littlebabyscion stayed home. good thing. we would have been dwarfed in the middle of all the trucks on the highway going into the city. at least big red had a bit more presence than LBS would have had. even so, it was like being in a cave – we couldn’t see anything else but the trucks. no view, no signs, nothing. just trucks.
it was a breath of fresh air when we got to the george washington bridge and the trucks veered left to traverse the bridge on the upper level. suddenly we could see the water. suddenly we could see signs. we could see the skyline of the city. we had perspective of where we actually were, instead of just inching along in a cluster – no real choice but to move ever-so-slightly in this cotillion of semis – with zero idea of our exact location.
this country feels that way right now. we are surrounded by corruption to the nth degree and it is insanely hard to try and stop hyperventilating and get any kind of perspective – we are seemingly inching along in a clusterf— of lawlessness, all pretense of the constitution removed, the horror of being controlless, with only the worst of the worst locating us.
there were moments when it was hard to breathe in the middle of all these trucks. i kept wishing there was another way off the island, but every artery has its issues and there are snagging problems getting off every way you go.
so we endured. and we went ridiculously slow; it took three and a half hours to get off the island and across the city. but we got there.
and so, i suppose that there is a lesson here. it’s not like we pulled over and gave up. we set the nose of big red to get there – west on the island, across the east river, across the hudson river and beyond. and, despite it taking longer than we ever anticipated, we got there.
i hope the same premise somehow applies to this redwood-forest-new-york-island country.
“the smallest act of kindness is worth more than the greatest intention.” (khalil gibran)
it had been a long day. a very long day that was preceded by other very long days. we were tired and road-weary. the last couple hours were brutal. at one point i just wanted to stop in the middle of a dark intersection and weep. we kept on.
when we finally got there – after driving through corn-edged roads with slices of moonlight shining on the asphalt – i pulled the truck onto the gravel drive and – without any finessing to my parking – just stopped, more than ready to get out.
we opened the tiny cottage door, taking a breath, knowing that – sometimes – a place to land is merely that and nothing more – just a place to land.
in the moment of stepping over the threshold, it was instantaneous. the little cottage reached out and held us as we entered, its every detail thoughtful and comforting.
we wandered room to room – the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom. everything was impeccable. we were struck by the abundance offered in this place, instead of the sometimes helter-skelter just-enough conglomeration of furnishings, decor, necessities.
we stood in the bathroom by the cabinet, literally stunned by the stacks of thick, fluffy towels on its shelves. we had just come from a rented place where the towels were thin, musty, ragtag – the sort of towels we have downstairs in our laundry room for cleanup duties not guests.
we had a small dinner – on plates and glasses that neatly filled the kitchen cupboards, at a table with flowers and napkins, adjacent to a counter with a basket full of snacks.
but it was when we got ready for bed that really got to me, that helped me exhale my held breath and granted me a new, big, deep breath.
there on a giant scrumptious bed – with a thick comforter and quilt and multiple pillows – were two andes candies.
the tiniest sweet gesture.
yes, we paid to stay at this beautiful cottage that perched on a hillside above the river boasting plentiful water fowl and eagles. but we’ve also paid to stay at many, many other places. truth be told, we usually like them all, finding charm in the location, the aged history, the quirk. even when there’s only one spoon or one glass, a hodgepodge of plastic plates, not enough lights.
but when you are as embraced by a place as we were that night, you are reminded that going the extra mile is worth it. that any hospitality we might offer others – whether as a generosity or paid – whether near or far – whether beloved or stranger – should be considered, heartfelt, gracious, unsparing.
even the tiniest of gestures. like a couple andes candies.
because many people these days – in places all over the world – feel like weeping in the middle of a dark intersection.
there were multiple times – when my sweet momma was here on this earth – that i brought her yellow roses. they were something special between us – an expression of love between mother and daughter.
yellow roses have a different significance than red. they are indicative of friendship, the deep bonds of love, warmth and joy, fresh starts, gratitude, hope. i read that in japan yellow roses symbolize courage and inner strength.
months ago, a dear friend gave me a small mini yellow rose plant, likely purchased at the floral section of a grocery store. it had several miniature yellow roses blooming and several buds in the waiting when i received it and i figured that it – like other more temperamental plants – would run its course.
