birds are singing at the crack of dawn outside our open-at-least-a-slit window. the bunny is out and about in the backyard and there is a new softly-padded divot under the ornamental grasses where she made her nest last year. bulbs are sprouting and the postal delivery folks are starting to wear shorts. it will soon be spring in wisconsin.
it is tempting to go outside and trim back the grasses, rake all the debris from the gardens, pare down the sedum. to unplug the gutter warming cables, to put away the snow shovels right outside the back door, to drain, clean and refill the pond, to bring out the table and chairs, to consider much-needed replacement rugs for the deck. it is tempting to get ready.
but that would be premature.
and, ultimately, we know better.
so we will wait.
patience – at this time of year – with the sun shining and temperatures ranging from the twenties to the sixties – is most definitely hard to come by. we just have to stoke up and be zen in this liminal time.
but all good things do come in time. and eventually, it all plays out. even if it doesn’t really look that way. what’s that expression…? a watched pot never boils.
and waiting is hard.
but i have watched pots in my life.
and i know – for a fact – that – eventually – they do boil.
daisies were on my shopping list. our daughter was coming into town and i wanted some fresh flowers on our table and in her room. so, daisies are our go-to.
but the pink tulips caught my eye. long slender stems and the palest pink buds, i could feel my whole body slow down gazing at them.
every time i look at them it feels the same way.
the buds never opened. yet, the tulips are still proudly standing tall, ten days later. it is an image of potential. a visceral right-in-front-of-us portrayal of stately beauty. or maybe it’s an image of choice – of taking a different road. these tulips are stunning. and it is not in their blossoming open.
both of us artists, i can tell you there are many, many unopened buds. they stack in corners and in notebooks, in the recesses of our minds, on our laptops. they are pale pink and soft. they are deep-red and fiery. they wait for their moment.
and some buds don’t open. i read those buds may have faced a particularly cold winter, or had too much — or too little — exposure to heat and sunlight. i’d add that they may have had naysayers naysaying at them. they may be competing for sun with other buds, other flowers, other ideas.
or maybe they just like it that way. as buds. standing tall and quiet, emanating peace and tranquility.
every time i have looked at these pink tulips i have thought about their color. i have imagined it on a wall – the palest pink – with white crown moldings and trim. never having had a pink wall, i’ve wondered about how it might feel to be in such a room. i’ve wondered if it might feel the way it feels gazing at these buds.
i’m cheering our tulips on for another few days, maybe even another week. i want to keep them around. they are making me breathe differently. they are giving me pause. they are making me imagine.
and maybe that’s the point. it’s not always about the blossom.
with rugged tenacity and will, the snowdrops push through the top frozen layers of soil. these are tough little plants, hardy in the snow and cold. the sap contains a type of antifreeze that prevents ice crystals from forming, even in the most inclement weather. they withstand it all.
that’s the kind of chutzpah one needs in today’s world. the ability to withstand it all. the tenacity to pierce through the untruths, the agendas, the misaligned loyalties, the unreasonableness.
as a person who leads with her heart (ask my children!) this can be a rough world. but those who know me really well also know that it’s not just my heart in the game. those who know me also know that – like a dog with a bone – i will hold on….and on….only letting go when it is time to let go. i will not go away easily – particularly if someone is wronged. i will not move on, forgetaboutit, celebrate a new start until i have pierced the opaque frozen layers shielding the truth and readied antifreeze to repel what i would anticipate to be coldhearted strategy.
i’m certain there are many of us. those who have challenged wrongdoing. those who have asked for answers. those who seek the wisdom of unprejudiced eyes. those who are compelled to ask for objectivity in circumstance. those who have pushed back. those who have suffered in pushing back. those whose blooms still open in winter’s freeze. those who are hardy and tenacious. those who withstand the elements, whatever those may be. those who do not give up.
if someone told me i was a snowdrop, i would be proud.
