the galvanized metal coneflower tucked into the little garden with the ornamental grasses has rusted. we brought it home in july when it was silver and shiny. but the elements of weather have already gotten to it and have erased the shiny and smooth, turning it to a rougher texture, a warm brown color, like the center of a sunflower or the color of freshly ground coffee.
i still love it though, this coneflower.
its shape has been inspiring out back there in its little garden – the same garden that protects baby bunnies and tucks in our aspen tree. in the snow it has collected flakes until barely any of the metal is visible – like a tall snow-mushroom umbrella-ing anything below.
i stop in front of the mirror before i facetime or zoom. i wonder how i am seen from the other side of the camera. i am no longer shiny or silver. the elements have taken their toll and age has begun to catch up.
but as i gaze at other beloved faces across the technology of a phone or computer, across a table or on a trail, next to me on the pillow – i know that nothing – no amount of rust or erasure of smooth – can change the fact that they are still coneflowers, nonetheless. still beautiful. still loved.
it’s pretty much a ritual – at the end of fall – to store the front and back rubber doormats away into the garage. both make it more difficult to shovel snow, so, rather than ramming the shovel into the mat while moving snow on the deck – having forgotten it was there – which hurts one’s shoulder – it’s best to put it away. it can also cause problems when there is ice – making it nearly impossible to open the back screen door, which is level with the deck with only a thin rubber mat’s thickness to spare. so, we are usually pretty diligent. there are several things, i’m sure, we all agree on – in preparing for winter. the yard furniture, the clay and ceramic pots, deck decor – it all needs to be stored.
i’m not sure, then, why the back doormat didn’t end up in the garage. somehow in the midst of this fall – miserable in all that fun lighthearted time after the election and such – we forgot. or maybe we just didn’t have the energy to pick up the mats and bring them to the garage. later in november – we were holding out hope for one more beautiful day – we put away the deck rugs, the table and chairs, the decor, the adirondack chairs. but we forgot the mats – at both doors.
so when i opened the back door the other day and stepped out to admire the snow i was surprised to look back at the mat. the snow peeeeeeeled back. it didn’t smush back or get lodged under the screen door – which ceases all door movement and is just slightly annoying when it happens – but it peeled back over itself. in one piece. pretty much unbroken. like peeling back the chocolate icing layer on a hostess cupcake.
we were lucky. there have been times that the snow and ice – because ice damming is a thing – have accumulated over the mat to such a point where the door will not open and you have to exit out the front door. that doesn’t sound like much of a problem until you hear that – for years – there was no way to unlock the front door from the outside as something had gone wrong with the barrel of the old door handle and lock. now that that has been repaired, we are not faced with the can’t-get-in-the-house crisis we had before if the back door is blocked and unable to open.
nevertheless, it was somewhat astounding (remember we are easily amused) to see the snow folded back on itself. and i gave myself a little talking-to about preparation and the perils of the winter.
a few days ago i spent several hours taking screenshots of every single thing on our student loan accounts. because – well – preparation and all. i had come across a recommendation to read a forbes business article about how prudent it would be to capture all this information just in case the department of education was dissolved or imploded or blown up or whatever, which would take out all its websites. it was the practical thing to do – even in the midst of my growling about the predatory nature of d’s student loans which have been nothing shy of criminal. i just couldn’t believe what i was doing and the reason i was doing it. preparation not for winter, not for snow or ice, but for the destruction of the department of education along with every other thing in the constitution.
i don’t honestly know what else we should do to prepare against what’s coming. i am horrified by every single thing we are seeing from this administration. i read a few comments on a meme that was posted by someone in alliance with this destruction of our country. it was – frankly – shocking. the stuff that people have been fed to believe goes beyond any adjective i can think of. it makes me wonder if they have prepared, for the malfeasance of overtaking our government – the one supposed to be of-the-people-by-the-people-for-the-people – and the shattering of our constitution will affect them as well. they too will be caught in the icy snowstorm with their mat out.
