we were laying on the sand on a couple of old beachtowels. the feels-like was 90 plus, but we were under some trees and what appeared to be the only spot of shade on the beach. the breeze was coming off the water and we could hear the waves breaking at the shore. seagulls, the laughter of children in the distance, boats and jetskis out on the aquamarine water, you could think it was a beach resort somewhere, perhaps an island.
with my head on my small backpack, i closed my eyes and appreciated the wind, my feet still cool from walking the water’s edge, waves breaking on our legs. above us, the sky was cerulean, gorgeous cumulus clouds floating by. we couldn’t believe our good fortune, this ideal spot on the beach.
it was down the beach from where the work was taking place. there were tugboats and bulldozers and barges and boulders and giant backhoes – all to shore up the shoreline, a project by the state of illinois. interesting to watch, we were far away so as not to be intrusive. we were surprised to see jetskis zipping in and around the actual workzone; we wondered aloud about their lack of regard for the workers and safety issues.
we lost track of time as we stared at the water, watched golden retrievers fetch balls in the waves, marveled again and again about the cool sandy haven we had found. hiking back out – it was only a mile or so down the trail – it was hot again, humidity clinging to the marshland as we walked through.
back home we agreed that it was the perfect way to spend the afternoon. a little bitta beach goes a long way settling down your mind. our spot, like a guided imagery meditation, the quiet and almost-solitude, the sun filtering through the trees, the clouds dancing across the sky-canvas, and waves lapping the sand. restorative, it brought us calm.
the seagull looked at me furtively, side-eyed. he acted like i just wasn’t there, stepping along the harbor channel wall at his own pace, seemingly not too nervous about my presence.
writing, i’m holding my weathered copy of jonathan livingston seagull in my hand. jonathan thrived. he left the traditional flock of gulls so that he could fly, soaring higher than he had ever soared. he was an outlier but was kind and loving, generous with the skills he learned.
i’m thinking he was as much an artist as those of us who are artists.
ever since, well, forever, i have had a thing about seagulls. i have a seagull collection in a box in the basement. in the 70s, it was a popular tchotchke – a plaster or wood base that looked like a piling or rocks or shoreline with a thin metal piece atop which was a seagull. sold in every beachfront town, i was – back then – a willing buyer. i had seagulls everywhere in my room. they represented the beach for me – my winter/spring/summer/fall sanctuary. and then i read richard bach’s book. and i was hooked. it resonated with me back then, this story of breaking away, hopefulness, dreaming, accomplishing. i was 18 and i was a jonathan-livingston-seagull.
my soaring seagull days ended abruptly at 19.
but in these days now – as i walk the lake michigan beach or hear the gulls as they fly overhead our house – i am reminded. the caw of the gull is reassuring and, as i gaze up watching them swoop and soar, i feel vestiges of the surf – the sound and the ocean from long ago. tide out. tide in.
i walked along the channel and, in parallel lines, the gull started to step along the wall. and then he stopped, put both feet firmly on the cement.
and, still looking at me sideways, whispered, “don’t forget you know how to fly.”
i own 200% of my original pieces of music, my original songs. 100% of that is the compositional copyright and the other 100% is the sound recording copyright. with the exception of one vocal song which i collab’ed on, and one song where i gave my dueting partner a percentage for a few lyrics he changed, i have solely written each piece.
i did not find myself near the bluebird cafe in nashville or any of the listening rooms in nyc or los angeles when i was writing any of these albums. by the time i was writing for albums i would be recording, i was a mom of two small children, one a tiny toddler. my writing took place in the midst of potty-training and reading stacks of books, pbj’s and grilled cheese with the crust cut off. my growing-up piano was the instrument on which i wrote my first three albums, surrounded by barbies and matchbox cars, vhs tapes of barney and disney movies. i wrote with children on the bench, children under the bench, children on my lap.
in my most recent composing, a bit ago now, i still found myself writing this way…with many plates spinning and in short spurts of dedicated time. it was a practice i honed through the years and it served me well, this multi-tasking.
