conked out. it’s the end of the workday, the end of playtime, the end of the evening, the end of the month, the end of the year and they are conked out. so are we. with toys strewn about, they collapse on the floor, a wary eye on each other every so often, just making sure. but mostly, sleepy, eyes closed, soft sighs.
we feel the same way. conked out. it has been a year. tomorrow we’ll search for some sage to burn on the first day of the new year, smudging room by room, letting the snuffed flame’s gentle smoke chase out the negative and allow new light in.
conked out. it feels like a repeating theme…a basso ostinato…a foundation upon which we are all arriving at this last-day-of-the-year station. exhaustion seems to be the grounding venn diagram of all those we have spoken with. like lines of the composer john cage: dissonant polyphony, indeterminate chance-filled melodies, questioning, shapeless and yet heading in some vexing conclusive direction. 2019. confusing and atonal with a lack of rests, avant-garde, but in all the wrong ways.
as we approach the last minute of the last day of this year, we sneak a peek at the new year. new beginnings. we sigh. deeply. looking ahead.
i glance at a small sign i have on the wall. it is not without noticing the irony i read a quote from john cage, “begin anywhere.” a good place to go from conked out.
the upnorthgang gathered around the table. the glasses were lined up. multiples of alike wine glasses, aldi winking owl wine at the ready. we had a keyboard for tuning, sharpies in hand and were seriously dedicated to playing christmas songs on wine-filled glassware. jay had seen tuned wine glasses in a catalog, but at $245 a set, we thrifty upnorthgangers knew we could do better. plus, we all could play instruments – guitar, piano, clarinet, trumpet, cello, pipe organ, handbells, ukulele, violin… i mean, we are a talented group of people! hours later, we had composed a new christmas song, which shall remain un-named in this post, and had realized that our songlist would definitely remain short, for indeed we needed at least another octave of wine glasses and, having sipped the excess out of the glasses while tuning, we were out of wine. next up on the musical challenge list? charlie’s pickle jars!
so passing the jingle johns at lincoln park zoo it doesn’t seem so out-of-the-ordinary to hear music emanating from the, er, portapotties. The Boy groaned and begged me to not take a picture, but the wineglassperformingartist in me couldn’t resist.
why not take every opportunity to play some music, i say.
christmas eve. a good reason to sing your heart out. merry!
linda and jim were doing the swedish death cleanse. linda was determined to de-clutter their home of anything that could potentially burden their children one day. once on a mission there is no stopping her, so they were diligent about going through every corner, nook and cranny of their home, eliminating anything that was not needed, anything that hadn’t been used in ages or was just simply extraneous.
now, we all talked about that around the table. with the sun setting on lake michigan and wine in our glasses, our little neighborhood group discussed how hard it is to let go of things, especially things that have some meaning or are mementos of some sort. add to that the fact that many of us were raised by parents who had experienced the great depression and you have people who are pre-destined to keep stuff, repurpose it, re-use it, save it for sometime you might need it, save it for when it comes back into fashion so you don’t have to buy it again, etc etc etc. (that’s definitely my experience and my excuse.)
many times i have entered the basement storage room and gazed at the bins. in years past, we have eliminated most of the boxes and traded them for these bins, throwing out some things, giving away some things, donating items that are useful, so we have made some progress. now there are bins with christmas ornaments, bins with artwork and stories and projects created by The Girl or The Boy, bins of things my sweet momma felt too guilty to give away, bins of sewing paraphernalia, bins of art supplies, bins of old music (for everyone gives the musician they know all the old sheet music they come across in their own basement and then that musician, who feels like it’s a mortal sin to throw music out, is compelled to keep it all in file cabinets or, yes, bins.)
from time to time i get a wild hair and go through a bin or random remaining box or pile in the basement workroom. sometimes i am pretty successful at eliminating clutter. trust me – i have been in peoples’ homes who have been hoarders and just seeing that makes me want to get rid of everything and live in a tiny house (well, one that would fit my piano.)