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the tracks tell the story. they came in and mowed down underbrush and trees, grasses and cattails. all in the name of habitat restoration. apparently, there are buckthorn and cottonwood and boxelder and various other invasive species that are suffocating the growth of young native tree seedlings. it looked absolutely devastated. as did the back half of the woods earlier this year after they attended to that section. but there was space for the sun to get through, for air and a bit of new growth. it was necessary.
now, admittedly, the back half doesn’t look as raw as it did right after that earlier eradication. but – it does look different. just as – i suppose – this section of the woods will look…eventually. it’s the meanwhile that is a bit tough to take. it’s stunning to see such emptiness where there was lush. it’s bracing to recognize how long it might take for this area to grow back – to fulfill the potential the ecologists plan for.
but devastation is like that.
in devastation-light we have the basement/attic project. this will all look decidedly worse before it looks better. the categories – keep, donate, sell – are staged all over the basement and have spilled into other rooms in the house. eventually, this will get better. it will look different. right now, though, it is a ruckus of stuff.
all this review of the past, though…it’s good for my heart. tiny salvageable moments derived from these seeming willy-nilly piles…i am wrapped in the after-devastation feels. for this is chosen devastation – choosing to touch all that is in the house and decide about its fate. and maybe devastation isn’t a good word for that kind of parsing out. just because it looks like devastation doesn’t mean it is devastation.
but there will be more culling before there is something that looks and feels good: the cleared out, organized space that honors the before-stuff and makes way for the next. the same way it is for emotional clearing-out. it will all get much messier before it gets air.
the tracks from the backhoes and heavy equipment punctuate the trail. we may wait awhile – maybe a few rains – before we take that loop again. in the meanwhile, we’ll go along the river where the trail is longer and quiet and the trees and underbrush are untouched – at least for now.
we’ll continue our quest in the basement and the attic and every other nook and cranny. we’ll make messes and piles and categorize each thing we unearth.
and the emotional stuff, well, it will surface and it will recede – both. it will be like a tide – just like the basement, it is a choice to pull things out of their previous compartmentalization. just like the basement, it has the potential to be really messy. and, just like the basement, it will be tedious and time-consuming and it is possible for a bit of anxiety to creep into the spaces previously left wide open by keeping it all in boxes and on shelves. suddenly, it’s all free-floating and there are fragments of emotions and tangible pieces of the past right there in front of us.
so we climb aboard our front loaders and excavators and bulldozers. and we start plowing down all the invasives.
and we just may feel restored after it all. we will have relived many memories, touched – really touched - the evidence of time passing.
and we just may be rejuvenated. the new saplings will be free to grow.
and we will look forward to lush, breathing easier and feeling the sun on our faces.
it is in much the same way that arvo pärt appeals to me that this photograph is a win for me. it’s simple – a stem of queen anne’s lace, fallen on the side of the trail, iced in. i felt lucky to come upon such a shot.
one of these days we are going to take a trip – later than sooner, i suspect. it will be solely for the opportunity to take photographs. we haven’t yet decided on a place, but it doesn’t matter too much – there are photographs everywhere just waiting. like this lace in the snow.
taking photographs reminds us to slow down. it’s impossible to trek fast if i have a camera in my hand. in the rare times i have left it in my bag ahead of time, planning to get a better workout, i inevitably stop and extract it – something has captured my attention, something needs to be on film.
ever since my first 35mm yashica i’ve been the one with the camera. there are big chunks of life where it looks like i wasn’t there. those are the times i was taking the pictures. very much there, just not in the frame. now i wish i had handed off the camera to someone else more – asking for a few more pictures in which i was present.
selfies have taken over today’s social media world. i must say, a selfie at 25 or 35 or even 45 looks waaay different than a selfie at almost-65. i am not a fan. unless of course it can be soft-focus, backlit, and overexposed. in that case, i’m in. otherwise, i want a photo to be taken from a bit further away than the end of my arm.
