going to our local grocery store is kind of a social outing for us. we always walk in the same door and are immediately greeted. it’s like walking into ‘cheers’ the bar on the tv show of the same name. no one yells out, “norm!” but it feels the same. leticia and skye and anthony and thank-goodness-she-is-recuperating-and-is-back-hugging-everyone-cheryl…all are sweet and hardworking people who make us feel welcome, noticed. it keeps us going there; it makes a difference. it’s this grocery store’s mission – to serve – no one is forgotten.
feeling recognized – whether you are or not – is essential. someone else’s act of including you can change everything. for you. for them. someone else’s act of noticing you can change everything. for you. for them. it humanizes experiences that can be mundane and even cold. those moments on an elevator in the absolute quiet, everyone staring at the door. the security line at the airport. finding your way through a train station. in the doctor’s office waiting room. seated in an event auditorium, minutes before its start. fast-walking through city streets. in the oil change wait area. and yes, in the grocery store. notice.
i try to remember this. it’s my natural inclination to fill the gap of awkward silence with something, anything. i have had many strange stares on the subways of nyc, actually having had the audacity to talk or laugh with someone i don’t know. but those brief words or quick laughter changed something in me right then; the moments on the subway became real, the people became real, everything slowed down and it was about right then. noticed.
we heard a comedian once say, (words to the effect) “it’s not about making people laugh. it’s about bringing laughter TO people.” festival’s got it right. they are on target with their mission – to serve. the are enriching the lives of others. in the simplest way, by noticing people, their customers, they bring a sense of community. noticing.
and no one – or thing – is forgotten. not even lettuce. well, maybe green leaf.
the tread matters not. the wheels of change are constant. fluid. ever-rolling.
we have watched bristol woods change. we hike there often and have gotten to know trees and turns in the trail personally. many months ago we knew a decision was made to build a high ropes “adventure” course in part of the park. we have watched its birth; we have witnessed the change. the big machinery is out there. gravel roads are cut. trees have been removed. tall poles have been installed and ropes are now hung between them. the county’s position is that this will be a good thing, generating revenue that would go back into “upkeep and improvements”.
all this remains to be seen. it would just be my hope that they haven’t lost sight of the simplest reasons for this place to exist, the quiet reasons, the pure reasons. what is that expression….”penny wise, pound foolish.” sometimes cutting corners or chasing the shiny new thing isn’t the wisest move in the long run. you lose the sure foundation, not recognizing what it is you are losing, the steadfast movement underestimated, the maturity of the woods undervalued. the wheels of change keep going and the concentric circles of impact widen ever-further out. david’s mom uses the expression “ever-forward” when she signs an email. sometimes forward is forward. and sometimes forward is not so forward.
i can feel the wheels of change. the tread, and therewith the pace, is not yet so evident to me. i’m not sure if it’s road-bike-tire-thin or monster-650-tractor-tire-thick, but they are there, turning, turning. ever-forward…
there have been times when a clear path would have been my choice. something that was predictable, “normal”, serene. a path upon which i wouldn’t have to ask a lot of questions about direction. sense-making would be easy; “right” choices would be obvious.
how many times have i hoped for a sticky note to float down from the heavens above, simple instructions listed like on an ikea bookshelf leaflet. how many times have i wondered about how to forge through the muddy waters, how to get where i can see but not touch. a clear path seems maybe too much to ask. we seek mentors to aid us, to ask tough, blunt questions. expecting candid answers, they help us see. perhaps we would miss too many lessons – or just too much – along the way were we to have a clear path. there is no “normal”.
the elderly hiker in the woods approached from the opposite direction. his hat pulled down over his forehead and his jacket zipped up keeping him warm along the trail, he smiled, inviting a response, and said, “i cleared the path for you. it’s all clear.”
we laughed and thanked him, but i know we both wished he meant it literally. in a life sense.
“healer of the forest” nurselogs are numerous in the woods we hike in. the white rot fungi grow easily in the outer bark of the tree, breaking down the structure of the wood and allowing small pockets of rich soil to form, remediating and inviting moss, mushrooms and small plants to feast on the nutrients and grow, stretching roots around the fallen tree to plant themselves deeper into the ground. small animals find welcome in these healers and they live companionably together, each benefiting the other. the concentric circles ripple outward. symbiosis. harmony.
i’m trying not to read the news as often these days. i find it deafeningly dissonant. apparently, we, as a human race, are not naturally healers. instead, we are creators of havoc, bullying, agenda-pushing individuals who give little care to remediating or living companionably together. the concentric circles that ripple outward are filled with toxins; people get lost in power and control games, indeed benefiting no species whatsoever. strident discord.
the icefall was in front of us. we had our crampons on and the ropes were secured. ladders were stretched across the crevasses and we had weighty backpacks filled with dehydrated food, protein bars and water. we were ready.
ha! in our dreams.
we climb mount everest regularly. now, don’t get all particular about whether this is literal or not. i am a giant fan of all-things-everest so we lose our breath watching others climb on video clips, movies, in books. we are soooo there. but, no, not really THERE.