this winter perhaps we will tackle this once again. one more layer of cleaning out. it is possible. it’s just tough for me to be ruthless. i am too thready to be ruthless. touching memories or seeing them around me is reassuring and fills my heart.
one day in more recent days i went upstairs to look for something in the closet in the hallway. on the top shelf sat these slippers. stored here, they are my sweet momma’s and my poppo’s. they kept them here for when they would visit.
i know that they won’t visit our home again. noticing the slippers stopped me in my pursuit of whatever-it-was-i-was-looking-for. all the moments of having my parents present in my home swirled around me, the finality once again a reality. i struggled with what to do. i took them out of the closet and brought them downstairs to show d.
laying them carefully on the floor, i took this picture so that i could look at it and remember. and then, i placed them in a bag so that someone else – a woman with smaller feet than mine and a man with bigger feet than d’s – could have slippers. slippers with a bank of memories. slippers worn hugging my children as they grew. slippers worn around the christmas tree. slippers worn in the cold winter sitting by the fire or in the summer drinking morning coffee on the deck. slippers that lived here, just waiting for their owners, my beloved parents, to put them on. slippers with big heart. slippers with profoundly good juju.
some things just stop me in my tracks. strolling through school days antiques mall i turned the corner and screeched to a halt. familiarity swirled around me as i stared at this painting – a paint-by-number. my breathing slowed. the scene, the hues…all made me feel like i was embraced. by my sweet momma. i texted a picture to my sister, to check in, to see what she said. she texted back that it, indeed, felt familiar and we tried to remember what happened to this painting of my mom’s. every time i look at this photo on my phone i feel ‘home’. even right now.
this wasn’t the first time this happened. back a couple years ago ON mother’s day we were tooling around an antiques store in woodstock, illinois. we had taken a ‘sunday drive’ (i am turning into my parents!) and looked for antiques stores to visit. as i turned the corner from one booth to the next it was there, staring at me. the paint-by-number-jesus that my mom had painted. i photographed it and called everyone that day. this painting was hung somewhere in our growing-up house that we can’t all agree on. but we know it was there. i turned the painting over looking for my mom’s signature on the back, but didn’t find it. i studied the frame, one that was identical to a frame that my sweet poppo had made on a paint-by-number-nude (yes, it’s ok to laugh aloud here) my mom had painted and hung in their bathroom (which i know i have written about before). i pondered how it might have gotten to woodstock, if indeed this painting and truly-identical-wooden-frame might have been my mom’s paint-by-number-jesus. it wasn’t likely. our growing-up-house was on long island and then my parents moved to florida so illinois was a bit off the mark (unless she had given the painting to my brother a million years ago and he “generously” donated it, which would make me laugh aloud.) we left and went home and a few days later drove all the way back, just to study it a little more, to touch it again. i thought holding it in my hands might tell me if i should buy it and bring it home and, well, i had no idea what to do with it then. i mean, what does one do with a paint-by-number-jesus? i didn’t buy it. i left paint-by-number-jesus in woodstock and i gratefully welcomed my mom’s embrace from afar.
so the other day, in the midst of the stresses of life, we took a stroll in one of our favorite antiques stores, chatting and reminiscing and laughing about all the stuff we used to have growing up and all the stuff that we still have in our cabinets that are now considered antiques.
we tried not to talk about the things that were nagging us, the things we are worried about, the things that seem insurmountable.
i stopped and went back. i had to take this picture. reminders are everywhere and right now, although, truly, as always, i knew i wanted to capture as many as possible.
it feels as if we are surrounded by whirling hypocrisy. those people who proclaim one thing and treat people in an extraordinarily different way. i’ve been stunned into i-don’t-even-know-what-to-say-silence more than once lately. people who demand respect but don’t give it, people who are unnecessarily controlling, people who go behind your back, people who list toward cruelty, people who declare appreciation but tear down, people who hide behind glossy words. what is going on? narcissism seems to be alive and well as we suffer the effects of those-who-believe-they-are-on-pedestals, pedestals that seem to exist on every step of the ladder. it’s shocking and more than a little disconcerting. we each have first-hand in-our-own-life experience. what a disappointment. we are humans capable of so much more.
