my sweet momma was at the grocery store the other day.
well, ok, she wasn’t.
but as we turned to walk down the aisle near the candy section – cutting over to the aisle with the green olives we needed for our mediterranean dinner recipe – there she was.
it was a huge display of peeps – those colorful marshmallow chicks and bunnies – i could feel momma’s glee.
this was the very first year i didn’t include junior mints in my grown children’s christmas gifts. the very first year. they didn’t seem to miss them. at all. i, on the other hand, had to deal with the grief of not including this box of mints that i had included in their stockings – in person or shipped to them – for evvver. it was not easy to let these go; my thready heart struggled.
but it explained why – even though i do not like peeps, really at all – every year my sweet momma would send a box in spring and always – always – she would include peeps.
it wasn’t about me.
it was about her – continuing a tradition she had started, a ritual that meant something to her, sharing something that was a precious memory – an unwavering, ceaseless thread – part of family tapestry, even in its obvious inconsequence.
each year when i received the box i enthused to my mom – not because i loved peeps, not because i even understood at that point. but because i loved my mom and i loved that she thought about me enough to pick out whatever color – or shape – peep she wanted for me and then she set about sending it. that was the part that counted. even though i didn’t really know the part that counted. until much later.
so turning the aisle while heading for the olives i stopped abruptly…so abruptly d plowed into me. i pointed at the big display and we both laughed.
and i blew a kiss to my mom who i knew was right there – on the other side of this plane of existence – blowing a kiss back.
there was little light. without power we had tealights and candles scattered about the house. a small ikea lantern my poppo gave me years ago lit the way to the bathroom. and i put fresh batteries in a few small flashlights. both of us – and our dogga – have had plenty of time in our old house that we can find our way around in the dark, so bright light wasn’t an imperative. heat – yes. bright light – not so much.
the far-reaching effects of the lack of power are striking. we were at a standstill in some dramatic ways. no power. no heat. no stove or oven. no internet. no home phone. no cable. no inside phone charging. a lot of waiting and not a lot of doing. pacing.
we sat at our little bistro table – with this candle – and talked. we spoke about people overcome by the ravages of war, people in crumbled cities destroyed by hatred, people trying to live in rubble in the dark, in the cold, in sickness, in hunger. we were silent as we both became overwhelmed. quite certain that we had more in this cut glass candle, we were downright appreciative for the promise of our power being restored at some point, even if that timeline didn’t fit our preferred plan.
we watched the shadows play off the wall and dance on the ceiling. i took photographs. we put a frozen baguette on the grill to thaw and heat up. we cut up cheese from the fridge, prepared a small charcuterie in a hobnail server. we made lemonade. it’s easier to make lemonade when you know that all will be well again.
i would imagine it’s nearly impossible to make lemonade when nothing will be well again. that kind of spirit, that kind of chutzpah, that kind of fortitude is hard to muster in desperate situations. we – once again – felt humbled by the destruction felt around the world, our own immediate problem less than a mere blip in comparison.
there are many lessons learned from perspective. much humility learned from knowledge. a realization of interconnectedness – we-are-all-brothers-and-sisters – learned from even the smallest degree of empathy. and the stunning acknowledgement that fighting, the subjugation of people all over the world, cruelty beyond compare continues on and on and on as we burn our candle.
it was early when we tucked in under an extra comforter. snowflake flannel sheets, two comforters and a handmade quilt – even with mighty cold house temperatures – were cozy and we fell asleep, exhausted and knowing the next day would bring both the hope of reconnected power and the beginning of the blizzard.
post-nightfall, standing in the living room – bathed in light – we looked at each other not sure what to do next.