i continue to wander around with my camera…stopping often on the trail, pulling off to the side of the road in littlebabyscion or big red, grabbing photos of ideas in antique shoppes and boutiques, annoyingly taking candids and posed shots of my grown children when i am near them. i have about 35,000 photos on two iphones, but that doesn’t touch the grand total.
some photos are obvious – all the tourists gather there, every visitor taking a picture of the iconic whatever-it-is. some photos are obvious – we want remembrances of times spent together, celebrations, festive occasions. some photos are obvious – we portrait our families, we feature our growing children, we capture our pets in everything silly or heartstrung. we photograph the beautiful, the magnificent, the moment-in-time.
and some photos…well, some are a bit more subtle. they are the shadows of the tall trees. they are the tiny birdfeet prints. they are the curl of the petal, about to fall. they are the dew on the grass, the horizon lost in fog, the patterns of an old brick wall. they are the nurselog, the feather, the breaking wave, the caterpillar. and they are lace in the snow. all just waiting to be seen.
as i write this, it’s been weeks since we have hiked. i am feeling the tug. despite how sloppy it is likely to be, we really need to get out there – in the woods – and feel the cold, damp air on our faces.
we have been in the basement these days. during the negative-whatevers, the snowstorms, the dense fogs, the rain, we have immersed in the boxes and bins and tchotchkes of life. minus the occasional spider and mouse poop trail, it has been mostly joyful. to touch these things of life again is a gift of memory.
as we sort i can feel the house breathing. now, i have actually been in and seen a hoarder’s house, so i know that there is no comparison whatsoever, but the advent of space is refreshing. i realize that this paring-down will require a few passes – this is the first big pass – but now that we have started, it doesn’t seem as insurmountable. the reward for fortitude in the cleaning-out is the zeal to continue. it’s a circle.
i am making every attempt to be more ruthless in this process, in this circle. but it is a passage through time and life and my fingertips are tingling, touching the first onesie sleepers and those little booties, the tiny oshkosh b’gosh overalls and even tinier bibs. then there’s my sweet momma’s wedding dress and my poppo’s air force “ike” jacket. silk flowers and fold-out honeycomb crepe bells from my first wedding. cabbage patch dolls and children’s books and matchbox cars. 1970s cassettes i listened to over and over and over. reel to reel, cassettes and cds of my recording studio takes and edits, tracks along the way. my report cards from the beginning of time. this process is not as easy as it’s made out to be. but it’s necessary.
and, also necessary, is the call-response of the outside. we need to go out in the trees. we need to hike by the river and follow the deer tracks. we need to feel breathless from the wind and overheated by exertion. we need the balance. in this circle.
so we’ll put down the marketplace ads, the bins and big ikea bags holding donations, the cleaning supplies and our yuckiest clothes and we’ll go outside.
it’s days later and the turkeypoop is frozen to the top of littlebabyscion. it’s negative-something outside, so this is not likely to change soon. turkeypoop is of significant size. we are looking at it as a blessing of some sort.
we have three turkeys wandering the ‘hood these days. forest park neighborhood had carl but now allendale has these three – maybe huey, dewey and louie?
they are big – really big – turkeys and they draw attention wherever they go. and…they go anywhere they want…
…including on top of littlebabyscion.
our westneighbor texted us, “umm, are you guys having turkey tonight?”. i was perplexed until i saw a photo he sent. two of them, comfortably perched on top of our car, the third turkey in the driveway next to it. what?!!
we ran to the window in the studio to look out and, sure enough, there they were, up on the roof. once the snow melts, it is likely there will be beak-pecks in the roof as well – they were busy pecking each time i looked out. the turkey in the driveway was literally below the window, looking up as if to ask to be let in – much the same expression dogga gets on his face as he gazes in the back window from the back deck, willing us to let him in please and let him in nowww.
it was already going to be an odd moment. i was selling an item on marketplace and a perfect stranger was coming to our house to purchase it. now, here we are, three turkeys on the way to the front door. she was arriving any minute. i asked d to go out when she arrived so that he might escort her in since we don’t know what exactly turkeys will do if they feel encroached upon.