vocal song lyrics are found on scraps of paper, on pa-pads, on napkins, with letter names of notes and jotted rhythmic gestures next to the words. some of these took weeks of fine-tuning, changes and wordsmithing. others took ten minutes. total. slow dance is one of those.
the album as sure as the sun is one that celebrates life and love and relationship, in its many facets. after five instrumental albums (and another nine albums later) with the very best producer – also my arranger and a consummate musician – i worked with a nashville producer on this vocal full-length. in los angeles for some pre-recording meetings, we put the song same sweet love to pencil and paper, adding it to the lineup for asats production. it’s a totally different energy to collaborate on a song – to share the writing – and something i had little experience with. we both ended up singing on this song and we co-own it.
the very wide spectrum of love – and its impact, its mystery, its universally understoodness (and not-understoodness) – is one of the emotions to which songwriters gravitate. powerful and complex, there is no limit to reaching listeners, a strong connection the tie between music and emotions, a driving force.
i’ve read that a recent psychology of music study revealed that in every decade over the past six decades (since 1960), as much as 67% of all song lyrics were about romantic love. it’s not surprising.
when i do pick up pencil and paper again, looking at the line-up of songs already written for a potential next vocal album, i’d imagine that there may be some editing. i’d imagine that the arvo pärt note-smith will step into the instrumentals. i’d imagine that some lyrics will change in the line-up, maybe a melodic gesture or two, maybe the harmonic structure. i’d imagine that – maybe – in the review of these last years there might be a few new pieces, maybe a whole album’s worth of songs or instrumentals that muster their way past my editing delete-r.
i’d guess that there might be songs about transition, about relevance, about aging, about simplicity. i’d guess that there might be songs about hard decisions, hard times, hard losses. i’d guess that there might be songs about love, in all the corners of one’s life.
and i’d guess i’ll own 200%, back in my studio, comfortable writing alone.
we did not birth a baby together. until all these bunnies. our new-parent-juju is rising. together, we watch over them, noticing how they are growing, changing, their different puff-ball tails, their different markings. truth be told, we are not sure how many bunnies we actually have. we suspect that the number is rapidly increasing – as different sizes are showing up – all in the same day. so we are likely parenting multiples – twins, triplets and beyond.
my sweet momma used to tell me that when she discovered she was expecting – a decade after having my sister and brother – she wanted to have twins. she wanted me to be twins. she didn’t get all regretful or anything, but she just wanted me to know that she wanted me to have a sibling close to my age.
i wasn’t a twin. and my sister and brother grew, lightyears ahead of me, leaving home and marrying while i was just reaching double-digits. i, ever the little-sister, had special relationships with both of them and treasured time and sleepovers at their homes. but i can see the wisdom of my mom’s wish for twins. she called me their “dividend”.
and so i grew up – post-just-turning-double-digits – with older parents. they were already in their mid-fifties when i was a mid-teenager. and they were from a generation a little bit more old-fashioned. so, i s’pose i was a little bit more old-fashioned too.
they were already at the stage where suddenly they had a little bit more time to pay attention to the birds, the animals around our growing-up house, their garden. while i always appreciated their zeal, i didn’t stop in the zooming-around of a teenager to partake in much bird or wildlife watching or spend a lot of time in the gardens. after they moved to florida, in their last home together, they would sit for hours gazing out at the lake behind their home, watching for waterfowl, tiny lizards and traces of lurking alligators. witnesses of nature. it always brought them peace.
and now i get it.
last night we sat on the deck as the sun began to fall behind the horizon. the night air was cooler and the birds, chippies, squirrels, bunnies were busy. we marveled at the hummingbird flitting in to the feeder and we laughed at the antics of a gleeful dogdog, who was outsmarted every time by whichever bunbun was in the yard. we both sighed. the day was coming to an end and our yard-family was getting ready to tuck in.
the joys of dividends are numerous we see. old-fashioned goodness.
my sweet momma and my poppo – over in the next dimension – smiled knowing smiles and clapped their hands as they watched me, as they watched us.
