for a few days – just a few, mind you – wisconsin had a tad bit of spring.
it was early as all heck, but it was pretty nice and, i must say, it made us yearn for r-e-a-l spring.
tonight – after we all get through the tornado watches and warnings – the temperature will drop fast and it will snow in the ‘morrow. que sera sera.
in the meanwhile, we watched for the truly lovely signs. the confused crocuses, the birds in the morning light, the afternoon sun on the wall of our neighbor’s garage. and, for a couple of days, we sat outside as we could, reveling in untimely weather.
we will have an attitude check tonight and tomorrow morning as we greet a day with a feels-like of about 65 degrees less than today.
but this is wisconsin. and if you decide to live here you must go with the flow.
we are writing these posts late in the day – unusual for us. i look out the window at a maybe-little-foreboding sky. we hope for the violent storms to dissipate and we prepare for winter to re-arrive.
there are no shadows on the brick wall now. it’s all becoming a little monochromatic grey out there.
and i think that – though i thoroughly enjoyed the tilt toward spring, the nod of warmth and rejuvenation – i might have rathered a normal trajectory from winter to spring…something that wouldn’t wreak havoc on people in its path, something that didn’t include tornado sirens or talk-talk of quarter-plus-size hail.
but i suppose that life is just not like that.
instead, it is all a surprise and never truly predictable. nothing to take for granted.
and i’m ready to retreat to the basement. just in case.
as i write this – this very minute – i am …yes… sooo excited!! when your beloved adult children live far away, even a mere moment of a visit is cause for celebration! and so, we’re celebrating!
the lists kept me awake the last few nights. everything i wanted to get done before she arrives, before they arrive. most of it will go unnoticed, i know. and most of it is probably unnecessary. but for me, it’s all important. and pretty impossible. there is no way i will get it all done beforehand. but i will give it my best momma-try.
because there is nothing more profound than seeing your child when you haven’t seen them in a while, nothing more comforting than hugging your child when it’s been a longwhile since you have hugged them, nothing more sustaining than gazing at them – in real life – and memorizing it all until the next time. ❤️
though i know it won’t really matter to either of them, i’ll hang a pair of tiny overalls and a pair of tiny first-walking-shoes on a peg in each of their rooms.
i was deep in memories going through and washing all of their infant and toddler clothing. touching each and every piece, i kept thinking, “surely he/she would want me to save this!!”. i seriously pondered making them quilts out of their childhood clothing, sure that they would treasure these. until i realized something.
it’s me who remembers these tiny clothes. it’s me who remembers my little girl – tucked into her bear chair – a stack of books next to her, absorbed. it’s me who remembers my little boy – kneeling on the road rug with buildings and streets and stop signs, matchbox cars lined up or zooming with his little hand. they were tiny toddlers with no real thought about memorizing forever and ever what they had on. i’m the one who remembers what they were wearing. i’m the one who remembers the onesies, the sleepers and the footie pajamas. i’m the one who remembers the tiny jeans and turtlenecks. i’m the one who remembers the polly flinders smocked dresses and sweet rompers. i’m the one who remembers the oshkosh overalls.
so i’ll hang the oshkosh b’goshes upstairs anyway. and i’ve decided to hold out just a few items from the big ikea bags that we will deliver to the mission in chicago. and i’ll cut yoyos out of these and make a small yoyo hanging that i can place on a hook in our bedroom. that way, anytime i want to get lost in the memories of my amazing adult children as babies and toddlers, i can touch a little fabric that will bring me back.
every single time. my sweet momma and poppo would stand at the door or in the driveway or on the sidewalk or, even, inside, parting the curtains to look out. they would roll down the window at departures. they would roll down the windows if they were driving away. every single time. they would hold up their hands in the american sign language sign for “i love you” as we would back out, pull away, drive down the road, head into the terminal. every single time.
i believe they know that we have all continued their tradition. every single time.
and, no matter what person in their family – in all the circles of nuclear and extended family – in children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren – in all the definitions of family – birthed, adopted, married into, children-by-love-in-laws – they would remind that person “i love you” in leaving. so that you wouldn’t forget.
and you couldn’t. forget. because you could see them – in your mind’s eye – standing there – hand held up – misty tears on their faces.
we’ve passed this downed tree on the trail many, many times. and yet, this was the first time i saw it. at just the right time, i could see the sign. i ran through the underbrush to get a photograph and thanked the universe for the reminder.
