and in the middle of the night – him sleeping like a baby and snoring like a freight train – while i am sitting there, wide awake, gazing adoringly at his smug-sweet-sleeping-snoring face – as much as i remind myself my insomnia is not his fault – it is neither his joy or his angst – it is not his to own or relinquish – it is not his to have and to hold – he tends to bug me just the teensiest-tiniest-minutest-nanoscopicest-infinitesimalest-bit.
there are heartstrings attached to this vw. mine. it’s been a part of my life since 1971, although it wasn’t specifically mine then. it became mine in 1976, when i “bought” it from my sweet poppo for a token amount of money. just to do the math for you – so you don’t have to (even if you don’t want to know) – that is 47 years ago. this little super beetle has been mine for 47 years.
and it still is.
now it resides in the one spot in our one car garage, next to the lawnmower and the solo stove, a little bit of potting soil and some spare clay pots, the wheelbarrow with the flat tire, under the eaves with the old screen door and the snow rake, the tricycle and the little red wagon, a couple of old webbed aluminum lawn chairs and two zero gravity lounges, just far enough away from the bikes suspended on j hooks, covered with a couple dropcloths, keeping the dust off.
i love it.
it has history, as most things dating back 47 years. it was purchased in germany brand new and my parents drove it all over europe. i was there the day we picked it up on the docks in ny after it was shipped to the states. i was there the day my parents fell in love with a giant painting of fjords listed for sale at a seafood restaurant and it wouldn’t fit in the bug so after dinner we waited while my dad drove home to get the other car. i was there when driving in snow, i slid directly into the curb and nothing happened. i was there when my sweet dog missi pooped in the backseat well. i was there adventuring, layer-caking jobs, buying cornflakes to survive, with the windows down blasting 1970s AM radio. i was there with my bug on the beaches, out east on the island, driving in the humid heat of florida, in wisconsin the day i went into labor with my baby girl. i was there on the re-homing drives from new york to florida, florida to wisconsin, state to state. through thick and thin it has been a constant. even if it’s in the garage. even not driving.
i suppose my dad would say to sell it. and i’ve thought about it. there is likely someone out there who would relish rebuilding the engine again, re-oiling its joints and changing out rubber stuff that needs changing. (personally, i sort of like the idea of that restoration project myself.) and then, the bug would be driven and gleeful.
but i don’t know. i mean, even director/producer ron howard drives an old cherished bug around california. so there are other people who “get it” – driving an old bug around here – or anywhere else one might live.
both my kids (and probably most people who know me) can attest to my threadiness. so no one would be surprised that this little bug is still in the garage. i am heartened by the fact that my neighbor has an old triumph in her garage, same sort of story. it’s nice not to be the only one…
we pushed it out of the garage to clean – a yearly (or so) event. checking for evidence of chippies homesteading, with a soft sponge and a microfiber cloth i gently washed it. and then i did a photo shoot as it smiled and mugged for the camera. it knows how much it’s loved.
my sweet poppo died three years before my sweet momma. when she died, the tilt that my world had already felt dove down into a deeper angle, the axis of the earth struggling to keep it in balance. the loss of both parents is profound, no matter your age.
it had been years since i had heard or seen a blue jay. they were common where i grew up, the screeches of jays in the woods or the trees surrounding our home. they have husky voices, always a little bit raspy. but they make me think of home.
i still remember the first day i saw one – after. it’s a few years ago now.
we were hiking on one of our favorite trails and suddenly i could hear them. they flew across the path and i stood still, reveling in the moment, taking it in. since that day, there have been more sightings and i have heard their birdcalls, even out our bedroom window from time to time.
since they are a common bird in wisconsin, i wonder how it is i missed them.
and i realize that sometimes the way home – the sound of a blue jay – is something we just don’t pay attention to, something that falls down on the list of priorities. until one day.