i’m trying to decide just how vulnerable to be, how brutally honest, how much to share. it’s like sitting on the fulcrum in the middle of the seesaw…you can choose either way from the pivot point.
this lovely couple – who we considered extended family and saw every sunday – was next door at the garden club’s secret garden event. we saw them from our deck, waving to us over the neighbor’s fence. we gestured we’d meet them in the front yard. giant hugs later, we started a little catching up, having not seen each other in years now. they had family tales and travel tales and many tales of adventure.
they told us they missed us. we were grateful to hear they missed our “energy” and “the fun we brought”. they asked about us.
he asked if i had a position now. i don’t. being terminated during a global pandemic at the age of then-61 with an injury to my hand doesn’t naturally lead to a new position, particularly in the arts. i’m 64 now and we can both agree that age discrimination is alive and well in our country.
she asked if i was composing, if i was “doing my music”.
i sat in the middle of the seesaw.
i’m asked this fairly frequently – people expect someone who has 15 albums already and who has also spent decades as a minister of music – to be fully immersed in music now. after. usually, i somehow deflect, saying something like ” you know, the pandemic…” my voice trailing off. then i quickly ask what they are up to, how their family is, the new grandchild, the retirement, the vacation, the joint replacement…
this time, though, with these dear people standing in our driveway on a beautiful day – post-hugs – tears sprang to my eyes and i began by saying, “eh, this might be too much information.”
and then i told them that i am not composing, that i am not “doing my music” and that i haven’t been able to. that it’s too been too much, that it was too hurtful, that – as much as my studio is a part of me, my essence – being fired devastated me in more ways than anyone can really imagine. it is not as simple as walking back into the studio, sitting at my piano, grabbing pencil and paper, placing hands on the keys. it wasn’t just any old job they took away. it was part of my soul. and – to be honest – i am having trouble recovering. still.
the fulcrum teetered and the seesaw arm – the resistance arm or the effort arm, i wonder – fell to the ground, jostling me. i apologized for the over-abundance of emotion.
they stared at me. they looked surprised; they looked sad. we were quiet for a minute, while i regained my composure and climbed back onto the fulcrum pivot.
but the words were out there. and they were the truth of it all.
“my lighthouse, my lighthouse, shining in the darkness, i will follow you…
my lighthouse, my lighthouse, i will trust the promise, you will carry me safe to shore…”.*
the first person i think of when i see a lighthouse is crunch. we spent so much time together going from long island lighthouse to long island lighthouse, it’s an instant connect. i sent him this photo of the light on the kenosha channel leading into the harbor.
we are lucky to live close to this harbor area. any day we don’t feel like getting in littlebabyscion or big red to drive out to a trail we walk down along the lake. it’s beautiful. and never the same. the foghorn sounds through misty days and is like the sound of mourning doves – gentle, somewhat wistful, always welcome.
as much as i think about mountains, i have been – my whole life – a sea-level-girl. i’ve never lived far from water – big water. long island sound, the atlantic ocean, the gulf of mexico, lake michigan. i’d go walk the beach winter, spring, summer, fall. i’d take my red ball-and-chain round am/fm transistor radio and a beach towel and soak up summer sun. i’d go snorkeling or diving or boating or fishing. it used to be – and still is true – that big water (and small water) is healing for me. it gives me breath.
“in my wrestling and in my doubts in my failures you won’t walk out your great love will lead me through you are the peace in my troubled sea, oh oh you are the peace in my troubled sea
in the silence, you won’t let go in the questions, your truth will hold your great love will lead me through you are the peace in my troubled sea, oh oh you are the peace in my troubled sea“*
the lighthouse. it’s not hard to grasp the lyricist’s meaning. the divine – whatever or whoever that is for each of us – stays with us, holds us, holds on, lights the way. i suppose i should delve further into this songwriter’s political leanings and social consciousness, for i have found that many of the artists in this genre are hypocritically biased and sway away from equality, instead, lurking in the fringes of extremism. but for right now, i just want to remain – momentarily – a little bit uninformed. for this moment, i want to linger in some beautiful lyrics, a powerful song that my ukulele band sang many, many times.
the lighthouse of the harbor here is red. fire island lighthouse is black and white. montauk point lighthouse is white with a brick red stripe.
with those, time spent adrift at sea is lit, protection is concentrated candlepower.
our own personal lighthouses – those wise ones around us, our god, our universe-mother-earth – they light the way. countless times i have felt the strong arms of someone carrying me to shore, helping me breathe in the midst of the storm, holding steady in the turmoil.