love is. family is. all-embracing. they don’t draw lines in the sand. they don’t parse out biological dna strands. and they don’t minimize the giant commitment that comes with giving birth, adopting, becoming a step-parent. they don’t measure one against the other. they don’t ignore the worrying and the angsting and the supporting and the relationship-building that comes with every one of those. because love is love. and a family – filled with complex concentric and overlapping circles – understands that – that love is love.
even the day – when i was young and my siblings told me i was “cesarean” – and i thought i was from another country, no less – i had no worries that i was not an integral and loved part of my family. and i was only eight. but i knew that being in a family is also a decision. so, i was not concerned that my cesarean-ish-ness would make me peripheral, would make me less-than, would place me under any different heading than the ancestral family.
as we go through life we are fortunate enough to find both people who align with us and people who don’t. we entertain conversation and animated debate and learn from each other. we glimpse tiny pieces of worlds we do not know from these others around us and are better for that. we hold each other in respect and with affection. and these people – these friends – our community – become family as well.
and we look to each other to learn how the other lives. we learn about the tight web that holds us all dear to another. we learn – sometimes – that isn’t the case and we don’t hold tight. we learn we share the same core family values. though – sometimes – we learn we don’t. we learn about the choices others make in their lives and glean from them, taking with us lessons about life. though – sometimes – we don’t. and we learn to open our hearts and wrap each new person in our family in love. but – sometimes – we think there are people who don’t count, so we don’t.
and those don’ts make people draw lines in the sand to exclude others. those don’ts make people haughty and rejecting. those don’ts undermine relationships and love. those don’ts destroy families.
what a waste of time – and life – all those don’ts.
my sweet momma and poppo stood with their hands up signing “i love you” each and every time. even their little family continued to grow…because they chose it. the dna of their ancestry passes love of one another – without exception – generation to generation.
because love and family are all-embracing. they are one and the same.
a friend of ours wrote, “i feel like i’ve been searching for that place for a long time now.” that place. the place to call home.
i haven’t lived in a neighborhood that has underground wires. on long island, in florida, in new hampshire, on island, here. everywhere i’ve lived has had wires that stretch from telephone poles to places on the house. cables parallel to the road, cables crisscrossing the backyard, cables running down the driveway.
i’m sure that living in a development without wires might look neater, cleaner. certainly there would be no chance of wires downed in ice storms or big up-on-the-pole transformer explosions.
but wires are what i know. and the squirrels provide an extraordinary amount of entertainment using them as squirrel highways.
would i rather it wireless? probably. but it’s home – even in that minor imperfection – and i feel settled – most of the time – here.
i tried to explain it. if i could choose a place where i would want to live – sans thinking about cost and such – i would likely not choose here. other places call me. the mountains, the coast. but this is where i am right now and right now it is where i am.
i suppose it’s where you place your focus.
shortly, my brand-spanking-new medicare card will take effect. it’s astounding. conversations among friends are about where to live in this new time of life, paring down, perhaps downsizing, perhaps spending time in the year in a different locale, a different climate. it has us thinking.
we continue to go through our house and donate, give away, sell, throw out things that are tucked into spaces on each level of our home. this project will take a while. there’s a lot of life to sort. and, as we do, we re-imagine the space. downstairs, we say, off to the side of david’s studio, on the street side of the treadmill and the bike, we’ll add some mats. we’ll stretch down there and build our exercise programs. the sitting room has become a cozy reading room and all our cds are now visible on shelves, easy access to playing music we love. eventually, the kitchen will have a little cosmetic work. though we have cooked thousands of meals in it as it is, a little refresh will go a long way. we pine to be out back on our deck and patio, adirondack-chair sitting. we see maybe a few more vegetables in our future. we have some deferred maintenance projects to attend to.
but we are in a place that makes access to other places easy. we sit between two major cities, a very cool madison a third to our west. we have two major airports nearby, a third down the road a piece. we have trains that will take us to chicago if we don’t want to drive. our city is growing and, though we don’t always agree with everything, it will continue to expand and more will be offered here.
would i choose it if i could choose from anywhere? maybe not. but this is where i am – where we are – and this – for right now – is where we are settled. another day i may answer that differently, more vehemently dedicated to somewhere else.
