when you hike a trail a lot, it becomes a member of the family. like when you recognize something has changed – someone had a haircut, someone has new glasses, someone has lost weight, someone looks tired – it is no different. the trees have leafed, the underbrush has been knocked over, the game trail is tamped down, the may apple has flowered, the wild geranium is prolific, the river is high, the river is low, the turtles have come out, the beaver dam is bigger.
we talk about our river trail a lot because we hike it a lot. though we’d prefer it to be different, we see it more than we see any member of our family.
this particular day – when the sky was a perfect sky-blue, when the river was high enough to cover the logs where the turtles sun, when purple fleabane budded next to its white-daisy-bloom predecessor, when the great blue heron joined the cranes flying the river, when the color green had more hues than any person might imagine – this day was a reminder of how well we knew this trail, its turns, the gifts of the familiar and the magic of the unexpected.
and there is this high spot on the trail where we stand and look out over the meadow, over the marsh, over the river. and i stood – still – looking at where the trees met the sky, all glorious, listening to the sounds on the breeze, feeling the sun on my face and my feet on the ground – standing still – and felt the insanity of being alive.
there is a spot in our backyard – a pretty specific spot – where we can sit and watch the sun as it gets lower and lower in the sky. it filters through clouds or the trees to our west. it lingers over the familiar rooflines of houses nearby. it is a spot on the patio that is ridiculously reassuring as we adirondack-chair sit, sunglasses on, witnessing the beginnings of the end of the day.
because we are not given to dinners out – and they aren’t really in our budget anyway – we tend to spend the waning hours of daylight on our deck or on this patio. maybe with a little happy hour, maybe just quietly – either way, it is a magical way to be a part of sundown, to begin evening, particularly when the ‘hood around us is silent but for the sparrows, chickadees, cardinals getting in last licks at the birdfeeder, dustbathing in the dirtspots dogga has generously dug, sipping water from the birdbath or the pond. it can be so quiet as to hear the hummingbird’s tiny chirps as it buzzes over our heads after devouring at its feeder. these are good days, the days that decrescendo like this.
and so, i try and capture these ends-of-day – for other days when the time comes for sunset and the horizon is full of clouds or rain, for other days when our hearts need the reminder, the universe hug that there is a night of rest coming and a new day to follow.
i glance over at d – whose hand is holding mine – and watch dogga run his backyard circle of joy.
for this moment, i feel a sense of peace. I breathe it all in – soaking in the energy that we need to be in these moments of history. i lean back against the throw pillow and exhale.
the sun, the contrail – elements of an exclamation mark in the sky.
i imagine it is an exclamation-mark for the beginning of PRIDE month – events with themes like “united in pride!” (chicago) and “remember, resist, rejoice!” (milwaukee) and “rise up: pride in protest! (nyc). i imagine it is lifting up the indisputable importance of acceptance of others and pushing back against discrimination and the violence that accompanies it.
we are proudly attending PRIDE – both in milwaukee and chicago. our edm artist son is performing at both festivals. for the last years we have attended both PRIDE events in these cities and i have come away with the big-sky-like feeling of people loving one another. it is a freeing reminder for anyone who has forgotten what it’s like to just care about each other, despite any of the differences that have been politicized into marginalizing people.
i – we – will always be staunch supporters of our son. we will always be staunch supporters of his friends, his extended family. we will always be staunch supporters of the LGBTQ community. we will always question the ugly – people who wish to eliminate LGBTQ freedoms and safety. we will always question those people – who tout their “christian” beliefs, their “jesus-saids” – while their gross bigotry shamefully reveals their empty words. no, jesus did not say anything that would buoy your cruelty. we will always question those people who have voted against the rights and privileges of the LGBTQ community, who have gleefully cheered on the homophobic, patriarchal march into autocracy, who have betrayed their own families.
the exclamation mark in the sky marks the beginning of a month in which we have the opportunity to promote unity, in which we have the chance to truly love one another, in which we might set down the vileness of homophobia and pick up kindness and the embrace of what diversity is.