the day comes that all the really important stuff comes into focus. and we realize that we have – maybe – taken for granted the stuff that really is a part of who we are. we slough off paying attention to those things, those places, those people because we believe that there is plenty of time – later. or perhaps there are reasons we cannot grant grace to those things, those places, those people and we somewhat haughtily, in some selfish kind of righteous amnesia of our own actions, put them to the side, the corners of our hearts. or maybe we are just too busy and we have gotten lost, overwhelmed in our very real and partly contrived busy-ness.
any way you look at it, i am surprised i didn’t see the blue jays. until after.
now i hear them, see them, find their feathers in the usualness of our days. each time it is like a tiny nod to home, to all the moments of goodness, to the realness of unconditional love in the midst of the ridiculous hardness of life.
on just the right day, at the end of just the right week, at just the right place, at just the right time – we found a quilted heart.
a random-act-of-kindness initiative, this quilted heart was tagged and stated, “i need a home.” we plucked it off the tree on the side of the trail and carried it with us – home.
ifaqh (i found a quilted heart) is an anonymous project – they state on their site that “it is not about the maker of the heart; it is about the finder.” it is not affiliated with any organization or group and they “remain neutral”. they “place small quilted hearts around the globe to brighten the day of a stranger.”
and they did.
and the thing it immediately did – in my mind – was make me think about all the fabric i have in my sewing bins with which i could make quilted hearts – and all the places we could leave them for others. much like our planted-out-there painted rocks, these take us out of our own overstuffed angsty brains and into a spirit of goodness toward others. generosity overrides a worried heart. an intention, it turns us outward.
on this very day, at this very place, at this exact time, this little quilted heart was precisely what we needed.
i’m grateful for this simple gesture – being placed all over the world. hearts are the same no matter where you are: a reminder of love understood despite language or cultural differences, a gift given – anonymously – to sow joy.
his amber eyes are mesmerizing. his double coat of hair is as beautiful as it is plentiful. his heart is huge and his sensitivity is tuned in. his quirks are numerous and his dedication is steadfast. he is always present and only rests when he feels like he is finally off-duty at 8:30, his self-chosen bedtime. he’s taught us more than i could possibly write about.
he’s been central since he arrived. in everything. it’s one of those miracles that he’s here – with us. it’s one of those time-warpy things we realize it’s been ten years. already. and so soon.
what our dogga doesn’t realize, maybe, is that he is our whole world just as much as we are his. samesies.
because we hike these trails often, we notice subtle changes. new sprouts, thicker vegetation, fallen trees, vole-holes on the path.
this day we noticed this large limb – suspended. it had fallen. because we’ve had large limbs fall in our yard, we know that their size – particularly from far away – belies their weight. this broken branch, even dead wood, had to be mighty heavy.
and yet – the next tree over caught it and was holding on. merely three points of contact, like one hand and two feet on a ladder, these three little v’s where significantly smaller branches met. three points. and so, we will watch it. we wonder how – nestled into the other tree – it happened to fall just right. we wonder how long it will be there – high up in the other trees that show no sign of leafing, of life.
support doesn’t take much. it’s astounding to walk in forests and see evidence of mighty holding up mighty, mighty holding up small, small holding up mighty. nature caring for nature.
i stood staring at the tree from the trail. i looked at david, also staring. we know that the physics of how this branch fell into these three points, how it distributed the weight, must play into why it was held there. but as i stood there i could only think about how that could work in the people-world.
points of contact. support. extending branches of encouragement, reassurance, compassion – these could make all the difference for others. how often i have seen a plato-esque meme on social media reminding us to be kind – for everyone we meet is fighting a battle we know nothing about.
big limbs holding tiny branches. tiny branches holding big limbs.
points of contact.
they will hold a fallen tree in the woods. they will hold you stable on a ladder. they will hold your heart steady.
and – in this forest of humankind – at any given moment, you might find you are one of someone else’s branches, the bridge between falling and held, the difference between holding on and letting go.
we could feel it in the air the other morning. stunningly sunny, a cool air wrapped itself around me as i stepped out onto the deck to watch dogga greet his day. the coffee was brewing and the ‘hood was quiet.
