i don’t usually eat thomas’ english muffins these days – the “real” ones are not gluten-free and i have been pretty much sticking to a gluten-free diet. but lately, i’ve been trying a little gluten here, a little gluten there, just to see if i can push the envelope a little. plus, “real” english muffins are one of my favorite things and eating them seems a tad bit happily indulgent.
so the other day – when david was talking about his weathered face, the wrinkles, the aged-ness – it just seemed like the highest complimentary comeback to tell him they – his wrinkly wrinkles – are simply nooks and crannies…just like my favored english muffins.
i’m not sure he was pleased with the comparison, but i love his face even more than i love english muffins, so it was meant with a whole world of reassurance.
we are what we are – wrinkles and all – and we need to celebrate THAT extraordinariness.
PLEASE NOTE: my 2008 macbook pro has crashed so i have zero access to the tools i usually use to produce SMACK-DAB. please bear with us as i attempt to continue this cartoon with workarounds while sorting out having to invest in new technology. xoxo
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it made third and fourth grade recess tough. i would be outside on the playground with my little group of girlfriends and – all of a sudden – there would be this incoming-bully, chasing after me as i ran my heart out to get away. he was faster and dedicated to his mission of twisting my wrist, so he would always catch me. he never really got in trouble, though. i wonder how that has carried him through his life. i suspect he is still a bully, only now uses words or actions that don’t involve twisted wrists (at least not in the literal sense.)
we just got off a call with a dear friend out of state. we played ukuleles and sang together over a zoom call. we chatted. and it was a joy. the thing we most agreed on was the fact that there is not enough time as it is in life to be anything but joyous. we don’t have time for ugly.
truly, none of us has time for ugly. the bullying and name-calling and undermining and hurtful harm stuff is the stuff of third grade – a period when the whole world is stretching out in front of you and you have no true concept of time’s limitations. it is closer to adulthood – and, certainly most definitely in adulthood, i would think – that we become aware of our mortality, the fragility of this life, the gift of being present on this good earth. and – with that all in mind – who’s got time for ugly?
david asked me if tommy remained my friend. i answered honestly. he did not. i no longer trusted him – his bullying was tormenting and mean-spirited. and there is no reason why i would want to be friends with anyone who would treat me that way. there is no reason why i would want anyone to treat people that way. anyone at all.
bullies have no place in a reasonable, compassionate society. they have no place in the public eye. they have no place in leadership.
we all don’t have enough time for them or their ugly.
“the thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself.” (anna quindlen)
and maybe that’s the true gift of the sweet phase. time to embrace it all; time to let it all go.
like the heggies pizza truck touted on the highway into minnesota, “uncomplicated. unapologetic. authentic.”
and so we jump in. with both feet.
well, after a nap or two.
we are suddenly aware of time ticking-ticking and we are aware that there will be a day when our stardust will simply return to the sky.
we speak of our ages now, unapologetically. we are-who-we-are authentic. our uncomplicated is a complex mesh of realness. nothing flashy, nothing fancy. simple stuff.
in the way that making history works, we know we started penning the autographs we will leave behind long ago. there are brilliant moments in the swirl of pen; there are shameful moments in the kerning. all are part of the whole. it’s clearly why we need a nap or two.
suddenly now, though, there is a stillness after everything that has come before. there is a bit of time to catch our breath. there is quiet and rest. there is acceptance.
we wake up from the disorienting hibernation-from-quietude of trying-to-get-it-all-right, the long immersion into striding-striding sans the perspective gift of rest, the push-pull of the aggressive nature of competition. we stretch achy joints and revel in the sun rising through the window. we take time to reflect, to ponder, to learn.
we glance in the rearview mirror and laugh at the deep creases around our eyes, choosing instead to focus on now and what is ahead. we release the breath we have held for so long.
we jump in, the concentric circles of our splash into the river rippling out.
“i’m sure not afraid of success and i’ve learned not to be afraid of failure. the only thing i’m afraid of now is of being someone i don’t like much.” (anna quindlen)
i can’t think of a better subtitle: if it’s not one weird thing, it’s another.
in these ‘new’ days of gettin’-a-teeny-weeny-bit-older we’re thinkin’ we need a good measure of flexibility. or at least a good sense of humor. “goin’ with the flow” is kind of an understatement.
we wake up and check in with each other over coffee…did you sleep/are your ears ringing/how’s your neck/back/hip/knee/shoulder/pinky toe/do you feel achy/why do we keep waking up at 4??