“you are a child of the universe. no less than the trees and the stars, you have a right to be here.” (desiderata)
i don’t suppose i ever really fit in. i was the youngest in my family – separated by a decade – while most of my friends had siblings their own age. i grew up in a neighborhood where the kids were somehow athletically gifted, while i took organ and piano lessons and sat in my tree writing poetry. an early entrepreneur, i pulled a wagon around our neighborhood selling baby cactus cuttings and candles i had made. i didn’t go to – or get invited to – wild parties or cut class or skip my homework. i took bike-hikes and walked on the beach in the winter while everyone was at the mall or the bowling alley or the movies. i didn’t listen to the stones or grateful dead or led zeppelin (with the exception, of course, of stairway to heaven – everyone’s prom theme). i listened to john denver and gordon lightfoot and the carpenters. i wore off-brand clothing and didn’t keep up with fashion trends. my momma bought me less expensive boy-pants and found the offbeat stores for shoes-that-look-like-trendy-shoes-but-are-not, like my cherished construction boots. my first car was my dad’s vw beetle, nothing fancy but beloved. i had numerous part-time jobs through high school and then in college and knew the joy of serving corn flakes to both me and my dog missi for dinner. i never thought of myself as weird. but i suppose – if one considers the definition “may have unusual habits, interests or ways of thinking that set them apart” it could be true. i don’t see that as negative, though i also suppose that – depending on the way you see yourself fitting into the world – one might consider it such.
so the sticker “stay weird” hung upside down and backwards made me laugh aloud. somehow my laughter summoned mary oliver and she and i enjoyed a good chuckle about the infinite extraordinary of the insignificant and the everyday, the value of seeing the usual through a filter of unusual.
weird took a very long hiatus – it was safer, less vulnerable, and kept me out of trauma i had shelved. i pursued the inevitability of having to make money, to help support a household in a more meaningful way than the way of an artist. for this society – though its love for the arts is profound, its support of the arts is less so.
it was after my children were born, after the imperative was too loud to ignore, after the perils shushed a bit – when it was time to start releasing music. writing, practicing, recording, performing, marketing, booking, hawking – none of this is necessarily standard-work fare – it is unusual, it is tenuous, it requires a bit of courage. it doesn’t have the same parameters as a workday in corporate or structured america. it has no guarantees of reward, no regular paycheck. it is steeped in personal challenges, the need to be scrappy and the sisu to put it out there.
in the time that was the heyday of my recording career i would call absolutely anyone, regardless of their position. as the owner/artist of my label i have talked directly to vice presidents of sales of barnes and noble and borders books and music, owners of publishing houses, the personal managers of ridiculously successful recording/performing artists. i’ve sat in j. peterman’s messy office chatting (of the j.peterman catalog and seinfeld fame) and in the spare chair of radio program directors. i’ve danced across the stage at qvc-tv under a disco ball and played songs live over phone conferences with oncological pharma higher-ups. i’ve stood in the rain on flatbeds playing, embraced boom mics over my piano on theatre stages of all sizes, sang in front of 35000 people in support of cancer survivorship in central park. pushing the boundaries, carrying a little chutzpah along with belief in my own artistry was everyday life – and necessary. and i’d remind myself each time i picked up the phone or stepped into the unknown the very fact that we all breathe in and out the same way. this thing we have in common, i would tell myself – breathing. surely i could connect on that most basic of levels.
as outside the conventional box as it all seems, i didn’t feel weird. i felt in my skin.
and so, apparently, the weird continues. we know we are different than others. we have a certain run-and-jump into vulnerability that others do not. we have a certain pull towards creating, experimenting, learning – all in the public eye. we share because we have to, not because anyone has to receive it.
so, yes, the “stay weird” sticker really spoke to me.
though my life – and our life – is quite a bit different than the traditional lives or retirements of lovely people we know and care about, it is somehow just right for us. i never forget the corn flakes and he never forgets the sleeping bag in his studio space. every everything counts and we are reflexively careful about not being frivolous. for us, weird has granted us a certain appreciation of the littlest things, honoring simplicity and leftover pasta, redundant black thermal shirts and a shared bin of socks, used notebooks and repurposing taken to a new level.
what one does with one’s “wild and precious life”*…
i suppose it’s human nature. we tend to take it all for granted – our health, the place we call our home, our freedom. we are relatively complacent about it – maybe not necessarily actively grateful – more passively matter-of-fact.
until we are without it – our health, the place we call our home, our freedom.
and we want it back.
and then we wonder why we didn’t appreciate it when we had it.
each and every time i have had any kind of physical challenge, any ailment, i linger on what it was like before it began. before i broke both my wrists, before frozen shoulder, before i had covid, before…
it’s – of course – a fool’s errand and does absolutely no good save for being somewhat masochistic – which doesn’t fall under the category of good.
and – of course – the lesson i find is to intend gratitude for all in each moment we experience.
but we humans – particularly in this society – are slightly more hindsight types. and we tend to sort to the “in retrospect” view of things instead of being anticipatory or present.
so i do a heads, shoulders, knees and toes check-in and thank my lucky stars. i look around at our old house and thank this place we call home. i move about daily without restraint, making decisions about what to do, where to go – for which i am thankful.