the back doormat was a good reminder. in two ways – one, that we might vigilantly stay in one piece – unbroken – and bend with the time (or the back door, whatever, just go with the metaphor) and two, that there are things we might need do in order to avoid being locked out of our own home – this country and its freedoms and rights.
because sometimes you need a gentle reminder that you are not all-that and, for that matter, neither is anyone else, there was this moon.
we are the tiniest.
and out-there is the most-vast.
our tiny lives will someday be but a fraction of a fraction of the smallest division of time itself. there will likely be no one in the time-down-the-long-long-road (if there is a time-down-the-long-long-road and we haven’t destroyed our planet first) who will remember us or refer to us, pine for us or credit us with anything.
as i stood in the kitchen, tears streaming down my face – grieving for this earth, this world, this country, this community, this extended family – i slowly – very, very slowly – calmed down enough to breathe. and when i breathed i could feel my feet. standing on the old wood floor of our old kitchen in our old house.
and even though my grief was still there – the ache inside my heart palpable – and all that had happened – long ago and not too long ago and the very day my feet were planted on the floor – was still the truth of what happened, the ugly cry that had taken over my body started to ease up.
and i could feel d’s arms holding me and dogga nudging my leg and i was back from that place where nothing feels right.
there is much to grieve. we all have burdens, sheer disappointments, heartbreak, things that frustrate us out of our gourd. we have been hurt and we have hurt others. we share these commonalities. there are none among us who skate through life unscathed and not-scathing. it is humanness. there is no human who may escape this, no human gender or race or ethnicity or religion or ladder rung or any other identifying characteristic that is above this, that is impervious, that is best.
for any one of us to be cavalier about hurting another, to be flippant about minimizing others, to be complicitly silent in the face of malfeasance, to cheer on immorality or a lack of decency is to forget how very tiny we each really are. to distort what being alive is.
this extended family, this community, this country, this world, on this earth – our time is finite. perhaps we should spend it in goodness and not evil. bound together by that which we all have in common:
we all breathe in and out the same way standing here under the sliver of moon in the vast sky of the vast galaxy of the vastest universe.
each time we returned to our airbnb west of aspen we turned it on. the salt lamp seemed a beacon, warm light welcoming us. i don’t know if it was actually emitting any goodness – as they are said to – but it sure felt like it.
we have a salt lamp in each of our studios. they glow in those spaces and, whether or not they are scientifically proven to be goodness-in-a-lamp, they are soothing to us.
my studio is clean now. i removed a desk and all the extra stuff that was cluttering up the space, all the relics of jobs or times that felt negative. i have yet to go through the closet where there are a couple file cabinets of music, but the space – as i walk in – is a completely different place than it had been and every day i light my salt lamp.
our sansevieria is called “a perfect houseplant“. it doesn’t require much tending, much light, much water. it is hardy and healthy and has grown immensely since we brought it home, filling the window nook.
it makes me think of my sweet momma, since she is the one who first introduced me to sansevieria – the snake plant. she had several and called them by their scientific name.
our sansevieria seems unconcerned that it is referred to as an “old school succulent“. and, according to the miraclegro website, they are “almost comically easy to grow, so chances are you’ll encounter few problems with them.”
the other day d and i were talking about trends. neither of us is particularly trendy nor aware of the trending trends. we reminisced about growing up with parents who also weren’t trendy and didn’t try to keep up with pop culture. we wondered about whether that was a detriment but decided that it was likely helpful since staying on trend requires a financial investment and real-life artists are generally not in that sort of position.
i’m thinking that we are both sansevieria.
perhaps we all need to be succulent sansevieria. easy to care for, ruthlessly growing despite all odds. we need to be hardy and healthy, comically easy. maybe that will give us the strength we need to prevail through all the chaos and uncertainty we are experiencing.
the one thing that we don’t have in common with our snake plant? the part that reads “chances are you’ll encounter few problems with them.”
it’s our job as artists – and, let’s face it, as humans – to push back on cruelty, on injustice, on betrayal, on marginalization, on stupidity. so…you may encounter a few problems.
