amaryllis makes me think of my sweet momma. the color pink makes me think of my daughter.
on the windowsill of the bathroom there are two small bottles. one is estee lauder’s ‘pleasures’ and the other is a tiny daisy-capped bottle of marc jacob’s daisy perfume. two scents that remind me of those same two beloved people.
because i am thready (some may say overlyyy thready) i surround myself – intentionally and unintentionally – with tokens of remembrance – some actual, some merely floating in my heart – filaments that connect me to people – and make me think of people – whether they are nearby or far away or on another plane of existence entirely. threads. woven in.
this bulb – a gift – requires no attention whatsoever. you just place it anywhere and it will take care of itself. no water needed. it contains all the water and nutrients it needs to flower. it has stored carbohydrates so it is self-sustaining and can bloom without any care.
i am thinking that between the plethora of mcdonalds fries i ate in my teenage years on bike hikes, the wavy lays and cape cod chips in later years (and even recent later years!!), ever-reassuring mashed potatoes and the daily morning breakfast david makes each day that includes yummy potatoes, i have plenty – plenty!!! – of stored carbohydrates. one would then extrapolate that i would be self-sustaining and would bloom without care. but, the flora world has it all over us on this one. i do not have the advantage of the waxed amaryllis bulb. water, nutrients and care are necessary.
the pink-waxed amaryllis is just starting to get closer to blooming, a flower stalk straight and tall from the center of the bulb, the bud tightly wound. i visit with it each day, marveling at it.
and i think of dearest jen every time i look at it.
it is a ritual. the dandy dandelions show up and i instantly become the mother of toddlers. oh, those very, very precious times.
it is wondrous to me that i still receive notes about this song – fistful of dandelions.
my children are both in their thirties now. life as a mom has changed dramatically…but only from a practical day-to-day point of view. the heart stuff is the same. it never changes.
a friend wrote to me, wondering if she could turn her mother-emotions down a bit now that her child was an adult.
i wrote back it doesn’t get any easier. motherhood is both the joy and grief. it is the fierce loving, protecting, worrying, cheering on…forever and ever. it is the backing up. it is the letting go. it is trusting that – in both the bliss and the pain – the connection exists, there is love.
the sliver of moon was suspended in the sky like an add9 chord. hanging out there, being all gorgeous.
add9s are my thing. extending the chord, a little bit of tension, unresolved.
though i am often astounded by a full moon and i love all the phases tugging at those of us here on earth, it’s the sliver that always charms me. just this wink of a moon out there, inviting me, luring me to stop and stare, making me notice the stars gathered, like a moon fan club, all vying for my attention. like an add9.
we spent most of the weekend at home, save for a bit of celebration time friday evening and an impromptu sun-urged lakefront sunday afternoon. with home our rock, we reveled in it. we worked in and out around the house on this glorious weekend, alternating chores with the adirondack chairs placed strategically on the deck or the patio, depending. it’s only april, so this weekend was unexpected, its weather a winky-moon-add9 gift.
and walking down the driveway under the night sky – a clear night in the ‘hood – heading into the backyard, right by the ghetto fence, right before we turned, i looked up. the moon glanced down, tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “it’s all good,” and then it danced back into the galaxy.
and – like a shooting star – the add9 lingered, fading eventually into black.
it never fails to amaze me. even the familiar turn in the trail. even the familiar trees. even the angle of the sun which has shone on us so many, many times here. even the sky, this midwest sky, sometimes ornery, sometimes brilliant. still. still, i love this curve of path. still, i love these tall pines. still, i love the tease of sun through the highest branches of needles. still, all of it.
in a world that presents unexpecteds every day – some of which are more difficult than others of which are tiny or enormous gifts – there is this. there is the still-all-of-it.
and so we go here. and we process life here. we are silent and we talk-talk-talk. this woods has kept us company through it all. this path has led us when our feet didn’t know where to go. these trees have wrapped us in scent and held us in strength, towering over us. this sky has graced us with all weather.
and we have always arrived back at the trailhead, safe. we have been freezing and sweltering. we have been covered with snow and sopping wet. we have been exhilarated and bone-achy tired. but we have always been safe.
so it shouldn’t really surprise me. this place is a haven, a sanctuary, shelter for our hearts and minds. i imagine one day – if we might live elsewhere and no longer hike in this place – we will look back, remembering and reminiscing. and we will nod our heads and agree – yes…it was all of it, all of that place. every single time.
