most of the time i can feel this. though sometimes, i am too busy or rushed. and though sometimes, i am frazzled with thoughts. and though sometimes, i am worried or distracted. and though sometimes, i have forgotten the simplicities in the midst of complexities.
i felt it though. and it was palpable.
the driveway greeted us as we pulled in – familiar cracks along its way. the wires overhead tugged and dipped in the wind. the leaves leftover from fall and winter blew in front of us. the house whispered, “welcome home.”
and this time – this time – i heard it. clear as day, as they say.
the whisper of a home – this place i have gone to for rest and nourishment, for creative work and rejuvenation, for the growing of beloveds and the gathering of friends, for belly-laughter and sob-filled tears, for refuge and solitude. this sanctuary. this place.
as we drove – on our way home – i could think of nothing better than to enter our home, hug on dogga, throw on my sweats and comfy boots, prepare a small meal. in this place.
my nest.
“this morning, in the fresh field,
i came upon a hidden nest.
it held four warm, speckled eggs.
i touched them.
then went away softly,
having felt something more wonderful
than all the electricity of new york city.”(mary oliver)
an unusual event, we went out for dinner. we had received a gift card as a present and were excited to use it, having saved it for some time. we had great anticipation.
when we walked in, the seating hostess was slammed. there was quite a crowd, yet this young lady maintained her grace and sense of humor, eventually leading us to a table for two. another young woman brought us glasses of water and placed menus in front of us. when our server came we ordered drinks and the bartender sent over two glasses of wine. we studied the menu carefully – trying to decide which of the dinners we would share – our practice – lingering on the salmon choices. we enjoyed our wine, chatting and watching the other diners in the small bistro and the young person who was bussing and cleaning the tables. the chefs in the kitchen prepared a lovely salmon, baked potato and fresh veggies just exactly the right al dente. we finished dining and, noting the crowd yet to be seated, decided to leave and give others a chance at sitting and enjoying a meal.
though i know – because it is as it is – there were defined roles in this restaurant and most definitely a laddered order of authority, it seemed to us, merely observers, that everyone was functioning with great collegiality and camaraderie. and, as observers, we appreciated that, for it made for a lovely dining experience. if we were able to see cracks in the foundation of employee genteel collaboration, it might have undermined the feeling of our dinner. if they were there, we were unaware. if so, i suspect they were able to work it all out, trust each other, rely on loyalty. it was a smoothly operating machine, despite the challenges of crowd and small space.
the thing that stood out for us – in that dining experience – was the obvious appreciation that each employee had for each other. there was no pointed ill will or jostling of power. they just worked together even though they might have been stressed. it is the power of allies, of a good team, the respectful valuing of each member of the team. they built a good team there – dedicated to the same mission.
i thought about our eating-out making dinner a few nights later. needing some good ole comfort food, we decided to “make us some mashed potatoes”.
so i started thinking about mashed potatoes – ours, simply potatoes and a little bit of salt and pepper, mashed with a potato masher. not the fancy-schmancy add-butter-milk-sourcream-cheese variety, you can’t get much simpler than ours. yet, they are a stalwart addition to any meal. a fluff of mashed potatoes flanked by veggies and maybe a veggie burger or a chicken breast. comfort indeed. no push-pull of power there. no agenda-jostling. just mashed potatoes. they don’t need special billing, yet they know their place in dinner is important. they feel the aretha franklin r-e-s-p-e-c-t.
and, there is nothing quite like that first forkful of mashed potatoes. the yum. it’s coming home on a plate.
i felt a funny rush of appreciation for mashed potatoes. we don’t think enough about the elements of our dinner, the workers in the restaurant, the people who add value, meaning, resonance, life to organizations to which we belong. we don’t ponder the integral nature of their existence on the plate, in the bistro, in the institution, how much we count on them. we don’t realize – until the grocery store is strangely out of potatoes – how much we depended upon them, their place on our dinner plate – or, by extension of these other examples – their hard work as we celebratorily dine out or their place in the soul of our organization.
sometimes, it’s the loss of potatoes that makes us miss potatoes. and then we wonder – after-the-fact – what can we do to make sure potatoes are always preserved, always available?