and so, the reminders are incredibly welcome. the heart leaves or rocks, the sun’s rays glowing through clouds in the sky, the presence of a cardinal or two blue jays crossing our path in the woods. a text message or call out of the blue, beautiful generous raw-matte-finish words spoken to you. all reminders. a kindness extended by a stranger, an eye-contact smile. the big initiatives, the little gestures. not picking up the tug-of-war rope. reaching out to offer the olive branch. life-giving. practicing. we are truly capable of so much. we need be reminded.
but the real question is – do WE improve with age?
yes, lush red wine, dark chocolate, bold roast black coffee – all have risen on my list of chosens. i remember the days of sugar and cream in coffee. i remember the creamy milk chocolate days. and i remember the 1980s and 1990s days of ‘white zin’, the go-to wine of that age and time, a staple of the culture. but those days are past and we have moved on to rich red blends or old vine zins, 85% dark chocolate with no milkfats, and the boldest of the bold coffees with no sweetener or added dairy/non-dairy product. all improved (in my opinion) with my age.
me…on the other hand…i’m not so sure.
i read a brief article which proposed that your thoughts are less important than your feelings. it reminded the reader that, in light of everyone’s hard-to-speak-of mortality, there is no time more important, nothing more important than feeling the present moment.
how often do we get caught up in the swirling mind games of reviewing all the past? thoughts. how often do we find ourselves double-clutching on the future because of something that has happened ‘before’? thoughts. how often do we hesitate as we ponder-ponder-ponder until it’s too late? thoughts. how often are those thoughts – skewed – which have accumulated all through these supposed improving-with-age years – ruling our moments, nonetheless ruining our moments, the ones right-now? stick to the topic/don’t go backwards in time and drudge up old stuff/stay in the “i-feel” not the “you-did”…any counseling master’s program notes referencing ‘conversation’ (read: heated conversation) with a significant other. feelings. do we actually improve with age? do we learn?
i’m guessing the wine cork has it right. the moments you are sipping wine are quieter moments sitting by the fire. or moments of laughter with friends. or moments with a good meal. the older we get, it seems the more value we place on those things. we drink-in the heart of these most important times, with or without wine. feeling.
we gain perspective. maybe like that glass of wine in the evening. a little every day.
it is easy to have a list of things we wish for. a list of things we lack. a list of ways we aren’t enough. it is easy to perseverate over these things. things that make us different from someone else, things that make us less successful, less wealthy, less chic. it is easy to measure yourself against others. it is easy to fall short.
in those moments, it is easy for someone outside of you to remind you of what you do have, the ways ‘it could be worse’, the ways you are rich beyond compare. it is easy to push back against those words, against those admonishment-reminders. it is easy to stay in the lists. alone. to wallow.
but in the new tide that follows the overwhelmed sobs, the tears that cleanse but don’t solve, the grief of wishing-it-were-different, there are deep breaths of renewal. there are realizations. there are glimpses of beauty, the seeing of kindnesses, winks of hope.
there were rocks planted along one of the trails we hike on, positive messages painted on them. each one made us smile, made us wonder, made us look for the next. life-giving.
gratitude is like that. in a time swirling with negativity, personal challenges, darkness overtaking the sun, we offer these gratitude cards. print and cut them out (PDF link below), write your thoughts, hide them somewhere as a surprise, tuck them into a nook or cranny, or give them to people who are unsuspecting, people who maybe need the spark of your expression of gratitude.
the more grateful you are, the more grateful you are. it’s an amazing, wondrous cycle.
ick. i would much rather be thought of as “swell” than “moth-eaten” or “chic” rather than “dowdy”. good grief. this is full of possibilities for an emotional breakdown, an inferiority complex in the mixing bowl.
in the show schitt’s creek, moira (the ever-present, loving and compassionate mom -NOT-) is speaking to the dad (equally as despicable in his own right.) she states that to their children they are “the polar antonym of hip”.