“light their way when the darkness surrounds them. give them love, let it shine all around them.” (richard carpenter) lighthouses. even on the top of a mountain, even in the desert, even in the amber waves.
“life is slippery. here, take my hand.”(h. jackson browne, jr., author)
the h. jackson browne, jr. card is in my studio. it reminds me that lighthouses aren’t the only lighthouses.
“fire before us, you’re the brightest; you will lead us through the storms…” (*rend collective)
i am a fan of happy endings. i would guess that’s something on which we likely agree. i mean, who doesn’t love any sort of happy ending – quiet or gushy – any part of the happy spectrum.
and so, in the past couple of weeks – with people we love close-in struggling with serious issues – i want to linger in the happy ending. perspective has slapped us upside the head a few times over these weeks and, teetering a little on shaky ground, we are holding firmly to happy conclusions.
on days when hikes generate deep pondering or the dinner table yields questions about uncertainty, googling about things we know little, we tend to list to an evening of a little couch-sitting and a movie of choice that will – most definitely – have a happy ending.
this could be a hallmark movie. or it could be my big fat greek wedding, which makes us laugh every single time, dozens of times later. it could be about time or love actually or the proposal. it could be sweet home alabama or ps i love you or the family stone. the fuzzy purple zippy dvd holder is the keeper of our cherished movies and we can pick pretty much anything from it and sink into the couch cushions, sighing.
we don’t feel like we are sticking our heads into the sand. we don’t feel like we are fancying escapism (though who doesn’t?!). we don’t feel like we are pollyanna-ing our way into the lull of sleep. we are painfully aware of the precariousness of it all.
instead, we feel like we are reminding ourselves of the possibility. we are immersing in the potential of goodness. we are restoring that place inside from which we draw strength that we might pass on to others, the place from which we can hold others close, lift them up, ask the universe for grace and their healing.
we are taking a deep breath and seeking the happy ending. remembering that they do exist.
it’s been a minute since i’ve sung into a microphone. for that matter, i haven’t spoken into a microphone in a while either. i haven’t run cables or tested monitors, used earpieces or balanced sound in a space. i haven’t hung condenser mics over my piano or booms in front of the keyboard. no neumanns or shures, no audix.
it’s not like you forget, though.
we walked past the meadow off-trail and nature had clearly sent in her sound engineer. the meadow hawkweed microphones stood ready and able to amplify all the ambient sounds of the woods. it made me giggle a little thinking about these tiny microphone-like clusters soaking up all the noises around them, running them through some sort of nature-equalizer and tossing them back out through an invisible speaker system.
in every good venue sound system, decisions are made for each and every performance. tiny – sometimes barely perceptible – turns of the dials, slides of the sliders, mutes and unmutes all define what the listener will hear. in the best scenario, the listener hears sound as it really is, nothing distorted. in the best scenario, sound is pure, unadulterated, unfiltered, offered as true, crisp, present, full-frequency-range. the piano sounds luxurious; the voice rides above it. exquisite.
how would nature balance it all – the call of birds, the busy peeper-frogs, the wind in the high leaves of the forest, the wings of butterflies, the tease of chipmunks and squirrels in the underbrush, the crunch of human footfall, conversation, hushed tones of worry, laughter, breath. would nature pare down all tones of negativity, choosing instead to pan to the positive? or would nature allow for all of it – a cacophony of life as it exists in the moment?
the draw of the microphone is powerful. i wonder if the butterflies nearby felt it too.