and in her waking-up, in the tease of spring, in the liminal space between seasons, mother earth offers up her flowers. it’s a tiny posy of possibility, an olive branch extended to stave off impatience as we pine for warmer days, for everything to green up. and, in this waiting zone, these dried flowers spur our imagination, carry us forward.
it’s the interim times – the periods in-between – the time spent in the hallway before the next door opens – these are the reluctant times. we are reluctant to sit in the hall. we are reluctant to wait and see. we are reluctant to accept a zone of time sans shape. we think it all – the minutes and seconds, hours and years – needs definition. we are reluctant to be still. we don’t understand what feels like a screeching halt. we yearn to move, yet we are frozen in fallow.
but we are morphing. we are beautiful winter nosegays tucked into mason jars. we are march and april. we are stoking up. we are no less beautiful than verdant june and july. we are just different.
and for this time – we are somewhat rustic, somewhat fragile. we are color-muted now to be opulent later. we are the quiet before the fortissimo, meek before rackety. we are simply waiting.
we read the same paragraph over and over again, listen to the same strains of music time and again, sit and pace and sit and pace. we are the dried wildflowers, the straining buds, the transitional space, the interlude. we are the hallway.
the snow fell in a not-so-unexpected twist of march. it was heavy and wet and, in its stickiness, made the world around us beautiful. we were both glad for it. now, a few days later, we are ready for tulips and daffodils. but for those days that it stuck around, it was perfect.
the old wall out front is one of my favorite things about our yard. it is far from perfect; its mortar is shedding. but it is gorgeous old brick and divides the upper yard from the lower yard. when the water company did their thing out front, i was worried it would topple. my fears were alleviated when they dug next to the wall and i could see that there was a four-foot footing deep into the ground, at least holding up the structure in a basic way. not that some of the bricks would not individually separate from the wall, but the wall itself would remain stable.
boundaries are kind of like that. weather – or things – or people – can try to undermine them, but a good solid foundation – and some sisu – will ultimately keep them standing.
this is something i have needed to remind myself.
in a time when finessed narrative and the non-telling of truth has been rampant, i need remember to stand firm, to hold fast, to grit my teeth and trust what i know to be true. i need remember that people are all fallible and that gossip is a more powerful force than truth and that anyone who doesn’t ask questions – seeking truth – should be paid no heed.
i have discovered – painfully – that people will attempt to knock all your bricks down for their own purposes, whatever those may be. i have discovered – shockingly – that people will declare their own righteousness and – yet – will fabricate whatever it takes to be right, to be more powerful, to be better. i have discovered – disappointingly – that people will betray others for agenda.
i haven’t really understood completely why i love that old brick wall so much. we could have our yard smoothed out – level the higher and lower portions – or smooth out the difference in a gentle slope. but i truly do love the wall. the old bricks – which have endured decades of time and the changes and challenges that weather brings. the old bricks – with a patina that no tumbler would be able to attain. the old bricks – worn in just the right way – bits and pieces broken off, yet still standing.
mostly, i have discovered that old brick walls have a real purpose in life.
and somehow, the universe knew and the snow began to fall.
and everything became quiet and peaceful. all forward movement ceased. we sat in the pause.
this fermata was certainly needed. we had been feverishly working, working. emotions were high and our energy was almost depleted. but then the snow came.
though spring had made an appearance and our garden – peeking out – was circumspect about the snowfall, we welcomed its hush. every flake that fell received thanks from us. and it kept falling.
our fermata in the snow granted us a bit of rest, a bit of perspective. we took deep breaths and moved slowly through our day. we gazed out the window and watched as the snow covered all – everything – in a blanket of white. it erased all the writing on the page. it shushed the noise in our busy heads. it lent ease to our weary minds and hearts. it took the astonishing – disheartening – events of the week and buried them under inches of snow. it cleared the ugly like the swoosh of lifting cellophane on a magic slate.
and when the swirl slowed a bit and i stood on the deck – giant flakes gently falling – gazing out at the pristine world surrounding us, i realized that was pretty much all that mattered. we had been granted time. time to consider and rejuvenate, time to reflect, time to clean off the shields we held so tightly – the ones that protected us. time to grasp onto snowflakes – quickly melting – and realize – once again – that life is just too short.
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)
reverse threading 