hmm. is this not a defining characteristic of parenthood? we simply cannot be hip like them. we are not them. our children have different hip-ness than we do; our children are swell – and will be swell – in different ways than we have ever been.
i hardly think that the well-practiced eyerolls that my daughter has given me (in my view or from a thousand miles away) are because she thinks i am “modish”. nor do i think the radio silence in-between my equally sweet love-professing text messages to my son are because he is thinking, “wow! my mom is supercool!” it is part of their job to think we are un-hip. it is part of their journey in life to think we are “antediluvian”.
it IS the circle of life. forget rafiki and mufasa and the lions and all. the circle of life is the circle of hipness. you are hip until you are no longer hip. the line is foggy and you will not be notified until it is too late. there is no expiration date or deadline for payment. it just happens. the crease between your eyebrows is deep and the waistline on your jeans slowly creeps up from your hips. un-hip.
but such is life, as my sweet momma would say. maybe it’s time to embrace being ‘the polar antonym of hip’.
i will not be whipping out the credit card to try and stay ahead of it. ‘hip’ is untenable. the silky threads trailing behind it escape grasp. my boots and flipflops and black shirts will have to be my new ‘hip’. my philosophy of less-is-more will have to be my new ‘hip’. driving big red and littlebabyscionwithhundredsofthousandsofmiles will have to be my new ‘hip’. listening to john denver and james taylor and carole king will have to be my new ‘hip’. trying to keep being an honest artist in this world of machinated stuff will have to be my new ‘hip’. and my jeans, sitting sort of on my hips, will have to be my new ‘hip’.
and i will hope-against-hope that maybe, just maybe, my children will think, “wow! mom’s pretty hip.” (only even the word ‘hip’ isn’t ‘hip’.)
granted, schitt’s creek is not a shining example of serious shows. nor is it the apex of intelligent, thought-provoking viewing. but we had run out of parenthood (still sniffling over the bitter end) and this is us and everest movies and documentaries and decided to try on something new. we chose schitt’s creek.
it quickly became apparent to us that the humor in this show was not necessarily in alignment with our sense of humor, but we watched anyway. we decided it was a study.
the stunning moment came when one of the characters looked at another and, in complete candor, said, “kindness is a sign of weakness.”
we sat and looked at each other, the glow of the moon on water out the window. we dove deep into those words. after much debate and a search for profundity, we realized that in this country, at this time, with these circumstances, it was a true statement. kindness is not where it’s at, not what gets you ahead. it is without power and control. its calmness is terrifyingly missing in national goings-on, in international goings-on, in dealings with people even close-up and personal with agendas that serve only themselves. kindness has left the building in more places than we would care to think about. but a weakness? not.
beaky, my sweet momma, said, “be kind. be kind to each other.” and she damn well meant it. it may not have served her as well as being arrogantly demanding might have. it may not have served her as well as being haughty, nasty, biting might have. but it leaves a legacy for her that i am proud to speak about. it is a rare treat to see someone not take sh*t from someone else and do it with strong backbone in a kind way. my sweet momma was well-practiced.
we lit the torches about 5pm. it was cold but not breezy and the lake was calm after several days of bigger surf. it was the last night.
we sat on the back porch steps and watched the flame flicker. we moved inside and watched it dance from the living room, a fire burning in the woodstove. we checked the wind and the weather forecast and said goodnight to the torches late that night, flames glowing outside with boxes packed around us inside. very early in the morning i could see the slightest of flame glimmering in the torches, the light of golden rising sun behind them. all through the night. they burned all through the night.
there was something profound about that for us – the flame that kept burning through the night. i’m not sure i can speak to it. i can just say that the welcome flame of the torches in the morning was calming, steadying, grounding. indeed, the sun will set, night will descend, the sun will rise. the flame continues. light continues.
it was the last night on island, for now. the first dawn of next. and, as these things do – every sunrise and sunset – it has forever changed us.
reverse threading 