we thanked each of the workers and servers in the restaurant and we tipped well. we always do, no matter what. if tipping is not within our means, we will not go out. for the reason we are having the experience at all is because of the good work of those good people.
so – after my musing about mashed potatoes and teams of people – i’ll just say this: do not minimize the importance of mashed potatoes, the value of mashed potatoes. they are often the glue in a meal, and skin-on mashed potatoes are rich in fiber, low in calories, and have nutrients like vitamin c, potassium and vitamin b6. all building-blocks.
and we all need good building-blocks. and a little respect.
the front was obvious. the edge was unmistakable. i know there have been other days when it was so, but for some reason – this very week, this very day – it was profound. clear-cut demarcation. dense clouds meeting blue-blue sky – a distinct line.
though often – most days, really – the clouds co-exist with the blue sky, this made the front system – windy, cold, raw, a bit nasty – inordinately clear. there was no doubt where it was and where it wasn’t. this front did not hide in tall cumulonimbus plumes. this front did not pose as puffy cumulus clouds, lurking in wait for opportunity to tower and turn into thunderstorms. this front was what it was. it was not duplicitous.
i must say i appreciated that about this front. it was just so clear, so transparent, honest, if you can attach such an adjective to a weather system. i stopped at a light and grabbed my camera to try and capture the line in the sky. it was a good day to remind myself that lines like this really do exist. nature is straight-forward about its intention. it’s not pretending to be something else.
a front is a front. blue sky is blue sky. a storm is a storm. nothing two-faced about it.
as usual, humans could learn a lot from nature.
“compared with the intense purity and cordiality and beauty of nature, the most delicate refinements and cultures of civilization are gross barbarisms.” (john muir)
i would be lying if i told you i didn’t cry at the string shop.
i did cry. i’m crying now.
i am a professional pianist. a composer. proudly a yamaha artist with an intensely beautiful C5 in my studio and fifteen albums plus of vulnerability out in the world. i play the guitar and the ukulele. i dabbled on the trumpet in college for five minutes or so. but, oh…the cello.
the moment i touched my cello i had a bond with it. and, holding the idea close of learning to play mournfully heart-draining melody lines, i purchased it. because artists dream, i played.
but reality is reality.
and now – with 45° of wrist forward range of motion – my cello needed a new home. it’s just a fact.
i held onto it long after i knew this. it’s hard to let go a dream. and i’ve never before sold a beloved instrument.
yet, cellos – like all instruments – need to be loved on: played, listened to, tweaked, played more. a paesold, german-made, warm and resonant in tone, it begged to come out of the corner of my studio. though i tried to ignore it, it is like ignoring the stare of an australian shepherd who clearly wants you to do something (and we have experience with this). so my cello kept staring at me and staring at me. even without entering my studio – for i have not spent much time in there in these most recent years – i could feel the stare of the cello through the wall.
until finally.
i know this cello is valuable. yet, the string shop i sold it to – for much less than its value – was full of string music and luthiers working, a performance space and a full marching line of cellos on the wall. it will not be lonely as it waits to be re-homed.
the shopowner knew how hard it was for me to sell this cello, to leave it behind, to leave at all.
i touched its maple and spruce, exquisitely varnished. i spoke to my cello. and i blew it a kiss as we left, entirely and utterly choked-up.
and i wondered how my cello-dream might morph into something else.
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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.
en pointe, arm in fourth ordinary position, the queen lace stands in late winter. curved seed petal over her head she stands in the brilliant sun, ready to release all the rest, to grow, to start over.
way back in the day, one of my favorite times in each week’s schedule was when my little girl took ballet lessons. she had a pink leotard and tights and tiny ballet slippers. we parents sat on the wood floor in the hallway just outside the entrance to the dance studio, gazing in wonder at our little girls – dancing. tiny ballerinas. the sweetest ballet.
our play group back then gathered in our houses, with a revolving schedule. when we were anywhere near a piano, i’d play music and all the little ones would dance. it was amazing and inspiring to see all these tiny people dancing with abandon. so much joy.
we passed the queen anne’s lace and i could see these tiny dancers as we passed by – arm curved and raised overhead, on tippy-toes, swaying, twirling in the wind.
in my mind i raised my arm up – over my head – and pirouetted around. right there on the trail. what better way to greet the sun of each new day, i thought.