i can’t imagine climbing everest actually. the perils, the training, the cold, the cost, the crowds (!) all point to the fact that i won’t be climbing everest. but we can climb other mountains, literal and figurative, and stand at the summit shooting selfies with a triumphant expression, realizing a dream. on our way back down we pass others on the way up; some linger on the ropes, unable to move. we offer encouraging words, but, in our conquest, we have already forgotten what it felt like to hang, even momentarily, on the rope, paralyzed.
we all have icefalls in front of us. they are insurmountable. they are surmountable. perhaps some crampons, ropes, ladders and a backpack filled with food and water will help. believing we can realize a dream, overcome an obstacle is the first step.
and, even more, remembering that bit of humility toward others, vulnerable on their way up while we are on our victorious way back down.
everyone does it. in the middle of conversation. in the middle of silence. in the middle of a piece of music. in the middle of a dance. you vamp…buying time.
my poppo would vamp through a silence when he couldn’t think of anything else to say by quipping things like, “how ’bout them apples?” or “how do you like them apples?” or “do you think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?” he didn’t really expect an answer in particular. (well, except for the rhubarb question, in which case the standard ‘correct’ answer, accompanied by rolling of eyes and laughter, was always “not if it’s in cans.”) my dad was a better ponderer than conversationalist. my sweet momma handled most of the conversations of their over-70-years-together time. but you could always count on my adorable poppo for this tad bit of random.
my very-excellent-“it’s-fine”-producer ken can pick out my “how ’bout them apples?” notes in a millisecond. he recognizes them instantly and will say, “thinking note” as i vamp through a thought process heading in some direction or other with a melodic conversation in a piece of music.
some people say, “ummmm.” others say, “liiiiike….” or “welllll….” or “okaaaay….” we each have our own colloquialism, our own phrase that buys time. it’s all good. ummm, well, ok, like, as long as we’re having conversation.
my sweet momma would often call me just as the time i was born would pass on my birthday. at the end of her life she didn’t do this anymore but i always remembered anyway. mid-morning i would know that this was the moment i arrived at this place, this was the beginning of my passing through, the time of my visiting.
today, this very morning, it was 60 years ago that i joined the rest of this good earth on its journey around the sun. spinning, spinning. every day.
it wasn’t long till i realized – as an adult – that we spin our wheels constantly to get to some unknown place we can’t necessarily define or find. we search and spin faster, out of mission, out of passion, out of frustration, loss, a feeling of no value or a sense of lostness. we spin. we seek. we try to accomplish. we try to make our mark. we try to finish. we try to start. we leave scarred rubber skids of emotions on the road behind us; we burn out with abrupt, unexpected turns, we break, wearing out. spinning. spinning. from one thing to another, our schedules full of busy things to do. often, days a repetition of the previous day. every day full. full of spinning. but we are still seeking. life is sometimes what we expected. life is sometimes not what we expected. and that makes us spin faster, our core dizzying with exhaustion.
the simplest gifts – the air, clear cool water to drink, the mountaintop exhilaration of parenthood, hand-holding love, the ephemeral seconds of self-actualizing accomplishment, the sun on our faces…we have images stored in our mind’s eye like photographs in an old-fashioned slide show, at any time ready for us to ponder. but often-times we fail to linger in these exquisite simplicities. the next thing calls.
this morning, as i stare at 60 – which, as i have mentioned, is kind of a significant number for me – i realize that everything i write about or compose about or talk about or hold close in my heart is about these simplest things, the pared-down stuff, the old boots on the trail – not fancy but steadfast, not brand new but muddied up with real. in our day-to-day-ness i/we don’t always see IT. the one thing. there is something -truly- that stands out each day in those sedimentary layers of our lives. it is the thing that makes the rest of the day pale in comparison. in all its simple glory, the one true moment that makes us realize that we are living, breathing, ever-full in our spinning world. the thing that connects us to the world. the shiny thing. the mica. that tiny irregular piece of glittering mica in the layers and veneers of life. the thing to hold onto with all our might.
that tiny glitter of mica. mica nestles itself within a bigger rock, a somewhat plain rock – igneous, metamorphic, sedimentary ordinariness. not pinnacle, it is found within the bigger context. sometimes harder to find, harder to notice, but there. and it makes the day our day, different than any other. it is the reason we have learned or grown that day. it is the reason we have laughed that day. it is the reason we have picked ourselves up off the floor that day. it is the reason we have breathed that day.
and now, at 60, i resolve to see, to collect those pieces of glitter. not in an old wooden box or a beat-up vintage suitcase, but, simply, since they are moments in time, in a tiny notebook or on my calendar. join me in #TheMicaList if you wish. as we wander and wonder through it is our job, in our very best interest, to notice the finest shimmering dust, the mica in the rock, the glitter in our world.
