“you need to stay in balance, she said. “if you read what is happening in this country and in the world, you need to spend the same amount of time doing something peaceful.”
it is impossible. to balance it all out. the detonized bomb that is this new administration is – fast and furiously – destroying this country. all in the wasteful, abusive, fraudulent name of waste, abuse and fraud.
i hardly know what to say.
it is all beyond comprehension.
it is pure evil.
“waste, abuse, fraud. waste, abuse, fraud. waste, abuse, fraud,” the conscience-free administration repeats time and time and time again.
i saw the letter k immediately. one always sees ones initials, i suppose.
it immediately made me think of the way i used to sign everything – back in the day. (note: “the day” means the 70s – which is now – shockingly – half a century ago – which makes me laugh aloud!!)
i used a combination of my initials K, E, A – joined together – nothing extraordinary, it looked like this:
i used it everywhere. i signed my poetry with it. turned in lab reports with it. i autographed my lyrics in black-and-white-speckled composition books. i signed all my greeting cards with it and left notes on crunch’s windshield adorned with it. my monogram traveled with me everywhere.
and soon, recipients of my dedication to this began to use it back to me. i even have a beautiful gold necklace that was gifted to me with my cherished self-designed monogram.
and then, the guitar strap.
it was a present.
it was during the time that tooled leather had more than a minute. like everyone, i already had tooled leather keyfobs, bracelets, belts, change purses and full-sized handbags.
but the guitar strap stood out.
i used this guitar strap for five decades on my guitar. i had compartmentalized what it represented, the person who had given it to me, the time of which it reminded me.
until one day, a few years ago.
when you join together with a partner much later in life, you are full of the stories of the rest of the time you were not together. it’s rich history, narrative begging to be shared. and so, these stories start to tell themselves a little at a time as you get to know each other. and so one day i told him the story.
in horror he listened. he held me as i wept. he gently asked questions. he was quiet with me.
the bungie cord tightly lashed around the compartment of the sexual abuse flung free, snapping back, narrowly missing us. and the box was opened.
i removed the guitar strap from my guitar, unweaving the leather cord that held it onto the neck just under the tuning pegs. i stared at it for a few minutes, my monogram tooled into stiff leather that had somewhat softened through all the years.
and i took it outside and placed it in the garbage can.
with gordon lightfoot crooning in my ear, i stroked the pussywillows on the trail. i can’t remember seeing these on trail before. i know i would have noticed – their softness begs touch.
“pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses rain pools in the woodland, water to my knees shivering, quivering, the warm breath of spring pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses”
smooth silvery-grey under our fingertips, we each took time to touch, to marvel at the beauty. and gordon lightfoot sang on in my mind.
as a writer, composer, lyricist, there are decisions one must make along the way. we place ourselves in a vulnerable spot, not for our own purpose or indulgence, but, instead, in the hope of resonating with someone who needs the words or music or lyrics we write, in the hope of reaching someone else walking in similar shoes, in the hope of assuring someone out there who needs to know they are not alone. and so, at the risk of thus vulnerably over-sharing, i offer this:
but some things are triggers. and, as the verses and guitar continued, this particular gordon lightfoot song is one of them. my #metoo was at the hands of a musician, a serial predator who walks freely even today. he played guitar and charmed his way into the never-to-forget-lives of many susceptible young women. a man who softly sang gordon lightfoot and james taylor, who wrote love songs, new lyrics for gorgeous SATB hymns, and taught guitar surely was to be trusted, right? wrong.
i can appreciate these beautiful pussywillows, another harbinger of spring and new life. but i stop a moment and give nod to my much earlier self. in a watershed, i recognize the parallel of this earliest time working in the church and my latest work. bookends.
“riding on the roadside the dust gets in your eyes”
it’s not the dust that brings tears to my eyes, it’s not the spring air laden with newness of pollen, the turning of season. it’s the raw bookended time in places i trusted as safe. i cannot help now but examine it all up close, process it, grieve the loss of innocence, the devaluing of women, abhor the loss of respectful truth and the reign of agenda. the bookends hold upright the time in-between, all the books of life, times and experiences and mistakes and successes, the laying down of any attempt to process, to make right, of any ramifications for the wrongdoer. the bookend of late was a stunning surprise. i am astonished at its destruction, now, no longer a teenager. i find it all shockingly galling.
“slanted rays and colored days, stark blue horizons”
the horizon is much like the horizon all those decades ago. it’s surprising to return to that feeling. i want to leave, to run, just like that other time, that other bookend. my physical life, however, is not at stake this time. it is me, my loss of community, my loss of position, stolen integrity. i cannot wrap my head around the slanted rays, the starkness.
“treasuring, remembering, the promise of spring pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses”
treasuring, remembering. promises. but roses…the flower of love…it is hard to hear lyric of roses…my hope is to only hear gordon lightfoot in my mind’s eye and to forget the echoing bookends.
“shivering, quivering, the warm breath of spring”
to remember – spring is beginning to spring. the catkins of the willows are soft, cattails seed in the wind, warm circles us on the trail.
the sun was shining in central park the first time i sang this song in public. we were on stage and it was the conclusion of the “I AM” NYC revlon run/walk for women, an event where all the proceeds are used to help fight cancer, specifically women’s cancers. it was stunning – tens of thousands of people gathered, unified by a yearning, to make a difference, to help women live healthier lives, longer lives, to help fight the fight.
every time i hear or sing my own song, i quietly dedicate it to a woman i know who is a survivor in the middle of this battle, in the middle of her path back to health. my own sweet momma tops my list of women who have bravely and stalwartly walked this journey. but i think of dear friends, relatives, acquaintances…devastatingly, too many to list. all “bonded by the power of this dream that is i am.”
I’m different than you.
I am the same.
We are strong. We are courageous.
We are more than this disease; we are bigger than this fight.
United, we celebrate life.
it is raining here today as i write this. the power and fortitude of the mantra ‘i am’ seems a little weaker. it’s pervasive, this grayness. for survivorship of disease is not limited to the blunt force blow of cancer. survivorship spans the spectrum. women, like me, who are survivors of sexual assault. women who are survivors of marginalization. women who are survivors of silencing. women who are survivors of domestic, workplace, governmental limitations or abuse.
i listen to my own lyrics and i wonder…are we unified by a yearning? are we truly trying to make a difference to help women live healthier lives, longer lives, fight the fight – whatever that fight might be?
reverse threading 