dogga patiently listens at the end of the bed. he knows our list o’ woes will stop soon and we’ll joyfully have breakfast – which means he gets the treat of bites of potato. he’s familiar with our waking-up process and knows we actually do wake up happy most of the time and – so far – we are pretty good at fording the ever-raging river of … ummm … aging.
nevertheless, it does seem to be an increasingly weird list.
i inherited two pairs of big binoculars from my sweet poppo. at the time i probably never-woulda-thought that i’d be studying birds with them. but…you know what they say!
and here we are – with these powerful binoculars always at the ready, on the table in the sunroom, so that we can grab them and watch the crows in the nest or the finches at the grape jelly or the hummers at the feeder or search for the origin of the beautiful birdcall. we have a tiny pair as well, to take with us on trails, though we would be waaay better served with the good ones. it’s amazing how up-close-and-personal they get us.
and then there’s the merlin app. what an extraordinary tool that is! you record birdcalls and it instantly identifies the bird for you! utterly amazing, we are grateful to cornell lab of ornithology for this. we have used this app innumerable times, always relishing the quick id it gives us. because we don’t always commit it all to memory – ahem! – we rely on the (non-judgmental) app to tell us again and again. so cool!
i think about what my momma and poppo would have done with the merlin app on their iphone. they would have had a field day! they spent hours watching the birds back home, on long island, and in florida – where they looked out on a lake. i wish they could have played with it. they missed its development by just a smidge.
but every time we grab the binoculars or open the app to record a birdsong, clean the birdbath or fill the feeders, i know. they – momma, poppo, columbus – are aware and are nodding at each other, smiles on their faces, maybe even laughing a little or rolling their eyes at our earlier-in-life bird-watch-disregard.
big news!! it was a banner day!! someone let us loose in old navy during their $2 flip-flop sale and voila! i now am the proud owner of three (3!!!) new pairs of flip-flops!! all of them are black, but one has sparkly straps!! and the best part? there is more than 1/16″ between my foot and the ground. (i’m not sure there was even a sixteenth of an inch – but eh…who’s measuring?!)
so today i am excited to wear my new flip-flops to chicago PRIDEFEST!! because one can never place toooo much trust in a pair of new flip-flops, i will carry an extra pair along. i don’t want to have some sort of flip-flop disaster and be stuck walking around barefoot with a zillion people, all jostling – with no ill intent – to step on my bare feet.
i have a line-up of shoes in the basement. they are along the leading edge of the long storage area where the boxes of cds are stored. i need to go through these – again – and give most of them away. they are not the footwear of my 65-year-old-feet. they are the footwear of my 45-55 year old feet. or maybe even earlier, say, 36-45 year old feet. and – if you haven’t noticed this about your feet yet – or if you haven’t given in to this about your feet yet – or if you have refuuuused to acknowledge this about your feet – things change when it comes to feet. needs change. styles change. heel height changes. arches change. toe-room changes. toe-cleavage-pumps are not making the top of the priority list anymore. it’s been years, really. but giving in? letting go? that’s the tough part.
so i will likely hold onto the 1/16″ thick flip-flops i’ve been wearing. cause you never know when you might need them. i could do yardwork in them or walk around the ‘hood in them or bring them to the beach or or or….
the point is, i don’t want to waste my new $2 flip-flops. i need to save those for the best flip-flop-wearing times. like today.
so it’s a big day! i’ll be wearing a pair of new flip-flops! and today i will walk around in blissful ignorance of the pebbles beneath my feet. i will dance and hug people and my 1/2″ thick flip-flops will participate in a great celebration! i will be happy-happy for the little things and i will flip and flop my way into embracing my 65 year old feet.
the daisy might have thought no one would notice it. that it was past being noticed.
but i was drawn to it as we passed by. nestled in the grasses on the side of the trail, it spoke to me.
“i am not done, though look past my prime.
i am still in the sun, still standing in time.
though shrivelly and dried,
i don’t need to hide;
i know i am beauty and am very alive.”
i was surprised to hear a daisy speaking in rhyme, but not surprised at its expression of beauty, its yearning to be poetic.
i’m finding more and more – in my time in the sun now – that it is the poetry that makes me linger. it is the waning moment in the sun, the flower post-bloom, the cracked plaster, the weathered peel of paint. it is the imperfection that is attractive, the slowing gait, the putting-down of ladders, the simplicity of less.
like the daisy – i don’t know what’s next. i am steeped in the here. biding in the meadow.
but right now daisy’s yellow disc florets are in symphony – in a song to the sun and everyone else under the sky – whether or not anyone chooses to listen. it will continue on and on, weaving through the underbrush and the woods, past the river and up, up floating in clouds. it won’t cease…it is not done.