with all the reminders around us to remember-remember-remember that every day counts, we get lost in our own spinning stories, narratives of many strata. i know that in the midnight of the days i look back on the hours of light and darkness in which i moved about and remember one moment – one moment – be it a fleetingly brief, elusive, often evanescent moment of purity, the tiniest snippet of conversation, belly-laugh humor, raw learning, naked truth, intense love – those are the days i know – i remember – i am alive.
my visit to this physical place is not limitless. but each glitter of mica is a star in a limitless sky of glitter, a milky way of the times that make me uniquely me and you uniquely you, a stockpile of priceless relics. my time stretches back and stretches ahead, a floating silken thread of shiny. it’s all a mysterious journey.
this came across my desk last week. “maturity in season of life.” part of a minister of music job description, i was struck by the unguarded language, the bow to what only time and experience can teach. i have never seen this written as such before. it was bracing in every GOOD way. it was appreciatory. it was a breath of fresh air.
in a society that seeks to remain youthful and puts less emphasis on maturity in season of life than on staying young, we need remember there’s a place for everyone. some places require youth, fresh and breathing hard from the sprint. other places recognize the need for the steadfast wisdom of the ages, a decision-maker-doer who brings a lifetime of positive and negative experiences and knows how to differentiate between them, has an intuition built on time and the ever-growing wealth of lessons. the seesaw has room for both; the fulcrum can only balance with both.
as two artists living together, we are more than aware of the challenge of ageism, the challenge of time spent in our artistry and how that relates to value. more than a thousand times we have each been admonished for thinking we need to be paid when we should be grateful for the “exposure” we are being “granted”. more than a thousand times we have each been in a place where we have had to explain why our artistry needs to be financially rewarded just like anyone else’s work.
indeed, pay scales have been built to reflect time spent and job descriptions use verbiage like “pay is commensurate with experience.” experience. maturity: “the ability to respond to the environment in an appropriate manner. being aware of the correct time and location to behave and knowing when to act, according to the circumstances and the culture of the society (read: job) one lives in (read: one works in).”
i recently was having a written messaging chat with a hard-working young adult whose job is in the arts. with these challenges facing him every day, he said that people do not realize that “they’re paying me to know what to do if things don’t go well.” intuition. working on the fly based on training, knowledge and an ever-building bank of experiences. he will continue to face that challenge; it will only deepen. how is that maturity measured? how will he be paid for that maturity, for that which he cannot describe and for which others cannot fathom? for some reason, in this society, it is easier to answer that question if you are doing a numbers job, something seemingly more concrete, more measurable, more quantifiable.
but maturity in season of life touches others as well and we have dear friends who have been ‘let go’ from their jobs simply because of their age. now, their companies would never testify to that and are careful to avoid such language – for that would set them up for all kinds of legal problems – but it has been clear to our friends, struggling to find a new way in later days of their lives. few and far between are those who are able to benefit by pointing out the error of their ways to the company that is undervaluing a later human-on-this-earth season. other friends are fortunate enough to be working somewhere that has deeply valued the long time they have spent in their work and these friends have retired with spoken words of gratitude and wishes of continued good living. where is the fulcrum?
in this particular document that came across my desk, the whole phrase read, “maturity in season of life and maturity in ministry experience.” shockingly, they are seeking this as a qualifier and they are willing to pay for it. speaking directly to that qualifier that beautifully honors the wisdom of the ages, there are things that, as a minister of music at 19 i did not know. there are things that, as a minister of music at 32 i did not know. likewise, as a 30-years-as-a-minister-of-music at days-away-from-60, of course there are things i do not know.
what i DO know is that every experience i have had as a minister of music has built upon the last. instead of a chasm where learnings have dropped rapid-fire into an abyss, i have learned what the important stuff is and how to attempt to keep those things foremost.
like anyone in any job, mastery is commensurate with time spent, with growth in that work, and yes, without exception, with maturity in season of life.
“take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.” (desiderata)
my sweet momma always said that you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. although she stood her ground, she rarely pushed back. well, maybe at my dad…i certainly heard her push back in that relationship. she was a woman before her time, struggling to be seen and heard…in relationship, in work, in the world. nevertheless, she led with kindness and generosity.
recently i surprisingly found myself in a situation where i felt the kind of civility that is needed to accomplish anything was lacking. instead it was aggressive, pointed, antagonistic. “when push comes to shove” implies escalation and this, indeed, was the case. instead of actual conversation, it was a push-shove back-and-forth. instead of communication, it was a shining example of what-not-to-do.
we drove past a passiton billboard on the way up north that read these words: when push comes to shove, don’t. civility is in you. what does a boorish push or a retorted shove accomplish other than an establishment of immaturity, a driving desire and play for power and an uncooperative non-collaboration?
civility is not that hard. it should be what we lead with. respecting others and their place in their world. we each get the same air to breathe and we each breathe in and out the same way. instead of escalating to shove or pushing yet harder, how might we fill our lungs with responses of peacefulness, thoughtfulness, fairness, appreciation, intelligent consideration, magnanimity, grace, even reconciliation. why must push come to shove? it needn’t.
this. this is what this song is about.
reverse threading 