“because of some strange little voice inside, i zigged where i was expected to zag…”(anna quindlen)
aging is a funny thing. you come screeching to a halt at this place – a kind of dr. seuss waiting place – and you have the chance to make some decisions. which way do you go now? what route do you take? where are you headed?
or maybe you come screeching to a halt – having been on this one solid path – to a place – a kind of dr. seuss waiting place – and you linger there, looking around, out of breath and a little bit tired. in front of you, choices fan out, beckoning you. you sit down, in the lazy boy of havinggottenthere and you ponder, panting, exhausted.
for, all of a sudden, you don’t feel compelled to drive forward on one straight line. you are suddenly empowered by the realization that none of it – and all of it – counts. you have begun to realize that the dust you will leave behind will not be measured by accomplishment. it, likely, won’t even be remembered by accomplishment. for those things dim and boxes of those remain in the basement, ready for some thrift store or antique shoppe. mementos have gathered dust and certificates have faded on office walls. the hills you climbed, the battles you waged, they have evanesced. the trophies, the medals, the awards, the stock options – all so greatly valued at one time – have lost their lustre.
so you take stock. your havinggottenthere lazy boy slowly rocks while you stare ahead and think about what path might “align with your purpose, peace and trust in the future” (the “best path” as defined by google).
and something is itching inside you to go rogue, to take a path no one expects, to zig where they expect you to zag.
and, as it appears on the twiggy hogweed map, you can always backtrack back to the waiting place – to re-evaluate, to rest, to try something else on for size.
there is a freedom to this aging thing. (granted, there would be more of a freedom if there was not chaos.)
this freedom to explore without expectation, to try without any measure of succeeding, to grab onto more experiences – but without preconceived notions, to discard the safe path and embrace a bit of fear, to muse-work and branch-out or sit-and-stare with abandon.
there is a freedom knowing that as much as one matters, our tiny existence is yet tiny. and what we feel at dawn as we breathe in early spring-like air or listen to birds collecting at the feeder or pull up the covers for just a little longer – all that matters.
there are moments i am stunned by the ability to feel. physically. emotionally. the ability to FEEL. it’s shocking. i recognize that there have been days – maybe even weeks or months or years – when i paid little to no heed to being able to feel. lost in the mayhem of everylittlethingthatmustgetdone i missed it. we have all been racing to finish.
and yet, here we are – in this time of utter chaos – where everything seems upside down, corruption is rampant, the country is flailing while its leaders violently push it backwards, isolate it, make it a pariah – and THIS happens to be our time.
we feel bits of wisdom pop up evvvvvery now and again, evvvvvvery here and there, through fallowed earth like snowdrops or crocuses desperate to emerge. we stand up. we speak up. we speak out. we cuss. we bellylaugh. we rail. we inhale, another deep breath.
i suppose there will be a day when i look out the front door – to the west and the setting sun – and not see these branches. i suppose wind or ice or age – or even a city crew – might take them down. in the meanwhile, though, they are a statement of the familiar and their graceful shape gives me comfort.
we have been more insular lately. there are many reasons for this, some too close-in to list. the world has felt inordinately harsh – the world IS inordinately harsh – and so, in the name of balance, there has been time simply spent here, at home.
and at the end of a day, when we realize that we had not gone anywhere in that day, i am sometimes surprised.
but engagement is not just getting-out-of-the-house. there are – i suspect – particularly evidenced by the vast numbers of people who still support the cruel, unhealthy, marginalizing agenda of this administration – plenty of people who get out of the house but who never actually engage in the reality of what is happening, never seek the truth, never question their proclivity to pompom this depravity, never utter that they might have been wrong.
they go to the mall or the department store and shop, they go to some supersized – or tiny – evangelical church that proclaims their modified version of jesus, they go out to dinner and feast, they are at soccer games and gymnasiums and gated community parks. they follow the social media of extremism and sanctify voices and leaders without compassion, without empathy, without conscience.
no, engagement – participation – involvement – in this world requires asking questions and participating in discussions, learning, parsing out complex ideas, critical thinking, curiosity, connection, the recognition of one’s impact in the world.
engagement does not suggest utter complicit passivity nor does it suggest giving over of one’s morality; it does not suggest sycophancy nor adulation of horrific ideology. it doesn’t suggest – or not suggest – any of that.
we each get to choose our own engagement.
personally, i will stick to seeking the ideals of kindness, compassion, humanitarianism, equality, truth. i will stick to looking to the constitution and its amendments of this country as the guiding discipline of its laws.
