sometimes it feels as if you are at a starting gate, a jumping-off point, the very membrane between what is now and what is next.
sometimes it feels as if everything is hinging on that moment, that all you have been, all you have done, all the ways in which you have prepared are coming together – the confluence of it all.
sometimes it feels as if you are no longer in total control – as if you were at any time – and you are facing down something most giant, most pivotal, reaching this pinnacle from wherever you came, this place you have arrived.
sometimes – when you arrive at this place – the weight of which is enormous – you know you must take a deep breath, you must give over, you must trust all the dots that have connected you from before and through next and next and next to now, and, though you know not how it will all turn out, you must lay down every everything and somehow trust that the universe is rigged in your favor.
sometimes this place comes and the only thing to do is to get after it.
they will come back to grind out the stump. the crew said it will likely be a few weeks before the grinders get around to it, but eventually they’ll come and remove the last vestiges of our sturdy old tree.
after that we can get on a list for a new tree, the cost partially underwritten by the city. there’s a list of tree varieties one might choose from, depending upon availability. we’ve printed the current list and have begun studying trees – like one studies refrigerators or washers and dryers when you need one – immersing in photographs and information and reviews.
when we are officially on the list we will request our tree; we are actually hoping – with all the space out front – we might be able to purchase two. we’ll see. and then, maybe in the fall (or next year?) it (or they) will be planted in our parkway and we will start a new relationship with our tree or trees. it will signal a new time, a new era. and, in the way that these things go, it will also mark time. a new tree for both of us in this time of daisy-pathing.
there is something about a fresh start, something inviting, even compelling. a chance to write new narrative, from a different starting gate.
i can feel it – that fresh start – peeking out from around the corner. it has showered me from time to time with its freeing grace. and when it does, it is euphoric, a buzz of sorts – intoxicating like dopamine. releasing all harm that has been tightly held – stored – a toxic i did not choose but which has stayed with me through all the silent times.
and i hope – against hope – that soon i will also be a new tree. soon, there will be a sapling i can nurture. soon, there will be new growth, new branches and leaves. soon, all manner of the old pain-inducing stump inside will be gone.
and our new maple – or honeylocust – or ginkgo – and i will freshstart together.
our treasured tree had been shorn but its main trunk and some branches remained after the city arborists cleaned it up post-storm that split and felled it.
now they were back.
i knew as soon as i saw the trucks pull up that this was the day. this was the day that i would say my final goodbye to this beautiful tree, the guardian of shade in our front yard, the stalwart maple next to our driveway’s apron. this was the day i would whisper – once again – “you didn’t do anything wrong. you did everything right,” to the tree that pre-dated our family here by at least four decades and still grew up with our children. this was the day i knew would be hard. last goodbyes are like that.
they showed up around 11 and, even with a lunch break, they were deft and efficient and the last big piece of sturdy trunk was lifted into the bed of the dump truck at 1:15. they raked and blew some of the sawdust off the driveway, got in their trucks and, before 2 or so, drove away.
when i brought them bottles of water i asked them, “do you guys get attached to trees, too?” they all said, “no” and i wonder if that’s because they aren’t thready or sentimental or if that’s because we are only talking about trees or if that’s because it is their livelihood to trim and take down trees. any way you look at it, they knew that i was really sad – and they were actually quite kind about it.
the guy on the lift had a giant chainsaw. there was one more big branch to remove from the trunk – a big branch whose upper branches they had already trimmed. this branch arced upward from the main trunk, up toward our house. it had been the branch responsible for shading our front garden, the branch that towered over much of the yard, that shielded the daylilies from too much sun, that held a bit of a flat space where it met the center trunk – a perch for weary critters. this was the branch on which the kids would grasp to try and swing up into the tree. this was the branch i saw the best when i rocked babies in the nursery and gazed out the window. this was the branch i looked out upon – in all seasons – from my studio – composing, practicing, answering the muse. this big branch was central – a sturdy, steadfast piece of a long-beloved tree.
the big claws swung around to hold this branch as the arborist began to cut through the dense maple. it took a surprisingly short time for the chainsaw to make its way through – and then the big branch let go of its tree and it swung freely, held by the claw.
and then you could see it.
right where the branch had met the trunk – right where the branch separated from the tree and the very last offshoot from this very old tree trunk was gone – was a heart.
three million acres is no small thing. three million acres that were protected. three million acres that were grand staircase-escalante and bears ears national monuments. three million acres now open for business.
gluttony is alive and well in this nation.
it’s absolutely sickening.
and the dragon in the sky roared – fire coming from its mouth. because “these remarkable curiosities [ ] have required all the cunning skill of nature thousands of years to prepare.” (the house committee on public lands – circa 1871)
and it brings me back to this, to which i have arrived before: reverence.