it turns out she was from the forest park neighborhood so she wasn’t alarmed; carl had been a presence there for quite some time. everybody loved him and she did too. our turkeys were still there when she left and they stayed for quite some time. with the negative temperatures, there was a tiny bit of a windblock between our house and our neighbor’s house so maybe they were trying to warm up just a smidge.
eventually, they apparently flew off littlebabyscion to head down the road. we missed them for the last couple days until yesterday when they were out on our street again. they must be making the rounds, looking for whatever it is turkeys eat. i’m thinking we should put out some sunflower seeds – to help them along. with these negative temps, we are all worried, but i’ve read the thousands of feathers they have will truly keep them warm.
when our daughter was in the high rockies, she would tell us of stories of bears getting into people’s vehicles. somehow they are able to simply open the door and get in. it’s the getting out that’s the problem – if the door swings shut they are apt to utterly destroy the interior of the vehicle they have chosen. she and i went horsebackriding with a cowboy who’d been in aspen forever and told great stories. in one of his odd jobs, he was a caretaker for a mansion tucked into the mountains there. when the owners were away a bear got inside and foraged in the kitchen cabinets. it then went upstairs and turned on the water faucet in the bathroom. in true naughty bear behavior (who can really blame them – we are taking over all their wild land!), it never turned it off. so, a week later – during a house check – the caretaker discovered water everywhere, on every floor of the house, the depth ever-rising from the basement up. it was a gut-job for sure.
and so, the turkeypoop and turkeypecks on the roof of littlebabyscion don’t seem so bad. if we are going to co-exist with these stunning creatures, then we must allow for all of it. their beauty and their beast.
it was as we were hiking that the snow started again. it had already laid down a couple inches and the wind was a bit blustery. and then…
they drifted down around us – as if we were in the middle of a snowglobe and someone had given it a gentle shake. we watched them – individually falling – cold enough to see them land without melting.
most of the time, in landing, they are more en masse – like toddlers playing soccer – a beehive of tinies running after a ball – snowflakes swirling together landing, tumbling, piles of tiny colliding flakes sticking together.
but as i watched, cellphone in hand, this one snowflake – all by itself – landed on this leaf. and the leaf, cold enough to keep the flake intact, held the magic so that i could see it. exquisite doesn’t begin to capture it. sometimes adjectives are so incomplete – superlatives even anemic.
this time, the tiny snowflake held its ground, its unsung miracle-ness distinct against the leaf. i was startled to see it as we stood in the falling snow. i was – also – ridiculously thrilled.
its oneness – this singular the-only-one-there-is snowflake – quiet individuality. its presence – without trumpets blaring or the dinging of any notification – silently suddenly here. its tiny-ness – in this vast world – the same as us. a gift.
we are snowflakes falling. it is up to us to choose how. with or without fanfare, conforming or not, with or without humility, a gift or not.
it is reassuring to believe that they whisper. i think they have begun to know us well. our passings-by have informed them – the times in our life together when we are laughing, the times we are upset, the times we are angsting, the times we are tired, the times we are quiet. i’m pretty sure they notice, despite all that is going on in their own world.
it’s been years now that we have a relationship with these trees. just as we watch for them – around the bend in the trail – across the pond – on the other side of the meadow – on the riverbed….they watch for us. they know our stride, our arm-in-arm, the sound of our footfall. they wonder before we arrive and they ponder after we depart.
we photograph them, voice concern about their fallen boughs, marvel at the kaleidoscope of their leaf color, view the sky through their canopy. we are grateful for the way they block the wind and the way they allow sun to filter through to our faces. they watch as we move snakes and caterpillars and turtles off the trail. they stare as we stop and gaze, still with momentary awe that strikes without warning. we see them stalwart. they see us fragile.
and so as we come around another bend – another day – another hike – they shush each other, to hear our voices, our booted feet on the dirt. to watch.
they whisper.
i wonder if they know how much we love when we are there.