and suddenly, it was obvious.
summer is coming to a close.
and we grasp onto those last days. we are in wonder about how it is possible that the summer has gone by. we stare ahead – into the galaxy of sky – pondering what is to come.
and we do the one sure thing.
we keep holding onto each other – hand in hand – all of us – in the racing flight of time.
when i was in sunday school – decades ago – we sang a song with these lyrics: “love, love, love. that’s what it’s all about. cause god loves us, we love each other. mother, father, sister, brother. everybody sing and shout. cause that’s what it’s all about. it’s about love, love, love. it’s about love, love, love.”
and then, somewhere along the way, it seems that the rules changed. and suddenly, it wasn’t all about love. it – on the contrary – became about the parameters put on love. it became about who people identify as and who people love. it became about valuing only male-female love. it became about quashing people’s gender identification. it became about ancient, close-minded, patriarchal interpretations. it became about bigotry. and the sunday school song takes on a different meaning.
but we know that nothing immensely beautiful, nothing meaningful or of import has come from limitations. it is not the ostrich with its head in the sand who can feel the dawn of a new day on its face. it is not the people who do no true research, who do not ask questions, who do not ponder the possible; these same folks who, if they instead would have respectful consideration of others, could find that we all can be spokes-living-better-together.
one of the things i really loved about my sweet momma was her willingness – her desire – to learn new things. even in her nineties, she tried to stay current, to stay informed. if she didn’t understand something, she’d ask questions or she’d look it up. she stayed open, non-judgemental. she hoped for happiness, love, freedom, peace for everyone – despite their race, ethnicity, gender identity, religion, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status. she did not make broad sweeping statements dissing any group of people. she held onto her belief that everyone deserves “to thine own self be true”. i’m guessing she would agree with ruth bader ginsburg, “we will all profit from a more diverse, inclusive society, understanding, accommodating, even celebrating our differences, while pulling together for the common good.”
the day my beloved son came out to me, i rejoiced in his freedom. all i really wanted for him – that day and every day since – was to love and be loved by his partner, working together with mutual respect, loyalty, understanding, generosity, admiration, affection, support. it is the same for my beloved daughter in her love relationships. i merely birthed them and then, in the briefest time that flew by, they became adults, out in the world. and with them, they took the knowledge that they had freedom to be who they are, knowing – without a doubt – i love them.
i can’t imagine poking at a group of people – including, and particularly, an all-embracing LGBTQIA+ community of beautiful people. lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, intersex, asexual: their individual and precious lives are not mine to live, nor mine to decide, nor mine to undermine.
we are the same. remember the sunday school song? or are there limitations to these lyrics? in what faith is love not love?
we purchased a new yard sign. half of the proceeds go to PRIDE.
so right now we have harvested four tomatoes. i know that four tomatoes does not a stockpot of marinara sauce make. but these four tomatoes count and later today we will place them on a special plate and have them with our lunch, delicious-homegrown-bite by delicious-homegrown-bite.
our basil and flat-leaf oregano and rosemary have gone to town and are a delight to use in recipes. our mint insists on flowering and is kind of spindly. (yes, yes, i know the flowering part sort of causes this, but no amount of cutting back seems to help.) and our tomato plant – well, despite our best efforts at loving this little potting stand garden to fruition, it’s eking out very few tomatoes. that’s ok. we still are in awe of the whole process, and watch, in utter happiness, as our little garden grows.
there’s a guy on youtube who is hiking the colorado trail. more than once we have heard his mantra: what goes around, comes around. he is in the practice of doing good deeds for others, on the trail and off. and he recognizes each time someone does something for him, or the universe tilts in his favor. i’m betting he would love our little garden too. not necessarily for its tomato and herb yield, but because of the tender loving care we are putting into it and the joy it is bringing us.
i’m thinking that’s true of most things you tenderly and lovingly care for.
reverse threading 