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and, just like thistles, prickly people tend to stick together. at least that’s been my experience.
one wonders what the point of thistles are in the world. what good might they do? the nectar and pollen are of nutritional value to pollinators; the seeds are feed for songbirds. but ouch! the packaging is a bit rough.
sandspurs were a way of life in florida. any time you stood on the swale of the road you would expect to encounter them. they were present on the coast of hilton head too, sticking to the bottom of your flipflops as you walked to the water’s edge. we encounter them on the trail – particularly if you step off, into the underbrush. sandspurs, like thistles, are unwelcome hitchhikers on socks and the bottom hemline of jeans, backpacks you laid down, beachtowels. they are about as prickly as thistles – and about as nasty.
i suppose if people were to assign flora to our personalities, none of us would prefer to be “thistle” or “sandspur”. i’m thinking more along the line of peony or daisy, sunflower or orchid or even cattail or meadow grass. definitely not thistle. definitely not sandspur.
and yet, there are people – out there – who seem to relish their prickliness. maybe it’s to stave off other people. maybe it’s a protective shield of some sort. maybe it’s the result of others’ prickliness to them. or maybe it’s the truth – they are just damn prickly.
and, as we know, thistles attract thistles. nasty attracts nasty. mean attracts mean. sandspur and thistle posses can be powerful, keeping out – repelling – anything softer, anything into which they can sink those stickers.
each day – as we continually learn of the challenges of others – i think that there is not enough time to be prickly, not enough time to be nasty like that, not enough time to be unkind, not enough time to be uncaring. we barely have enough time to be loving, to be kind, to care about those around us, to have compassion for those we don’t know.
and despite the many advantages of the thistle, the many advantages of the sandspur, i’m thinking that an outer shell that may or not may belie inner goodness is kind of a waste of precious time. it may be good for the underbrush, good for the meadow, but it’s not so good for humankind.
i could feel it as we entered the woods. even in the cold. even on a mucky trail. especially in the damp fog. it wrapped around me, my body relaxed and i could breathe.
we are in the middle of a lot. like you, life swirls and dips and is taking us places we didn’t expect. like you, we don’t sign up for the angsts, the challenges, the aloneness of some of it. but it is there, nevertheless.
it’s in those times – in the fermatas of those times – that we need be in the cathedral. for us, that means stepping into the bowed trees in this forest, their very branches arching over us. for us, that means walking, hiking, trekking in the quiet. it’s then that i can hear.
and perspective – arriving on glorious air – reminds me. of my smallness in all of this. of an imperative to not take every single thing personally. of release and of healing in the mist. of a bigger presence that is indeed wrapping around me. and is always there. silently tapping my shoulder.
i step into the trees and i instantly can feel it – that this is the only day. i can throw it away, like i often have – for we all forget. or i can immerse in it. knowing it is now.
i can’t change – so much – what is. i can’t affect – so much – what will come. i certainly can’t transform what was. and all of that will be waiting for me, after the trail, post-cathedral.
but i’m slowly learning – ever-so-slowly – how to stand in it all. i’m learning how to accept it, how to move in it, how to move through it, how to get to next. sometimes.
the bigger picture – under the cathedral of sky – gives me air and every now and then – just in the nick of time – interrupts my moment of worry and chastens me to feel the right now.
that air is always with us – the exhale of wise old trees and the stardust of those before us.
at the moment i am writing this, i am not in possession of this.
but.
sometime between then and now, i suppose we may go back so that i might get it. for even in the paring-down, giving-away, selling and disposing of artifacts-of-life accumulated along-the-way, i find myself drawn to things here and there…like this counter bell.
maybe there will be a shoppe of some sort some day. maybe that big old barn. maybe a foodtruck called “AND SAUCE” where we will drive all over the countryside and serve up sauce with other stuff – like on a baked potato or roasted veggies or oven-baked sweet potato slices or in a pita or, yes, even on pasta. it’s a fun fantasy – our AND SAUCE foodtruck from sea to shining sea. or maybe & SAUCE – with the ampersand. some things are important to suss out ahead of time, like font and logogram characters. nevermind the business plan and budget. pshaw! regardless of all that, people may need to ding us, using this very bell on the window counter of the truck. i mean, who really knows what can happen?!