they have no reverence.
and today – a few days before you will read this – the land around the boundary waters is on fire. photographs depict enormous infernos. it is all burning up.
and in colorado – fossil-fuel-fueled-climate-change wildfire in beautiful forests and on mountains and racing across open land.
and alaska and utah and florida and the pacific northwest and the southwest and the northeast and…
and major flooding in missouri, in texas.
and the mid-atlantic east coast and the southeast and the northeast and…
and cyclospora making its way into the food and water of americans across the nation. no lettuce and no berries and no produce and…
and people – on their way to work – executed by government officials who – mistakenly – identified them as targets.
and war.
and insane announcements eliminating medical research.
and social programs.
and voting rights.
and the decimation of wildlife protections.
and military spending way, way, way over the top.
and public adoration of brutal authoritarian figures by this administration.
and heartless sycophants, a conscience-less cheering squad, a team dedicated to the destruction of democracy.
and all manner of evil intentions.
no wonder there is a dragon in the sky. i can’t imagine how pissed the universe is.
“living your life in a bubble will give you the illusion that everything is ok.”
i know this is true. i know that – even though we are not members of the fiscally-elite, the upwardly-mobile, the investment-heavy, on the supposedly-can’t-be-touched rung of the caste ladder – we still live in a bubble. because we are white. because we were born to citizens of this nation and are – clearly – citizens ourselves. because we – even in the mediocre middle-ish of middle-class where we plop our pins of existence – are privileged. we – even with the challenges we face – in terms of income, healthcare and living expenses, loans of whatever sort we all need, the ability to get and consume food and water and a safe place to live – we are fortunate.
we are aware. and we are grateful. there is not a day that goes by that we don’t look at each other and – truly – say how very lucky we are.
and, yet, in that awareness we know that everything is not ok.
the membrane of whatever bubble in which we might reside is permeable. we participate in the gleaning of information, the parsing out of truth, the speaking-up against bigotry and extremism, the knowledge that these are dangerous times. we cannot linger within a bubble that allows us to flit from one day to another sans worry.
to walk in a world where you won’t talk about what is actually happening, where you won’t discuss corruption or the decimation of our nation, where you won’t “go there” as we have heard from those unwilling to, well, go there – feels as if there is an illusion that everything is just fine, that one feels untouchable, that someone else’s pain is not yours, that empathy is no longer in vogue.
it is disturbing that in order to reclaim our country we need all talk and join together and yet there are so many who just choose to linger in their bubbles, flitting about doing “normal” life – at a time when nothing is actually “normal” or, worse yet, floating in an echo chamber of propaganda – like a pod unto itself.
the bubble wand is one of those instantly recognizable things. it immediately conjures up images of iridescent bubbles floating mid-air, powered by nearby breezes. it is a visceral memory of childhood – ours, our children’s. a happy thought.
bubbles go hand in hand with unicorns and magical sunrises, joyous icons of life.
but bubbles pop. and unicorns don’t exist. and the sun draping the sky with the colors of rising doesn’t last beyond dawn. and reality is reality.
we are all in this…this world. everything is not ok.
lest we get lost in the illusion – and are therefore surprised at the cruelty, the destruction, the demolition of things good and natural and constitutional and humane – we need to be open to the truth of it all, to not be deluded, to not place stake in a mirage or a floating effervescent air globule.
everything is not ok. can we please address this honestly?
in dramatically exciting news, this has been the week of tabouli. with heat indexes off the charts, it’s a refreshing change of pace.
it’s only mid-july and already our little potting stand garden is rocking. we have sooo much mint, a wild burst of chives and some curly parsley (our flat parsley has been the incredible-shrinking parsley – which must be because it’s on the preferred diet choices of our local squirrels.) the first batch of jalapeños are ready to harvest, many of the cherry tomatoes are orange-ing up, the basil is happily basil-ing along.
in an effort to use the herbs of which we have plenty, it brought to mind our quinoa tabouli – which uses the harvest we already have at our fingertips.
in these days of sickly sticky parasites invading the fruits and vegetables of these united states it feels extra good to have just gone a few steps outside to clip off what i needed for this fresh salad. it is a weird world with way too many things to worry about.
pasta with basil, homemade pizza margherita, jalapeño poppers, pesto, mint and lemon suntea that basked on the deck…and soon…more of our own cherry tomatoes for everything under the sun…the recipes line up in wait.
our adirondack chairs adjacent to our little burgeoning herbandveggie garden, we sat outside – after dinner – after sunset – while the fireflies danced through the backyard – and talked. our tiki-type torches lit, dogga conked out on the deck, we reviewed yet another strange set of days – strange in an insane number of ways. we wondered – yet again – what we can do.
we are beyond saddened by the schisms that deepen with every single corrupt thing that is reported (leaving us to truly ponder what is too opaque – too silenced – too hidden – to be reported, even by hardworking alternative media sources.)
and yet we know – even with our intense sadness – that there is no going back. anyone who thinks that all this is acceptable in any way – including what seems too easy to avoid – the new veggiefruit parasites running rampant because of this administration’s gluttonous greed and incompetence – is lost to us. that loss is mindboggling. it is heartwrenching.
and so, i guess we’ll just party on with our tabouli.