yeah, we’re mostly sansevieria. but definitely watch for a few prickly cactus spines thrown in for self-preservation and for the protection of others.
these days – even if you shut your eyes really tight – squeezing your eyelids so that you can see nothing – you cannot block it all out. i’ve tried. it doesn’t work.
like you, well – some of you – i am horrified by the fast and furious devastation – the epitome of meanness and ugliness cast upon us, upon this nation. there are no words to describe it all.
so i open my eyes instead.
and i look for things of beauty. anywhere. everywhere.
the sage green was a balm to the eyes in a landscape mostly brown. the folds of veiny leaves drew me to it – tiny crystals of dew glinting what little light there was on a drearily grey day.
the photo shoot wasn’t prolonged – only six photographs – but each one is somewhat dreamy – this fuzzy plant off-trail in the underbrush was stunning. i was glad to have noticed it. its presence gave me pause – to breathe.
this is the only way i’ll get through all this.
by keeping my eyes open to anything of beauty on or off trail. anything at all. anywhere. everywhere.
three sources. the bible, the statue of liberty on ellis island, the declaration of independence. all pointing – pointedly – to the same thing: no one is lesser or unworthy of respect.
in the current climate of these most-obviously un-united united states, it might do one good to remember any one of these powerful quotes. because the disrespect, minimalizing, oppression, degradation of people, the disenfranchising, the marginalization, the injustice, the out-and-out cruelty is mind-bogglingly unconscionable.
this administration’s pathetic excuses for validation are rampant gish gallop. and you – the anti-woke out there are being taken for a dangerous ride. at any moment, the gish-whip can be turned on you. but remember – you wanted this. you voted for it.
we are not forming “a more perfect union“. we – instead – are heading for dystopia.
a more perfect union loves one another. a more perfect union celebrates the richness of all diversity. a more perfect union learns from each other. a more perfect union is a place where “e pluribus unum (out of many, one) ” counts, where equality is a thriving verb, where each person’s life – regardless of any differences – is valued and cherished.
please wake up, you anti-wokers. your complicit sleep – on the galloping bandwagon over hill and dale all across this country – is killing our democracy.
“our forever work is to learn to hold the brutal and beautiful in the same palm.” (suleika jaouad)
i am trying to learn to list to the beautiful. lean into it. curve that way. take that path. abruptly turn, if need be.
in these fraught times, these times of brutal, we are finding how we wake – how we start our day – is crucial. we are fragile, maybe just like you.
and so we watch through the mini blinds, through the screen and storm window, as – out across the deck, reflecting on the sunroom windows, just past the awning over the back door – the sun – rising over the lake – climbs to a place where its rays sneak around houses and gardens and reach out and out, brushing our windows.
and we can see it.
we watch as it intensifies and moves up, up. a tiny gift for us to hold.
and then – as we sip coffee – one of us quietly comments on how truly beautiful it is. and our day is officially started.
dogga has two favorite toys. one is candy cane and the other is snowman. we purchased both of them in december 2017 at festival grocery store – in a bin in the front of the store – each for $1. they are both squeaky toys. and they both still squeak.
this is pretty much a miracle. any other toy – particularly the stuffed ones – has lost its stuffing, lost its head (if it had one), lost all or most of the semblance of what it really is.
but candy cane and snowman have survived. neither have suffered even a nibble off their shape. dogga’s gentleness with these two treasured toys has been unparalleled. he carries these around with him, dropping them by his side in the kitchen or on the rug in the living room or on the bed. he never brings them outside, always dropping them inside by the back door, checking on them or picking them up again as he comes back inside. it would seem that he is protecting them – and their longevity is proof that he – the guardian of these plastic squeakers – has kept them intact. it is completely endearing.
perhaps there is a lesson to be learned.
perhaps we need hold gently that which or who are dear to us. perhaps we should wish to keep them close, to be soft with them, to not harm them or place them in harm’s way, to protect them, to make sure that they still squeak.