in the meanwhile, i’m not sure why we would need a counter bell, though – frankly – i can think of a few purely indulgent reasons. it just appeals to me.
there are brand new bells at staples for merely $3. and there are victorian-like bells on etsy for $30. this bell – though – it has some history. there are stories here. there is no indication where this bell – to get attention – lived. was it in a bakery? in a small market or general store? was it at a used bookstore or a boutique of some sort? was it at the front desk of a hotel or tiny country inn? whatever its story, you can tell it was well-used. there are dings on its old plain galvanized metal. it got some attention.
so, i wonder if purchasing it – having it here – on some counter in our home – might propel forward some of the other things i dream of…projects and products that may have a place in the world, music and books to birth, closely-held ideas to design. new ventures. or old ventures revisited. would the bell help? i don’t know.
i do know this: that just seeing this counter bell at the antique shoppe, just ringing it and giggling at its loud attention-getting ding, just picking it up and holding it, placing it back down on the shelf to ding once again…this has all gotten me to thinking.
“you are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. and whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should…” (desiderata – max ehrmann)
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“when she stopped conforming to the conventional picture of femininity she finally began to enjoy being a woman.”(betty friedan – national organization for women co-founder)
ripped jeans and boots are – most often – my dress of choice. i add a black thermal shirt or a long (black) tunic and feel like me. it’s my dopamine dressing, regardless of the colors, textures, ensembles on the dopamine charts.
my studio is not large. it’s one of the bedrooms on the main floor – in the front of the house. there are three double-hung windows – two of which face south – so nice light. there’s a chiffarobe holding a big old black-framed window, pictures of my parents displayed. there’s tin on the wall with photos of my children. there’s a painting by david and two framed collages with my first two albums. there’s a photo of me as a little girl, a rocking chair, music stands and mic stands. and there’s my piano. it’s a 6’5″ yamaha grand so it’s a presence.
and now – over in the corner opposite my bench – hangs this lampshade. i suppose it could be used as an actual on-a-lamp lampshade, but ever since i saw fabric-repurposed lampshades hanging in that iowa farmhouse we stayed at, i have been intrigued by the simple hanging of a lampshade. and so, a couple days after the new year, while out antiquing, we came upon this shade. it was hanging in the middle of a vendor’s booth, with no price tag. it wasn’t for sale. but – like the chunk of concrete – this spoke to me.
its femininity was appealing. torn strips of silk and organdy, a feathered hairclip, i was smitten by it. i could imagine it in my studio – softening the straight lines of plaster walls and crown molding. it felt – forgive me for this generalization – girly. in every good way.
i asked at the front checkout about it and the sales associate and i took a walk back to it. she double-checked, looking for a tag. it looked like it was there to dress up the booth. and, indeed, it did. it was charming.
we left without it, but the associate said she would contact the vendor and let me know the lampshade’s status: available/notforsale. my concern was that even if were available – or if the vendor made it available based upon my desire for it – the demand-cost equation might enter in and it would be out of my range (which, frankly, most things are).
the next day i got a text. $15. i re-read the text. $15. i wrote back, double-checking. surely it wouldn’t be only $15 for me to bring home this piece of softness – this very cool boho shade that reminded me of all the layers of who i am.
i wore – as usual – my ripped jeans and boots, a vest over my black thermal shirt. we walked in and the lampshade – the lampshade waiting for me – was on the counter.
there was a group of women standing near the checkout counter, all talking at once. they glanced over at the lampshade, admiring it, asking me what i was going to do with it. we all laughed together, visiting and having those amazing moments you can sometimes have with a group of women (or people, but in this case it was women) who don’t know each other at all but who all-of-a-sudden have a common interest. the lampshade.
this is a good time in my life for this, for the ripped ribbons of silk and shreds of organdy that flow gently from its structure, for the skeleton of a for-a-lamp shade to have new out-of-the-box purpose, for a reminder of femininity and of who i am.
on the way out, carrying my lampshade as i passed by one of the older women standing nearby, she turned to me and said, “it looks like you.”
reverse threading 