and yet, right here and right now, we stand at a crossroads – an absolutely critical moment – when we must decide what all it is we are grateful for, what all we wish for, what all we believe in – before we don’t have it anymore.
those of us who are not in allegiance with the takeover of our democracy into autocracy, those of us who have not normalized an administration which is morally bereft, those of us who pledge our pledge to a republic and not a man – we all must decide to stand up for the freedom of this country. before it becomes one of those things we wish we had appreciated – when we had it – before it was gone.
they unfurled from their tiny seahorse stage into real-live ferns in what seemed like moments. all of a sudden, there they were – a whole corner garden of ferns. so incredibly green. lush.
but – even in their zealous and prolific growth – they are fragile. their fronds fall victim to the wind or the dogga’s curiosity, and they are knocked over, with – seemingly – no chance of revival. it seems – perhaps – safer to be in the middle of the bunch of ferns in the garden, rather than on the outskirts.
and i find myself nodding my head, as any artist might nod her head. yes. indeed. safer to be in the middle than on the outskirts, than life as an outlier.
when i finally felt safe enough – when the imperative was too much to ignore any longer – for me to pursue my own artistry – to leave the middle – i knew it was a different route. it would not be the interstate to success. instead, it would be a challenge to stay upright – to keep reaching – when the perils of the outskirts were plentiful.
i knew i should have kept on the road earlier, but there were things that precluded me – that hushed me – and i largely put aside that desperate voice inside of me begging to come back out – the one i had quashed so many years – decades – prior.
but the tiny seahorse fern in me didn’t give up. it kept nagging me until it was finally ok to face the perils.
and i began to write – with the fervency of the ferns in our back garden. my piano was never silent. i kept unfurling, reaching to the sun – an artist coming out of fallow.
and there was music. and more music. the compositions, the songs, the albums populated the garden rapidly – there was much time for which to make up. stages and boom mics and product boxes were the accoutrements of my life. and i could only imagine – and still wonder – what might have happened had it all started earlier, had i fronded in earlier life.
it remains a mystery.
even now – in which the unsuspected and life have mown down some of the outer fronds – there is a core, a center of gravity that holds the fern-muse.
though fragile on the exterior, we are never really broken to the core. there is still time – there is healing, there is a new spring.
we were exhausted after we arrived home. chicago is a lot of stimulus all at once. we had taken the train down to avoid commuter hours on the highway; we took our dear friend to a pre-op appointment.
zooming down and taxiing over to the medical center, taxiing back and zooming back up wasn’t hard. but you can definitely feel the frenetic energy in the city – an energy that is pulsing and alive. as the taxi driver chose the underground roads i marveled at the intensity of traffic – everywhere.
even before our son settled in the city, we made a point to get down there. but we do know there are people who choose to stay away, who don’t necessarily find joy in the pace or textures of a big city. we personally cannot imagine not taking the opportunity to immerse in something different, some place that is different. i don’t see us living in a big city at this point in our lives, but we’re grateful to have cities close by to remind us of the beautiful diversity of people.
there was a volunteer at the entrance to the surgeon’s suite. she was helpful in directing traffic as people arrived. she seemed a bit rote, though welcoming, not warm. until someone sat near and started having a conversation with her – about flowers. she came alive and spirited and it was a reminder of how easy it is for us to close off from others – other people, other customs, other lives, other places. until.
when we had walked in, she asked if we had an appointment. our friend said he did and she turned to look at the two of us – to which i stated, “fan club”.
“everyone needs support,” she replied.
it does one good to leave. staying put makes you complacent. staying put makes everything that is normal just ordinary. it doesn’t give you any sense of awe about how others live, any in-another’s-shoes insight into the complications and complexities of day-to-day life. it doesn’t help you remember – or even try to imagine – the entire population of this nation – how vast, how freckled with differences, the gift of ‘other’.
we sat by the window and gazed outside from our vantage point on the 15th floor. traffic below, the sounds of the city, a building directly opposite us. i imagined the life going on in that building, yet another medical complex. i watched the newcomers as they arrived, brows furrowed with worry or weariness. i imagined the lives of people i would never see again. i watched the suite-greeter, multiplying that one lovely person who i did not know by the 2.7 million others in the city.
and i knew that soon we would board a train and head back up to wisconsin. we’d sit in the kitchen on a cold, rainy late afternoon. we’d eat leftovers. we’d talk about conversations with our taxi drivers and the smooth travel experience of the day. we’d be both grateful for even the briefest of times in the city and grateful for the quiet of our old house. we’d pet on dogga and go to bed early.
and we would be better for it. because we would remember that we are not alone in this world. we are connected to others in the same quest for breathing and thriving. we are enriched, choosing to – even briefly – go somewhere unknown, do something we have to figure out, learn something new, take in the energy of so many, many people – living.