and, even if i’m not engaged with the mall or the church or out-and-about dining or shopping or playing a day here or a day there, i will continue to hold to the kind of engagement that does not ignore reality.
and that kind of engagement requires some counter-balance these days.
which takes me to these ever-familiar front-yard branches drawing grace in the sky.
dogga stands on the frozen pond out back. it is covered with snow and this is the first time – the first winter – he has not still avoided it. he’s not a water-dog so – as an aussie that circumvents it when it is an actual pond, it is surprising that he is choosing to traverse it, dig in its snow, stand on it.
winter is his favorite. it is his beach-weather. it’s his bliss.
now, i’ve heard many people lately complaining about this winter. “sick of” cold, snow, grey skies, biting winds, they crankily bemoan winter – like it’s a monster dedicated to making them miserable.
i don’t feel that way.
it’s winter, i think to myself, and winter is supposed to be like, well, winter.
the last few wisconsin winters have been easy on us, moderate temperatures, little snow, no real winterish hardships or challenges. maybe that’s made some of us less tolerant of what winter really is. but this winter feels about right, as far as i’m concerned. i think you are supposed to want to linger inside, nest, cocoon a bit. i think you are supposed to rest and maybe clean out a bit, readying yourself for spring and new growth. i think you’re supposed to take stock of it all and appreciate the change in seasons as the spinning earth revolves around the sun. i mean, maybe that’s just me.
i find great beauty in the almost-monochromatic that is winter. i find a storehouse of rejuvenation in its fallow. i find anticipation in the slowly-lengthening days, the slight uptick of temperatures. i find a little bit of hope – even in the midst of the darkness that is this country right now.
when spring comes – after the temperatures level out a little bit – we will cut these grasses down so that new growth will have room to burst through the soil. in the meanwhile the tracks around the grasses show that there are tiny creatures taking shelter in them, warmed by the fronds into which they are nestled. the snow is gorgeous – so bright out back i cannot comfortably look out the window.
it’s february. i don’t know how long winter will last. i suppose it could stretch well into april, maybe a bit into may. whatever. i am just here – me, d, dogga, our new gutters and warming cables – riding the coaster. studying the milder weather where family and friends live, i wouldn’t mind a few days in the 60s, but i kind of need the seasons to be what they are.
we watched the birds in the birdbath yesterday. there were at least seven birds splashing and drinking out there. i guess the sun was strong enough to melt the snow that had accumulated. they seem elated. they’d fly away and then return, waiting their turn on the edge of the bath together. they know where the birdfeeder is and they frequent it. their chirping and birdsong in the morning reassures me that – yes – it’s just winter and this is what winter is like.
i don’t want to race through. i don’t want to wish for months from now. I don’t want time to go by without my acknowledgement of some sort, my appreciation.
i’d say that each time we see it, it looks different.
the des plaines is not a raging river. it is not a major water thoroughfare. it bubbles out of the ground a little north and west of here and flows south, through the rest of southeastern wisconsin and into illinois where it eventually – through joining with the kankakee and the illinois – becomes a tributary for the mississippi. its origin is from glaciers long ago, a heritage it carries in its current, in each bend.
it is a treasure, this relatively unknown river. we have hiked many of its miles, getting to know it in all its different seasons, its river-ness unflailing even in drought.
a place of solace, the trails that have developed around this river must be wrapped in the magic of the flow – for it is there we go (as we have written time and again) to sort, to ponder, to laugh with abandon and to cry.
and even in the moments when it is frozen, when all appears still and fallow is on the calendar, it is still moving. it is a living and breathing river – a body of water that continues.
i suppose that could make me feel the slightest bit less panicked about this country. this is a living and breathing democracy. though it appears frozen and at inordinate peril, i suppose there are tiny streams of constitutional law that are still bubbling up, pushing their way to the surface from aquifers deep in the earth. i suppose that the river’s origin 14,000 years ago should speak to me about tenacity through challenge – both natural and manmade. i suppose that the import of this simple river on the places through which it flows should remind me that every single impact counts, every effort to eradicate invasive species makes a difference.