it is months later. and the yellow rose is still in its original pot. it appears to love its residence next to the old garden table, on the deck, sharing a bit of space with the basil. it has flourished – bud after bud, bloom after bloom. it has embraced life beyond our expectation. even now, with its leaf-nod to the approaching fall, it has three buds – three bursts of beauty in the offing.
and, every day i look at it i think of my sweet momma. and i wonder about how this particular plant has been so resilient. i wonder if it had a littlebitta help from her.
i wonder if this plenty – this profusion of buds and blooms are tiny messages from her – sent in love, delivering bravery and perseverance. they are certainly well-timed.
and – if my sweet momma is the one whose green thumb from some other plane of existence has helped along this little plant aspiring to burst past what’s expected, to burst past little-life – i remember she is the same woman who wrote: don’t underestimate me…
because we really needed to, we went for a hike that day. we went to the trail where we have processed much life. because this was a day in which we needed just that – a place to process.
the first snake we encountered was motionless, but in the dirt of the path. we gently lifted it and placed it in the trailside vegetation, out of harm’s way. the second and third snakes were also in the middle of the trail and we moved them as well, for there were several bikers zooming their way around and we were worried these snakes wouldn’t be visible in time.
and then there was the praying mantis. there it was, just waiting for us as we rounded the bend. it allowed me to get up-close, taking several pictures of it – its forelegs folded as it watched for prey. it looked at over at me and i talked to it, a tiny bit envious of its ability to remain zen-like in such an uncertain moment.
repositioning the praying mantis would have been much more difficult than the snakes, so we didn’t move it and we hoped that it would nimbly move on – with its impossibly delicate, needle-thin legs – across the trail in its quest for food.
we looked for our mantis the second time around our looped trail but it had disappeared. it left us with its memory – a rare sight for us – and with affirmation, symbolic meanings that were, indeed, timed well.
for praying mantis encounters symbolize things like good luck and stillness, spiritual guidance and courage and strength. we read that it also can be indicative of divine protection, a messenger.
praying mantises are masters of disguise – blending in. they are still and patient; their camouflage in nature – looking like twigs or grass – helps them find prey. this graceful green creature – showing up to us on the anniversary of the day of d’s dad’s passing – seemed serendipitous.
to be mindful and still, patient and strong and courageous…in the middle of uncertainty…all the messages we needed on that very day.
“i go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.” (john burroughs)
we didn’t expect this when we planted the sweet potato that had grown hot pink tendrils in the wire basket hanging in the basement stairwell. we actually had no idea what to expect. but we had a couple planters and some good dirt, no expectations and – importantly – curiosity.
we watched this planter – literally – every single day. we noted as the pink shoots stood tall through the dirt and then grew the tiniest leaves. i took photographs as it began to grow; it seemed exponentially enthusiastic. we were enchanted.
we still are.
there are now three – actual potatoes – planted in two different planters just off the deck.
and every day we go out our back door we pass by these sweet potato plants. every day we are greeted with their heart-shaped leaves. every day, hearts.
curiosity is a funny thing. it would have been easier to toss the sweet potatoes that had gone beyond or, if not too far gone, cut off the sprouts and check the rest for spoilage. but we were curious. these little guys had sprouted in what seemed like overnight in our stairwell. with plants having that kind of zealous intention and fortitude, we wondered what might happen if we planted them.
this tiny observance – paying attention to these tiny pink sprouts – brought us on a journey a good deal of the summer. we watched, we researched, we celebrated these sweet potatoes.
most of all, we learned.
it’s not to be underestimated – curiosity.
its energy begets more energy.
there’s no telling what can happen when curious people get together and set no limits on their questioning, their poking and prodding, their research and experimentation, their inquisitiveness.
“the mind that opens to a new idea never returns to its original size.” (Albert Einstein) “the important thing is not to stop questioning. curiosity has its own reason for existing.”
it’s a new season. the signs are all around us. the windows are open, letting in cool breezes.
and yesterday – of all days – i opened instagram to the suggested reel of a small child i had never seen before, never heard of.
there she was – the tiniest little imp of a girl – all buckled into her carseat, saying: “you can’t worry about what other people think. i mean, have you MET other people?”
this darling little girl – maybe 4 or 5 in this video.
and then, a few more words, words to work on taking straight into my heart:
“people don’t have to like you. people don’t have to love you. they don’t even have to respect you. but when you look in the mirror you better love what you see…you better love what you see.”