*****
WEEPING MAN mixed media 48″ x 36″ (available for purchase)
the heat index was 106 degrees. it had finally gotten a tad bit cooler and we were lounging – relatively motionless – in the gravity chairs mid-evening. watching the birds busy at the birdbath and the squirrel ecstatic at the barney-buffet, we suddenly were aware of two stunning dragonflies zipping around us and then landing on the piece-o’-our-beloved-tree branch on the deck next to us. just a couple feet away from us, they stuck around for a long time, gently flexing their wings and repositioning but not leaving. it’s like they wanted us to notice they were there.
it was shocking how close they allowed me to get to photograph them…so close that my iphone blurred some of the insect images – the depth of field of the camera instead opting to clear-focus on something further away.
dragonflies – are associated with messages of “transformation, joy and living life to the fullest…are often seen as gentle nudges to release worries and embrace the present moment.” it is also popular that they are “a gentle reminder that guardian angels or loved ones who have passed are watching over you…bringing…comfort…during transitional times.”
good grief, this is a good time – in countless ways – for a connection between heaven and earth.
i’ve been around big water most of my life. the ocean, long island sound, the gulf of mexico, lake michigan. dragonflies are drawn to bodies of water, so it would make sense that i would have had plenty of first-person experiences with dragonflies. clearly they have been around and i have admired their flight nearby. but i can’t point to a moment before when i was as viscerally aware – in a sharing of the same vibration-frequency way.
this time was different.
in a time that is fraught with so many uncertainties, i feel like any nod to reassurance or comfort is worth noticing. i feel like any “omen of power, bravery, transformation” is buoying. i feel like anything that might connect us to greater good is paramount.
the aerial (adult) stage of a dragonfly – the time this beautiful creature flies on these iridescent wings – is typically short — weeks to months long. most of its life is spent in its previous nymph stage, up to five years in the water. once airborne, their wings cannot repair, and high speed flight and other perils of tattered-wing damage blunt their ability to fly.
the dragonfly’s primary goal – their evolutionary goal – is “for the insect to disperse, find a mate and lay eggs near water“. their compound eyes – as many as thirty thousand of photoreceptor cells – take in everything around them and help them have a prey rate of 97%, one of the most successful predators currently on the planet. these fleeting creatures are stunningly impactful, successfully passing on life to their next generation.
we have limited time with the iridescent wings of our own lives. it would seem that we are – indeed – in our aerial phase…the phase of transformation and embracing the present moment. it would seem that our job – no longer nymphs – is to pass on a world that is worthy.
if we merely sit still – silent, timid, withdrawn, inactive, self-focused – it is possible our fragile wings will last a tad bit longer.
but if we fly – bold and brave, eyes wide-open, risking tatters – we will have simultaneously touched the sky – even heaven – and lived on earth.
in the “what’s in your wallet” series of ads, adorable jennifer garner is featured as a fixture of the marketing campaign. pictured everywhere, she quips, “what’s in your wallet?” advertising for the capital one credit card.
staring south down lake michigan we can sometimes see itty-bitty evidence of the chicago skyline. the curvature of the earth…the line of sight – slightly angled upward looking south – appears farther east, the right atmospheric conditions and refraction of light in the atmosphere…bending light’s path, the time of day…best when the sun is lower in the sky: all factors in the the ability to see even portions of that incredible skyline. the words “what’s on your horizon?” come to mind.
as the sun set in the west, the east put on a show the other day. with shades of trader joe’s dried mango slices and glasses of provence rosé dancing along the horizon, i waved at chicago, fully believing our son could see it. the magic of the horizon is like that.
i suppose that we don’t know – day to day – what will really be on our horizon. there are no guarantees and so we really should do the best we can to live best each of these days – chock full of horizon possibilities. like my sweet momma said, who would have been 105 a few days ago on the 5th, “live life, my sweet potato”.
but in these uncertain times we find we also have to draw some lines – on our horizon. we cannot pollyanna that which is ‘out there’. there are things we refuse to ignore, things that impact people we love and care about and, yes, even people we do not know, things that are based on cruel and extremist ideologies (if you can even call them ‘ideologies’ – which seems generous, considering the intentions behind them). there are things that color our days, whether or not they directly affect us. we can’t look away or be dismissive. we can’t become part of a kind of conscious avoidance, of avoiding the seeing of or learning about what is really happening in an escape to having to push-back against it, or – even worse – a denial of knowledge of its existence. the horizon is all of it. all the layers.