and so, with no small measure of hope, i honor the uprisings of those who protest against the cruelty being dealt to the people of this country. i applaud the efforts of those who push back against the authoritarian rule that has surfaced in plain sight. i acknowledge that under it all – flowing underneath the vileness of this administration – are steady, solid, compassionate, reasonable voices. the people who stand firm on the principles upon which this country’s democracy was built – not silent, not still.
i used to wear hats. not baseball caps – i don’t have the right face shape for those. millinery hats. it was the 90s and i had straight-across bangs, which works best for hats – particularly when you have a high forehead – which i do as i inherited this from somewhere deep into and repeated on related faces time and again in my ancestry. nevertheless, i didn’t have a lot of these fancy hats – actually, only two: this green wool felt bowler-type hat and a black flat rim wool felt hat. i had a suede cowboy hat, and a couple of straw cowboy hats, but i wore the felt hats pretty consistently. i don’t wear them anymore and have decided to move them on. but not before telling d some stories about them, not before modeling them, grimacing at how they now look on me. sigh.
the black hat – a wide brim boater/gaucho – was my favorite. i told him about when i took part in the american cancer society jail ‘n bail fundraiser – a faux ‘arrest’ when you are taken to a place i now can’t remember and – in order to ‘get out of jail’ – you must raise enough donations to equal your ‘bail’. it was a fun event and i was really happy to help this cause having lost my big brother to cancer. i wore my hat that day. and, because i knew about the ‘arrest’ ahead of time, chose a chic outfit to go with it. i wasn’t going to be photographed in just anything.
i’m holding back the black hat, but, as i write this, think i might be able to move it on as well. i’m not a hat-person anymore and someone else needs to sport these stylin’ hats. i’m pretty sure that the outfit – a suit maybe? or something else a tad bit fancy – has moved on long ago. most fancy stuff has moved on long ago. we aren’t fancy-stuff-wearing people these days.
in an effort to not talk about current events, we talked about that on the trail one day. we have simplified our wardrobes. i still have some work to do on that – more ruthless culling – but our first mutual impulse is not to keep things that suggest fancy gatherings or anything highfalutin (as my sweet poppo would say).
i confessed to d – as we slogged through the mud on the hiking path – that i am way more interested in the gear one needs for a thru-hike on the PCT than what i might wear to a derby party or a sophisticated tea. we avoid gold-gilded places and steer away from people who find identity with all that. ick. that all feels like a waste of life. i talked about how i could pretty much get by with a couple pairs of favorite jeans, my ever-present scoop-neck long-sleeves, a thermal shirt or two and my favorite black flannel shirt. oh. and boots. and flipflops. and my hiking sandals. boom, done. what is it they call those minimal wardrobes?…..a capsule wardrobe. (in reading an aarp article about this, i realize i need a few more items to be in on this movement – though those items are likely already in my closet….a consideration for how to effect the pare-down.)
if all this sounds like avoidance, you are likely right. for there are moments right now when one is in peril of being overwhelmed by every single thing going on, one is in peril of succumbing to the angst. and, in those moments, well, let’s go with ‘hats for 200, please’.
anyway, anything i could wish to wear now – at this age – is anything that is actually me. there isn’t a dinner party, a stage, a trail, an adventure we would consider going to, performing on, hiking on, partaking in that would require anything fancy-schmancy. it’s simply not us.
and i’m actually certain of that.
because now – at this point in our lives – there is nothing to prove. we realize there was nothing to prove all along. there is just gratitude for being here – on this planet – and acknowledging that there is a fleeting moment – a.fleeting.moment. – between being here and not.
which i why i will never understand what is happening right now in current events – why there is so much cruelty, so much aggression, so much hatred, so much extremism, so much vile superiority. we all breathe in and out the same way. dominance over others is a waste of this life.
and which is why – on the trail – we talked about the hats i unearthed from hat boxes perched on the top shelf in the closet of my studio.
before she had her ears pierced, my sweet momma had a collection of beautiful old-fashioned screw-back earrings dangling on this display on her dresser. i don’t know if i have any of those earrings but somehow i have this chrome and acrylic display that i think she and my poppo used back-in-the-day when they owned a small jewelry store.