my song to the sun is gathering up energy. it, too, is not done. though nebulous, i can sense it wakening. though slightly beaten and weathered, i can feel it rising. though slower, i am aware of its resilience. though tentative, i recognize its imperative. the downbeat waits patiently.
the solid wood door leading to the basement has a permanent arced groove worn into it. it’s where the chain (for the chain door guard) dangles and it has likely dangled there for decades upon decades. it’s been there the entire time i have lived here – so 35 years. likely installed long ago to prevent small children from opening the door and falling on the steep stairs, back and forth it has swung when unlatched, wearing off the paint and into the wood. it would take some serious spackle, some sanding and a few good coats of paint to make this door look like new again. but we won’t be doing that. it’s the patina that matters.
the old back screen door has a similar worn-in arc. that one is from when i installed a hook and eye latch on the door a number of years ago to help prevent our babycat from pushing open the door and exiting the house. because the old door handle doesn’t always completely catch, the hook and eye was a guarantee to keep the door closed. once again, the hook has worn off the paint and worn into the door. it’s not a pristine door, but it tells a story. the patina matters.
our house is like that. one patina after another. it is not new construction – or even relatively new construction. it will be 100 in just four years and i’m already thinking about its centennial birthday party. we are not worried if there is another scratch in the old wood floors or a glitch in the paint or an imperfect ceiling. our house is not unlike us that way.
the old building in breckenridge drew me closer, inviting photograph after photograph of textures, the juxtaposition of wood and metal and brick facades. this copper hinge – in its march through time – in the green oxidation stage – beautiful. though i suspect there might be people who would prefer restoring it back to its original glory, i prefer the mark of the passage of time, the nod to aging, the stories that accompany its transition. the patina counts.
we love to watch hgtv househunters and we love to pick up real estate magazines in distant places. it’s always the old houses that are the most intriguing for us. never the perfectly-perfect new houses with perfectly-perfect paint and perfectly-perfect trappings. it is difficult to visualize us in a house like that. i’m not sure what that says about us.
maybe by appreciating – and truly loving – the old stories, the wear and tear of these old houses – the arcs of time passing by – we’re just sticking up for our own personal patinas.
“tonight while the lights are shining and the microphone is on, i’ll play for you…” (seals and crofts)
or no lights.
a piano perched among the boulders looking out toward the mountain range – in this very special place. a boom mic.
in my dreams, i can see it.
the bigrocks are seats and the program is not written. it all comes from the spirit in this place, from air, from healing. and – even more specifically in my dream – a yamaha disklavier pro minus the fancy-schmancy newfangled stuff – an instrument to record directly to disk…on-the-fly on-tape, in the vernacular.
in my dreams – in my regaining of feeling relevant – my fight to regain relevance – as a 65 year-old recording artist who broke both wrists snowboarding and then tore my scapholunate ligament (leaving me with a rh grand total of 45° forward rom) – i am sitting at C7 pros all over – in fields of boulders, in canyonlands, perched on mesas, in meadows of wildflowers, on a cool sand beach. i am playing the boulderfield, the canyonland, the mesa, the meadow, the beach. it is a conversation between us – even, maybe – through me. it is simply an offering to anyone – or any one – who wishes to listen. it’s a dream awash in unlikelihood but with maybe-just-maybe the smallest iota of possible. maybe we can make it happen.
i stood – again – on the most obvious rock from which to bow to my invisible audience. and i bowed low.
because sound or not, there is music. sheet music or not, there is composing. audience or not, there is listening. it is all happening – simultaneously. right there. in that place.
the boulders on the grassy knoll know it. and i can see it.
“i’ve practiced many years and i have come a long, long way just to play for you… my life is but a song i have written in many ways, just to say to you…”
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in aspen, colorado, it is one of our favorite trails…alongside the ridgeline, through the aspen forest, ducking under fragrant pine, climbing. the vistas are stunning, the scent is rejuvenating, the air fresh and cool.
this time there was snow on the trail. the combination of the warm sun and the snow beneath our feet was exquisite. new trekking poles in hand, we were in our glory.
if you don’t take the bridge over the more swollen section of the stream and climb higher, than you can take a divergent path and step rock to rock upstream to an old log that lays there just waiting for people to sit on it. we have sat on that very log every single time we have hiked this trail.
there is something magical about that spot. right in the middle of the stream, mountains behind us, dappled sun on our faces. it is as if every single thing becomes clear. we sit in that very space and all the life-whirling stops, the dots connect, the primary is primary. love.
we dropped our hands into the cold mountain stream, water running swiftly over them and on to the rocks below us.
we talked. we were silent. we touched cold fingertips to cold fingertips.
reverse threading 