and even in the day to day of our lives – with all the layers of personal stuff to deal with on our own horizons – it is impossible to not feel the burden of trying to save this democracy, the heavy weight of trying to hold true to the constitution and its amendments, all the colors of what it means to live right now coalescing to make our horizon complicated.
we look down the lake, squinting to see chicago. sometimes the view is clear and sometimes – when the conditions are not in place – it is totally obstructed.
maybe we need to keep looking – to view, to discern our horizon at all different times of day and night, during all different weather circumstances, at all ages and stages – in order to get an accurate picture of what’s really out there, to grok the magic and the challenge of the horizon: all its choices and decisions, all its beauty and its ugly, all it can show us about living authentically – so that we can honestly answer “what’s on your horizon?”
there is something about a train platform that makes you feel like an explorer. not necessarily like ferdinand magellan or lewis and clark or amelia earhart or jacques cousteau or edmund hillary and tenzing norgay or jane goodall or neil armstrong or sally ride, but maybe something more along the lines of maybe erma bombeck on errands or a fantastically prolific carole king in a new recording studio or an unabashed meg ryan on a new romcom set, slightly more tame, but nonetheless full of infinite possibility that might inspire your muse.
we have been on this particular platform many times – well, for people who live in wisconsin, anyway. it is often relatively empty when we wait on this side – the northbound side – later at night.
it is always after a really full day – rich in time with our son, eventful, fun, alive. we are usually pretty tired on this platform as we wait for our train, incoming from downtown. and we are usually talking about the day, reviewing all we have seen and heard and how really full the day was.
and there are always moments we realize that it feels like we have been away from home – like this one day – when we spent many hours traveling down, being in the city and then traveling back – it feels like way more than just the hours in one day.
exploring is supposed to be like that, i believe. you are supposed to feel like you have been away – away from everything that is usual. instead you have stepped away into time that is reserved for new experiences, for new people, for new ideas, for expanding what you knew into more. even if only to the metropolitan city that is just down the road from you, exploring opens you.
it’s one of the reasons we love watching youtubes of people doing thru-hikes, people climbing ridiculous mountains, people free-soloing and people snowboarding in the back country. it’s one of the reasons we love non-fiction and autobiographical/biographical narrative. it’s all different from our own lives and some of it is crazy stuff, but – vicariously – we can feel the energy of exploration and it feeds ours.
though right now we are minimally physically exploring ‘out-there’ – not traveling the way we would – we are reading, viewing, researching, adventuring as we can.
wide-open exploration is not something insurmountable – it is as minimal as reading an opinion that is opposite of yours, it is questioning what you know, it is trying something new, it is pushing one tiny self-imposed limit, it is going away even if you don’t go away, it is opening your mind to the imaginings of an empty train platform late at night.
“…and the moon rises, so beautiful it makes me shudder, makes me think about time and space, makes me take measure of myself: one iota pondering heaven…” (mary oliver – the sweetness of dogs)
in the moments we all sometimes immerse – those moments when we take ourselves way too seriously, when we feel intertwined with angst, when we foolheartedly believe there is allthetimeintheworld – we should sit and watch the moon rise.
it has risen every day whether or not the old truck’s battery was dead, whether or not all the burners on the stove worked, whether or not we wore namebrand clothing or had namebrand cars, whether or not the student loans were paid, whether or not the bedroom furniture matched, whether or not we had a few pounds to shed, whether or not we had a mighty 401k, whether or not we had granite countertops, whether or not my hair looked good, whether or not the old wood floors squeaked, whether or not we had extension eyelashes, whether or not we had plaques or certificates lining our office walls, whether or not the chimney leaked, whether or not we had visited saint lucia or monaco, whether or not we had a 72″ tv, whether or not we had central air conditioning, whether or not we had a walk-in closet or a dishwasher, whether or not we were retail fanatics, whether or not we had followers, whether or not we had fiscal or commercial success, whether or not we lived authentically.
because the moon is like that. it is incessantly dependable. it is a sure thing. it is the tide of our souls. its passing by – its wax and wane – brings us to the peaks and the abysses, both.
and though we may – from time to time – linger in the whatwedon’thaves, that moon – annoyingly – is unperturbed by it all. its rise, its fall – like breath in our chest. we, like the moon, keep going nonetheless.
and i stood and looked at the tiny crescent moon above our beloved old house and i could feel all the passage of time – zooming through me – until i arrived at the moment i was in.
and everything i had seen or felt or lived made sense. the dots connected for the briefest moment. and i was – yes – one iota.
reverse threading 