i don’t have a specific use for this. it sits empty on my dresser. every time i look at it i think of my mom, so maybe that’s its use (though thoughts of my momma are prompted by many things and moments in my days.)
in this time, in the going-through of the stored stuff – things in boxes and bins and closets – there have been a few treasures. the crèche from a well-loved christmas house in a little town in florida that i passed on to a dear friend who has significant connections to that town. the painting we sent to the family of the painter. the hand-painted collector plates – painted by ancestors – i’m sending to family members so that they, too, might have a piece of this history.
other things? well, not so much.
it will be a slow process and last night – before we went to sleep – we were talking about how we might have missed so much had we just quickly given everything away. i’m grateful we are taking our time. the gifts are in the time-taking.
now, i would be remiss if i didn’t mention how hard some of these things are to part with. despite no real driving imperative for banana curls, i am reticent to part with the pink sponge curlers. despite no current (or impending) babies in the family, it is a tiny bit difficult to give up the sesame street baby play gym. despite a lack of counter space for it, the 1970s roll top breadbox is a tough giveaway. despite never having used it – and frankly, not even knowing i had it – finding the Betty Crocker plug-in warming tray seems a splendid idea for entertaining. despite not wearing them for – like – ever, the sweatshirt collection – and yes, it is a collection – has a zillion memories, each one its own reason for purchase. how can i give up montauk or galena or northwestern university or long island or nyc or seattle or lawrence or the university of minnesota or the high school tennis team? despite zero talent for woodworking, my brother’s scrollsaw templates…were my brother’s. despite, despite, despite. despite no real need for them, i will struggle as i photograph and ponder the fate of these things…remembering always that they are simply things and that any memory is still a memory, cued up and ready for my heart to wander through or linger in.
it’s gonna take a while. likely, a long while. but each day something is given away or sold or sent to someone or – in some cases, when appropriate, thrown out. little by little we are making headway. and, now, david – who used to be much more ruthless about culling possessions – is finding himself also relishing the process. well, relishing might be a tiny exaggeration. but definitely appreciating the process.
i’m not sure about this vintage earring holder piece. it has no function on my dresser, but it doesn’t take up a lot of room. there is a gingham stuffed heart hanging on it right now.
maybe that’s all it needs.
when the play gym and the warming tray and the sweatshirts and the scrollsaw templates and all the other things i will unearth and unbox and unbin and photograph and ponder actually move on, maybe it’s the small seemingly meaningless that will remain. to someone else, those things might look extraneous. but my heart connects the dots. and this time through, well, the chrome and acrylic stand might make the cut.
(about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – whether or not any absence of the happenings of the day, whether or not the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.)
and so…
and what does the ceiling fan see, looking down at the centerpiece on the dining room table? what is the bird’s-eye view of this bit of old peeling-paint chairwood, this tiny dollar store tree, these glass votives, the glittery ornament tucked in? acknowledging that everything is clearly a bit easier if you are a ceiling fan, i wonder – is it thinking, “now, THIS is the stuff of christmas!”?
the piece of wood comes from an old chair that used to sit at the kitchen table. it’s part of the seat and there are two other gorgeous pieces that we can use for some other purpose. how many times i have sat on that chair, how many times a beloved child or family member or friend sat on that chair. i revel in having a slice to carry forward, a slice of those times, an artifact of meals and conversations, a touchable piece of history.
we’ve been talking about our dining room table lately. we have this great teak table – with giant leaves – that i got from a dear friend about twenty years ago. it was her dining room table but it became the perfect work/conference table in my recording label offices on the lake. when i moved from those offices back home, the table came along and became my dining room table. it’s been the gathering place for so, so many dinners and parties – i would be hard-pressed to even venture a guess how many. it has served us well.
there is definitely evidence of all that life. there are the stains: the rings from water glasses, the lighter blob from a pumpkin that was secretly aging, the scratches from babycat or a multitude of projects created on this surface.
and so now it needs some refinishing. the chairs need to be reupholstered. it needs some work.