built from a couple planks of old barn wood and some galvanized pipe, its possibilities were endless. tucked into a corner of the backyard, cozied up between the edge of the deck and the fence, every day this mighty garden called my name.
not so mighty in size, it was wildly enormous in delivering zen. with a pair of clippers in my hand and a watering wand waiting nearby, i spent hours through this summer tending this garden.
and it has rewarded us with jalapeños and cherry tomatoes, basil and mint and rosemary and cilantro and parsley. nothing you can’t purchase at a market, but there is something about growing right outside your kitchen, a few steps across the deck, through a wrought iron gate from the patio.
we continue to harvest from this potting stand. we’ll see it through to the last of the herbs, the last of the peppers and tomatoes, all the while planning a bit more for next year. success begets trying some new things. we planted in previous years – and there was a yield of herbs, a few tomatoes, a handful of peppers – but there was something a bit different about this year.
and this was the year we needed it.
somehow, the universe – in all its energy and light – knew that this was the time. a time for us to invest our own energy and attention into growing things. not just grasses or ferns or peonies or a few other flowers, but things that would nourish us, things that would connect the dots from dirt to our kitchen.
a gift of growing at a time when growth – real, human, throw-out-your-arms-and-hold-all-the-world-close growth – seems to be shunned, devalued, debased.
even after all these years – a full five decades – it is andrea vrusho who sticks out. in her bandana kerchiefs, her flowy clothes, her peace sign necklace, i can still see her. she was the shining light who encouraged us all to write, to search, to be poets, to be ourselves, to embrace words.
i’ve written about her before. i will likely write about her again. the lighthouses in your life are like that; they keep rising up and waving at you, encouraging you just like they always did.
and i still see her – standing at the front of my high school english class – all tie-dyed and hoop-earringed – even now – in the latter part of the middle of my sixth decade, as i continue – ad infinitum – to do this: “the thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself.” (anna quindlen)
she was one of the first – outside my family – to lessen my concern of being a different coneflower, the flower spent from living aloud, a flower on the edges. she pompom-ed my tree-sitting, my practice of journaling. she challenged my beliefs and rained questions on us. she buoyed my feminism and stumped in class for our rights. she cheered on my voice.
and i think about her now. now, as i reclaim that voice. now, as i broach the distance between before and after. now, as i reach back in time to who i was and, thus, who i am.
i know that my coneflower looks different. i have always felt it. artists are outliers, sticking out sometimes simply because of simple reasons. the suits don’t quite fit. you are somewhere lagging behind the trends. you are hopscotching from creative project to project. you are exposure-heavy and earnings-light. you are different – your perspective, your ultra-sensitivity, your empathy. you are the silver in a field of gold, the gawky sunflower in a meadow of daisies. but, despite your best efforts at being the best blendy coneflower you can be, your own distinct and peculiar – offbeat -voice stays with you. like gum on the bottom of your shoe, as much as you try to dislodge it, it is there – still sticking around.
a few days ago on the trail i stopped and turned to d.
i preambled what i was going to say – “this is not a solvable moment. this is just something i have to say.”
and then –
“that’s it!” i declared. “no more sniveling! i’m done with that! it is not who i am!”
without context that could be confusing. but in the middle of the middle of life right now, it made complete sense to him.
and he looked back at me – with andrea clapping her hands on the other side – and said, “good!”
“never compare your insides to everyone else’s outsides.” (anne lamott)
the chipping-peeling-paint white cabinet spoke to me. it sat on top of a side table in the booth straight ahead of the walk-through from one building into the other at the antique shoppe. it had some sweet personality and i visited with it, lifting the old clasp handles to open it and peer inside. with shelves ready for stuff to be tucked away, this little cupboard charmed me.
i took a few photographs, noting the price, and we left.
i had an old aquarium stand next to my bed as my nightstand. it held a few photos and framed notes from my kiddos when they were little: “goodnight mom” and “mom” with hearts. it held a jelly jar with pens and pencils, a pair of readers. it held a small clock and a glass nightstand lamp that was my sweet momma’s. it held a box of tissues, babycat’s old “meow” bowl with trinkets and my earbuds. underneath, on the bottom glass shelf, it held a wooden crate that serves as a special box for earlier decades.
you may be getting the picture.
the fishtank stand held too much.
