barney.
and then, there was the day we realized that this bunny, that hopped to and fro in our yard, especially around dawn and dusk -scooting away from dogga and under the back fence – was building a nest. we didn’t see her leap a binky into the air – all four paws off the ground – but we imagine she must have been about-that-happy.
and then, the day we peeked under the grasses to see two tiny bunnies scrunched together, their little bunny-bodies breathing quickly, rising and falling, rising and falling. life is amazing, isn’t it? we went on high alert for these sweet little babies and, for the next week or more, mostly went out with dogdog to be sure they were safe.
and then, the day that i looked out the back windows behind our metal frame headboard and saw a tiny bunny hopping along the fence and heard a noise. i ran through the house and out the back door to see dogga carrying one of the bunnies in his mouth. he dropped the kit, who scampered off unraveled, as soon as i said “drop it!” so i was relieved. but still. i felt a sense of parenthood for these tiny creatures. “keep them safe” became my mantra. i celebrated their little lives and kept tiny pompoms close at hand as they left the nest and went to explore the world.
it’s impossible to keep your children safe. you do the very best you can while they are in your care – growing up – but they go to school, to sports, to music lessons, to playdates, to after-school jobs, to stores and concerts and parties. you can’t be all those places, so you have to learn how to let go a teeny-weeny bit. they begin to drive and you have to learn how to let go a teeny-weeny bit more. and then, they go to college maybe or move out maybe or both. and you let go a teeny-weeny bit more. and then they move away and your heart breaks and soars, both – even though you will only talk about the soaring – even though they know the breaking part. and you let go a teeny-weeny bit more. ahhh. it’s not easy, is it?
our daughter drove across the country last week. from the east coast to the mountain west. by herself in ivy, her suv. i remember my sweet momma calling me as i drove long-distance, alone. i both loved it and didn’t love it. i tried to remember this as my beloved daughter drove, not wanting to be annoying, as is so easy to do. i sent her texts cheering her on and held big space for her as she traveled. she was constantly on my mind. i know she knows that. “keep her safe,” i implored the universe. (and how many times have we all said that about our children, i wonder.)
she arrived without harm or incident, like the bunnies running along the back fence and zipping underneath. i am grateful. i can only keep her close in-heart.
and each and every day – my mantra for my girl and my boy is the same – “keep them safe”. my pompoms are at easy access as they explore the world. they are all-grown-up. the nest is empty but i quietly binky – like ecstatic bunnies – every day thinking of them.
breck is leafing out now. tender chartreuse mini-leaves populate its small branches. we are not quite at put-away-the-winter-coat but we are definitely at hope-springs-eternal. leaves! surprise! spring. already! but it’s just an aspen. and it’s just budding.
no, there is no “just”.
i suppose surprise is exactly that – surprise. it is that which we are pleasantly startled by – like fragile leaves – or that which we are astonished by – or astounded by – or by which we are stunned into silence. the things we would not expect of nature, of others, of ourselves, of a community, of life itself – these things surprise us. and in the winter of surprise, the winter of fallout – no matter how long the season lasts for us – we find ourselves underground, sending out roots, trying to stabilize, to process, to center ourselves, to recuperate.
there are those who peripherally try to help. they try to encourage moving on, letting go. their words are often statements that start with “it’s just…”. it is hard to listen to another person when their first words minimize that which you are going through. i remind myself not to use this word – “just”. it’s like the word “fine” for me. neither here nor there, “fine” sits somewhere in the middle of the emotional spectrum, not committing to either side. “just” sits in alphabetical order to the right of “fine”and the left of “let go” and “move on”.
we brought breck home from the high mountains, a sapling, a tiny piece of that which we dearly love. the aspens quake up there – the slightest of breezes brings their song. it was 2017 and, in the way of not-knowing, we didn’t know what the future would hold for us or for breck or for the world. time has now gone by – six years of time – and we look back, both in awe and shuddering. it has not been “just” six years.
it’s been Six Years. and there is not likely one of us who – without pause – can say it “just” went by.
“accept. adjust. arise,” she said.
breck has withstood it all, accepting its new home, the new everyday details of its life. transplanting, drought, heavy rain, sleet, snow, freezing temperatures, heat indexes over 100. it has adjusted and adjusted. so have we.
now, breck’s buds have turned to chartreuse. not “just” green. instead, a brilliant shade of living. it’s rising-rising-rising.
there are days that the clouds form lower elevation mountains along the horizon and you are certain that land is not far away.
there are days that clouds – skybluepink, puffy white, ominous grey – float by, high in the sky or dipping down into the camera lens, and land – on the other side of lake michigan – is nowhere to be seen.
it depends on the day. it depends on conditions. it depends on tiny atmospheric changes. “air can reach saturation point [forming clouds] in a number of ways.” (noaa.gov)
we are reading john denver’s autobiography. it is a perfect example of all the conditions aligning for clouds to form, a perfect example of the fragility of saturation point. in a series of miniscule decisions, moments, meetings blessed by timing, john denver is catapulted into success. we are almost halfway through, reading aloud and relishing it. john’s music, his messages, his work in the world – most definitely crystals in the atmosphere.
we returned the measure to the library. we didn’t finish it. i look at the stack of books next to my side of the bed and realize that it is not necessarily a light-fiction-time for me, though i am quite sure there might be exceptions and i know that there are profound novels, deeply rich. this bedside stack is non-fiction, informative, questioning. it wasn’t that the measure didn’t seem a good read. it was more that it didn’t hold me, my attention. after the first couple days of blanketed-both-ends-of-the-couch reading snippets as there was time, the book sat atop the throw and just waited and – then – became overdue. the quarters accumulated for a few days and i thought we’d sit down to finish it, but we never did. eventually, we mutually decided to bring it back. and then we talked about it on the trail…why it didn’t seem to appeal to us right now.
i suppose there are times in life when all you need is a giant stack of romance novels or mysteries. maybe those times are periods of comfort – skybluepink times – when you are freer to languish, freer to relax into life. these are the times when you don’t see any horizon – the lake is endless and there are no looming summits to climb.
and then, there are other times in life – when escape would seeeem like a good idea – when, instead, the books you choose are steeped in reality, steeped in others’ challenges and successes, telling stories of grit and fortitude and good luck and the help and support of others, the stories of getting-there. the books ask questions you might ponder in sorting out next or the books outline ways to approach that which you are facing down. non-fiction is more of a unpredictable day out there over the lake, getting unexpectedly sopped by rain, seeing mountains to climb on the other side, wondering if the sun will ever shine.
john denver wrote, “i’d learned that powerful songs are powerful not because they’re pretty or bouncy or funny, but because they’re about the human condition and what we all aspire to; i’d learned those were the songs i loved.”
a pretty sky – or song or book – doesn’t hurt – in fact, it can fill one with much contentment. but only pretty skies could be suffocating. we need the rest – all the atmospheric conditions to really feel the yin-yang spectrum, to know we are truly living, to be reminded of how crystals in the sky are formed and to know the sun is shining – regardless.
reverse threading 