and we have begun to think about this.
downstairs, in the storage room that houses the boiler and the hot water heater, there are doors. many doors. six-panel doors with some heft. doors from old closets. screen doors. cabinet doors. a bunch of doors.
one of these doors is a french door with windows, the glass still intact, the white paint just weathered enough. it’s not as wide as the dining room table – which has been a great workspace, a terrific staging ground – a place where one can put a plethora of serving bowls and accoutrements for a big dinner.
but it’s – this door – it’s got some charisma. there is a certain charm to the possibility of having a dining room table that is actually a door from this very house. with a good piece of glass – or plexiglass – or whatever the good folks at town and country glass recommend – this could become our new gathering table. food for thought, we consider it.
but then we’d need chairs, for the chairs at the teak table are also teak and would need to be given away with the table.
so. chairs.
i suppose we’d be off and running on a fantastic chairquest – odds and ends of vintage (read: old) and repurposed chairs with personality to circle the perimeter of the new doortable.
and thus would begin a whole new set of relationships and stories and memories – between us and the dining room table and the chairs and all the people who would sit there, with us.
and the ceiling fan would then look down – with its bird’s eye view and its ceilingfanlife perspective – and giggle – once again, as ever – at the thought of just how many times it has taken a screenshot in its mind’s eye (assuming the ceiling fan has a mind’s eye), how many times it has wanted to memorize the moments below it, how many times it has thought about how lucky it is to be hung over a gathering space, how many times it has thought “now THIS is the stuff. of life”.
we had a list of possibilities. it was a list of things to do, places to go before or during christmas. since our adult children and their partners would not be here, we knew we needed to keep busy, to create more hustle and bustle. missing your grown-up kids is ever-present, even when you are happy for them.
so we started a list: the botanic garden lightscape display, the garden domes, splitting a burger at a favorite bistro in a little town square across from the gazebo lit with christmas tree and menorah, a park festive with big illuminated balls of color. we included luminaria, a bonfire on christmas eve, singing carols around the piano in my studio.
as it turned out, we lit three luminaria and, on a rainy christmas eve, placed them inside, in front of our fireplace.
and we hiked on christmas day. bundled up, we took to our loop – this place where – for years now – we have sorted through life.
yesterday (which isn’t really yesterday now but is last week) we had a hard day. i wonder how many of us had a hard day. it was the day after christmas, the day when you realize all the hoopla is over, all the preparations done, the anticipation breathing a sigh. it is the day that sort of places you back into the calendar, a place that had – temporarily – been suspended in celebration, big or little.
it was on that day i realized we had not stood at the piano and sang carols.
this is the fifth year we – or even i – have not stood at the piano – any piano, any where – and sang carols.
i thought i was ready.
because five years is a long time for someone who spent most of her adult life – at christmas – creating experiences through music – for christmas.
i thought that carols would be the way back in, the easiest path back.
but somehow it got lost in whatever else we did on those two days of christmasing.
and, when it dawned on me we hadn’t, it didn’t fall gently.
in some self-indulgent raw disclosure to you, i can say this fiveyears has taken a toll. i can see now that being fired broke my spirit, that being fired triggered unmentionable earlier pain that further entrenched the breaking.
and i wonder now if it wasn’t so much about stopping my music. i wonder if breaking my spirit was actually their intention.
wow.
healing takes a long time.
and now this is the last day left to this year and we will cross into the year when i will turn 67. and i shake my head – vehemently, to unstick the clinging tarry goo – and throw a rope to my spirit that is trying to tread the water of eh-it’s-ok.
it’s done. it’s enough.
i have decided to decide.
i’m not positive that is possible; i’m not even sure that is possible.
but this piano-less existence is hard and i wonder if it is harder than what it will actually feel like AT the piano.
it won’t be carols.
but it will be something. something gut-worthy of answering the tug, something that makes me show up, that makes the walls of my studio vibrate with fortissimo and neck-crane to hear breath in the rests.
in the new year, little by little. kintsugi-ing.
and – even now – even in the middle of deciding to decide – part of me wants to add: maybe.
reverse threading 