we visited the little white cupboard a second time, measuring it and taking more photographs, pondering.
we moved things around in the bedroom and i emptied the glass and wrought iron metal stand, paring down as i worked. and still pondering.
and then we went back to the antique shoppe – our favorite. i held my breath as we came around the corner to the place where you could see through the passageway into the other big room and into the booth where the little white cupboard still sat, patiently waiting.
and this third time, after a smidge of price negotiating, the little white cupboard came home.
because we do not have a matchy-matchy kind of bedroom suite, it seemed right to add this little cabinet to the old black-painted cedar chest that had been miss peggy’s from next door, the medium-toned wood dresser that had been lois’ before she left for overseas teaching forty years ago, the spring from my dad’s antique bassinet, holding tiny clothes-pinned handmade cards we’ve given each other. the live-life-my-sweet-potato print and the black and white canvas of babycat. the gingham print red and white wingchair lazyboy, the small black jewelry armoire i bought off marketplace, the pine cabinet from the town in the north carolina mountains where we bought property over four decades ago, the quilt a friend made when i broke both my wrists that graces the bed from which we removed the frame so it would be easier for our aging dogga to jump on and off. it is a venerable hodgepodge and we love it. the peeling-paint white cabinet is right at home.
we have always been drawn to items – particularly vintage – that are painted black. but lately, it seems, we are attracted to the things that are painted white, things that show life, things that have had some miles and some stories, some lovin’-on. but lighter, brighter.
and so these pure white flowers that are in our dear westneighbors’ yard are just exquisite to me. these hydrangea seem like the flowers of posies of love, of weddings, of hope. they bring a smile every time i pass by them, backing down or pulling into the driveway. such delicate beauty, these blossoms on shrubs where tiny birds gather.
maybe it’s the balance of light. this room – our house – has great sunlight streaming in many old double-hung windows. in these times, as we find ourselves slightly more insular – again – staying home with our old dogga – we are spending much time in the spaces of our home. the white fuzzy pillows, the white chunks of concrete, the old white door learning against the wall, the white throw, the white iron obelisk trellis…they hold light.
and right now – particularly right now – as we make our way through these times, it would seem important to gather around ourselves things that hold the light for us.
he says that one day we must go on a trip that is specifically about photography. that we will slowwwwly stroll – wherever it is we are – and i can stop and linger – at any time – and take a picture – or twenty – of any single thing along the way. i am excited about that and we have a really, really long list of the places we might choose as destinations. an endless list, actually.
the funny thing is – this is pretty much how i do every day. on the trail, in our backyard, at the garden center, at our potting stand, in the antique shoppe, at the grocery store, in our ‘hood, in the mountains, on the beach – anywhere.
i have always loved taking photographs. even a dear old friend, who i hadn’t spoken with in about four decades, remembered that i always had a camera in my hand whenever she and i were together. it goes way back…for me, to those pocket instamatic cameras and the cameras with the square bulbs on the top that rotated for the next shot. in college i did photo shoots with my new 35mm manual camera for extra money. i climbed fences to take sunrise shots on beaches. i hiked in rivers to capture the fauna along the edges. i adored being the photography editor of my college paper, toting my camera to disco parties, softball games, campus events, college-sponsored ski trips, lunch with paul simon. if there were no pictures of something or someone from back then, there were good reasons.
there have also been times – along the way – when i have realized that taking photographs would take away from the moment – and, in those times, i have chosen to put the camera away – to simply memorize the moment instead. but this thready heart of mine loves to scroll back through images that place life and time.
it feels somewhat like cheating when you take photographs at a nursery such as i did for today’s image. i wandered about the aisles and aisles, greenhouses and gardens of nearby milaegers, entranced by the vast opportunity to capture color, texture, utter beauty. there is no end to it. even the flowers that are wilting are absolutely divine. i walk, arm in arm with david, and i feel fortunate to see so much that touches so many senses. it is impossible to not feel it. we are surrounded by the glorious.
and so we plan – one day – to take a trip sheerly about photography. i will be excited to plan it, to choose idyllic places and vistas that offer moments like the shimmer of sun on iridescent raindrops.
in the meanwhile, i will carry my iphone and its remarkable camera everywhere i go, capturing everything else that is beautiful, that is evocative, that means something, that will be a source of joy or heart or memory, that is life.
reverse threading 