in the meanwhile, we’ll make adventures from this place. and we’ll know we can always come home.
every time we pull away for a longer bit, i whisper to our house. i’m guessing every time we pull back into our driveway, wires up above us running the lot line, it whispers back.
like you, we are shifting gears often. one project to the next, one challenge to the next. we prepare, we research, we make decisions and then move to the next. it is all in constant flux. gazillions of molecules hurtling around all at once. many plates spinning all at once. anxiety and fear and thrill and peace and bliss all coexisting. it’s truly a wonder we are not so burdened by the constancy of too-much that we don’t bend under the pressure of it all.
i step outside the back door – onto the deck still basked in a haze of frosty dew – and look up. the slice i can see of this-house-i-love grounds me. ”stand still,” it says – this house loving me back, “just look at the sky.”
and so i do.
and somehow i can feel the quivering slow. i can feel my feet firmly planted on the old wood of our deck. i sink into the blue sky and look around for rays of sunlight i might stand in. i release the (metaphoric) clutch and the gear-shifting stops – for these moments.
and – for these moments – i am centered back in right now.
i breathe in deeply. and slowly exhale.
and i thank the blue-blue sky and the slice of house – the reach of love – before i go back inside to spin more plates.
i know this frame well. i have looked out – at the rest – through this tree’s strong curved limbs for thirty-five years now.
because i am watching this beloved and known tree age and weaken a bit, i suppose the city may someday choose to take it down. and that day – well, i will likely weep. i try to remember to thank the tree often now, in case it happens that we come home one day – after errands or a hike or a trip – and the trucks will have already come and gone. and the front elevation of our home will never look the same again. in the meanwhile, i take photographs of it – in the sun, in the snow, in ice, in early bud, in leaf, in the rich colors of fall, and in deep fog.
the fog had rolled in this night. we live close to the lake and this winter has brought more fog than snow, more mist than ice. i grab my phone and snap a few pictures of this shape i know so well.
in our living room is a piece of this tree. still. after the whole water-main-front-yard thing of 2021 we dragged a giant branch in to use as our christmas tree. wrapped in lights, it warms the space. we’ve never taken it down. i suppose it will stay there a while longer. likely a long while.
foresty forest lives a van life based in canada. he also travels throughout the western united states, hiking with his insanely capable jack russell terrier rocko. he was in british columbia – way out there – and his drone revealed acres and acres of downed tree limbs. though it looked like giant avalanches had come through, it was actually the end result of big logging. i stared at the screen, feeling the tug of the trees. there is somehow a balance, i guess, of trees we need and trees we leave standing. and so we choose reforestation for a memorial gift; we honor the absolute and pressing need to replant.
it’s all a matter of balance. it’s a matter of knowledge and responsibility, of paying it forward or paying it back to this good earth that has provided for us.
if the city takes down this tree that has literally framed my life for over three decades they will offer an opportunity to plant another. we will choose carefully, knowing that it will likely outlive us, knowing i would like for whatever tree stands in that very spot to be as impactful for the next and the next as ours has been for me, for us.
the fog envelops the tree and i photograph its shape. it’s not perfect anymore, but it has stood the test of time and it has rich history. there are limbs that have fallen from wind and ice, limbs that have been knocked down by large equipment, limbs that have rotted out.
but it is truly beautiful. and it stands proud, knowing.
though these are not the “amber waves of grain” from the song, they did bring the song to my mind -“america, the beautiful” (katharine lee bates / samuel ward).
some of the most awe-inspiring-catching-my-breath moments have happened out west. in the mountains, in the canyonlands, in the high desert, it is not hard to encounter beauty that takes your breath away. the vastness, the absolute splendor is hard to deny. i get overwhelmed pretty easily out there and both david and my daughter can attest to the fact that i will literally cry in those places.
but time and budgets and obligations keep us from being in those places as often as we would wish. and so, we must make sure to see the fantastic in places closer-by, in vistas familiar.
we keep our eyes open.
every time we hike our most familiar trail we notice something different. the other day, though, heavy equipment had restoratively decimated much of what we knew. so we decided to hike along the river, watching for wildlife that had been displaced. we looked for signs of an early spring, traipsing on muddy trails and noticing how high the water line had gotten.
and then there was this bald eagle. perched high in a tree, overlooking all the newly mown-down woods, it was waiting. i saw it as i glanced up – noting the height of the trees that remained. and there it was. such a gift – seeing an eagle.