“life is not a spectator sport.” (attributed to jackie robinson)
it goes by fast on the train – almost a blur, but not quite.
“you are beautiful,” painted on the side of an old building.
in the middle of all the ugly going on right now, it is a good reminder: not to lose – or forget about – our own value, our own light, our own beauty.
somehow the most basic gets distorted in the chaos. somehow we put our joy to the side, we drop our view from the kaleidoscope of exquisite, we forget that this one and only moment is ours and we are here for it.
“peace has not broken out,” said marcus noland, executive vp of the peterson institute for international economics.
now there’s an understatement. no. peace has not broken out here in these un-united united states.
now, had they been priced a tad bit lower – ok, quite a bit lower – we might have liked to have added a metalwork alien to our backyard. but our purse strings did not allow for it and our backyard has enough stuff. besides, it’s not really our style. so we kept walking.
but the addition of the peace-loving greenguy would have been a hoot. it was rather tall and a place on our deck would guarantee visual impact for houses – and people – around us. maybe the antique flea market find would have made a positive impact on everyone around. ahh, wishful thinking. maybe not.
peace.
over the weekend we chose one day during which we did nothing. literally, just about nothing. we tended our gardens, adirondack-chair-sat and watched dogga and our birds. it was absolutely necessary. we did not scroll. we did not browse social-media. we did not read articles or newsletters. we did not watch videos or news footage. we deliberately tuned out. instead, we just simply sat.
it was a very quiet day – none of the neighbors were out – it easily became one of my favorite days lately. lots of sun, a very gentle breeze, a good throw pillow behind us, a few snacks.
because peace has not broken out, it is kind of imperative to take some – even manufactured – time of peace. we are all so immersed in the crazy, the chaotic, the mean-spirited – to separate ourselves out for a bit of time is necessary. we simply won”t endure if we walk 24/7 in the maniacal sickness of this administration.
so, with the memory of our greenfriend-of-the-market, we sat. and imagined the rest of the weekend and what all we would do with it. we drank in the stillness, reveled in our hummingbirds. we marveled at our dogga and dreamed dreams about vw minibus campers and backcountry excursions on foot.
peace was in our backyard for a bit. it had broken out with the sun and we were grateful. for just a little bit, all seemed ok.
“we come in peace,” the greenguys insist.
if only that were what they would find here on earth.
thirteen years ago my sweet poppo died on memorial day. his very last day on earth, it was during the wee hours of the night into the very early morning that he changed planes of existence, devastating those of us left behind.
my dad – at that time – was 91, with baggage he had dragged behind him for over sixty years since his time in the army air corps, shot down during the ploesti oil field raids in romania, taken prisoner-of-war in bulgaria.
he had been a somewhat quiet man during much of his life. he didn’t share – in detail – of his time missing-in-action or as a prisoner in a dank cell – until i was in high school. it was a lot to carry and, once home from the war, the post-traumatic stress was impactful on the rest of his life. post-traumatic stress is like that. it takes a toll in so many ways.
as i think about him today – and honor his dedicated service to this nation and the lives of those who died in service – i know – without even a singular doubt – that he would be horrified at the present state of affairs here and now.
his commitment to bettering others’ lives – fighting fascism – preventing human misery – was steadfast…enough so that he folded himself into the engineer gunner position of b-24 boomerang betsy and fought against all that was trying to destroy that which he believed in – the values of democracy. he would not align himself with anything that would not defend or advance these ideals. he would push back against any and all attempting to subjugate dominion over the freedoms for which he had fought.
my sweet poppo – were he to be here – would be sickened to watch cowardly leaders capitulate to the corrupt agenda to dismantle democracy. he would be heartbroken to watch people he loved abdicate all decency and conscience to a singular man whose grandiose narcissism seeks to vindictively avenge his enemies and instill an autocratic state.
my dad – even from wherever he is – would never tolerate such vileness. he had seen enough suffering to last him forever. he would be disgusted by an administration that is glorifying the richest – lining their pockets with the needs of the poor. he would remind, “you can’t take it with you.”
no. you can’t take it with you. power and control and ultra-wealth and digital coinage and oil and mining fields and real estate and gold-gilded accoutrements and fancy cars and 747s – the stuff of cold-hearted greed doesn’t make the cut from grandiose living to that other dimension.
but legacy follows you everywhere.
eleanor roosevelt asks, “when will our consciences grow so tender that we will act to prevent human misery rather than avenge it?”
now is the time.
and my dad? well, he reminds us all. “remember the little engine that could?” his words inscribed in a copy of the book, “you can too.”
reverse threading 