sisu is alive and well at the milwaukee art museum. i was thrilled to see the scandinavian design installation. i was pretty sure it would all feel familiar. all my life, i have been surrounded by pieces from scandinavia, finland in particular.
in what is likely a sin-of-casualness, quite some time ago i placed the vintage marimekko dish towel into the kitchen drawer, wanting to use it, to see it more often than the rare times i open up the cedar chest. i took out other finnish linens as well, placing them in regular rotation. they are simpler, organic linens, raw in color. but the marimekko…it’s happiness in a towel.
so when we walked into the room with the brilliant marimekko maija isola’s unikko (poppy) design hanging as a giant banner of fabric, i was inordinately happy. gorgeous and bold, you could stand there for a long time and just soak it in, like sunshine on a bluebird day.
i have many finnish relatives. all delightful and spread about in finland and various other european countries, i haven’t had the pleasure of being in their company since i was eight and my grandmother took me to finland for ten weeks to experience the land of the midnight sun, the sauna and the lake of the northern cabin, the town named after her family – klamila. but, at eight, i wasn’t fascinated by bolts of fabric or designer glass. instead, i pretended there was a horse on the back porch and spent long hours on the porchrail, reins in hand, exploring the wilds of finland. it would do my heart good to meet this branch of family once again.
i knew my sweet momma and my grandmother were cheering as we slowly made our way through the installation. reading all the placards and admiring the simplicity of pieces of silver, of china, of exquisitely designed coffeepots, we had to, of course, veer off the scandinavian path and visit the diebenkorn and the rothko before we left.
the marimekko towel was the next one up in the drawer. i took it out and pondered the feasibility of using such a treasured item. and then i could hear my momma echo my grandmother’s words: of course you should. it’s your roots.
and tomorrow we will go to chicago. we’ll metra downtown and walk to boystown. there will be sooo many people. and with them, we will stand on the corner of halsted and waveland and watch our son perform on-stage outside in the rainbowed city.
to say i am overjoyed at his producing of music these days would be an understatement. his zeal is full-on and he is squeezing every last minute of every day as he works in his professional position full-time and djs edm (electronic dance music) the rest of the time.
at his condo in chicago, in his studio, he demonstrated to me how he creates. as an analog artist, it was a fascinating experience to glean this complex digital mixing of tracks, layering, feathering, a sedimentary piece of music produced with great intention. it is hard not to dance as i watch. it’s hard not to be aware of the invisible bit of baton i hold, poised to pass. and i am aware of the contagious quivering of excitement, the gift of his sharing his process, how much i understand – on a cellular, heart level – how this creating feeds him. and then…then, there’s the joy…
different genres, but i still grok how my son feels. knowing that what you are producing is resonating with someone – someones, if you will – is powerful inspiration. i won’t forget the release of my first album and, even at number fifteen years later, it was with both the same excitement and vulnerability as the first. time and study and experimenting and lessons bank courage, though, so we each keep on keeping on, growing – much like anything in life to which we give time and attention.
i’d imagine that the day my yamaha c5 was delivered into my studio felt much like the day he upgraded his decks and gear. i’d imagine the day i stood in the sitting room with the chicago radio station on – waiting – and then my music aired – the first airplay ever – feels much like his tracks being signed to major edm labels, waiting to be released. i’d imagine the applause, stepping into the apron, at the end of a piece, feels much like the exhilarated dancing and cheers of the crowds at his gigs. i get it.
you know you are merely one artist in a universe of artists. humility. relevancy. there is much to learn. for both of us. always. the arc of an artist is never really done.
we have spent nights watching our son stream from clubs. 2am is later than it used to be but it’s a thrill to watch him in his element. we’ve listened to every single track he has sent us, every idea, every gesture in whatever iteration. we’ve connected our remote speaker and played his music during our happy hour, i’ve listened with ear buds on soundcloud, spotify, iTUNES. but tomorrow…
it is with much pride we will stand and watch our son. it is with much pride that we will be surrounded by his friends and by the community. it is with much pride that we’ll dance and cheer along with the gathered crowd. it is with much pride that we celebrate pride.
reverse threading 