a few times, weeks ago, i watched an eagle soaring there – over the woods, over the bogs. astoundingly, it was mere minutes after i whispered silently for a sign from the universe. the sudden presence of this eagle made me feel like maybe the universe was listening. we wondered aloud what other lessons were there for us out there, what other reassurances we might find in nature.
so we pay attention.
and we pass the waves of grass.
and notice.
and – even in a time that is fraught with division, rife with political mayhem, with people jostling for power, people just wanting to be heard, people suffering from discriminatory inequalities of which there are far too many to list – i can still hear the song:
“o beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain. for purple mountain majesties above the fruited plain. america! america!god shed his grace on thee. and crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea!”
and i think about these spacious skies, the waves of grain, the purple mountain majesties…brotherhood – personhood – shared values – mutual support – in everything from sea to shining sea. and that grace comes into play, for i agree with the lyrics – we surely need divine wisdom, guidance, mercy, assistance…
and the bald eagle sits perched in its highest tree, looking out over the woods that remained. from there it can see the waves of grass, the tracks of heavy equipment in the dirt. it can’t see the purple mountain majesties or the sea or the other shining sea.
yet, knowing all that was out there – somewhere – it sat. eyes wide open. and took in its world below.
and likely thought about how fantastic it really is.
so yesterday, in an effort to save the social-security-signing-up-for-medicare office some time, i tried to cancel an appointment with them. i had already accomplished what i needed online and i wanted them to be able to satisfy another customer’s needs.
i looked all over on their site for a way to cancel this appointment. nothing. nowhere to cancel.
but on the letter (which i received in real life as well as online) there was a phone number.
thinking that there would be an “option” to choose to cancel appointments, i dialed up.
nope. no option for canceling.
just an option for appointments.
“one hour and fifty minutes,” the pleasantly-recorded bad news said.
i started to stay on hold. put my phone on speaker and laid it next to me.
but i have other things to do. and an hour and fifty minutes to sit on hold in an effort to cancel a phone appointment with them is a tad bit – well – ridiculous. i was just trying to be nice, responsible, aware…you know, all those adjectives about being a good customer, a good citizen, a good fellow-almost-medicare person who knows that other people have questions too and these departments are overrun and that it took me two full months to get this appointment and i would like someone else to be the happy recipient of it.
whatever.
i hung up.
today, when they call, i’ll suggest that they find a way to make it easier to cancel an appointment.
because – doggonit – i’m almost 65 and my time is worth something too.
as i write this, it’s been weeks since we have hiked. i am feeling the tug. despite how sloppy it is likely to be, we really need to get out there – in the woods – and feel the cold, damp air on our faces.
we have been in the basement these days. during the negative-whatevers, the snowstorms, the dense fogs, the rain, we have immersed in the boxes and bins and tchotchkes of life. minus the occasional spider and mouse poop trail, it has been mostly joyful. to touch these things of life again is a gift of memory.
as we sort i can feel the house breathing. now, i have actually been in and seen a hoarder’s house, so i know that there is no comparison whatsoever, but the advent of space is refreshing. i realize that this paring-down will require a few passes – this is the first big pass – but now that we have started, it doesn’t seem as insurmountable. the reward for fortitude in the cleaning-out is the zeal to continue. it’s a circle.
i am making every attempt to be more ruthless in this process, in this circle. but it is a passage through time and life and my fingertips are tingling, touching the first onesie sleepers and those little booties, the tiny oshkosh b’gosh overalls and even tinier bibs. then there’s my sweet momma’s wedding dress and my poppo’s air force “ike” jacket. silk flowers and fold-out honeycomb crepe bells from my first wedding. cabbage patch dolls and children’s books and matchbox cars. 1970s cassettes i listened to over and over and over. reel to reel, cassettes and cds of my recording studio takes and edits, tracks along the way. my report cards from the beginning of time. this process is not as easy as it’s made out to be. but it’s necessary.
and, also necessary, is the call-response of the outside. we need to go out in the trees. we need to hike by the river and follow the deer tracks. we need to feel breathless from the wind and overheated by exertion. we need the balance. in this circle.
so we’ll put down the marketplace ads, the bins and big ikea bags holding donations, the cleaning supplies and our yuckiest clothes and we’ll go outside.
reverse threading 