“…and i got saved by the beauty of the world.” (mary oliver)
there are the tiniest of moments – like this one – when everything harsh, everything wrought, everything dark or full of angst, everything of challenge just falls away. like the universe took a feather duster to the worries stoked up on your shoulders and reminded you. to breathe. to feel the realness of the moment. to be hyper-vigilant of all senses. to be in it.
it could just as easily slipped by, unnoticed. the fresh air, rich colors, the sun filtered through layers of pine, the scent of a humid summer day, the gravel path. it could have been lost.
but i am grateful to have stopped. i am grateful any time i remember to stop. to have perspective. to grasp onto the tiniests. to allow myself to be saved by the beauty of the world.
in downtown chicago, it is not uncommon to walk under highways or tracks carrying heavy railroad cars, the metra, the el, freight carriers.
but out on a trail, meandering alongside a river, through meadows and forests, passing fishermen and being passed by marathon-aspiring bikers, with turtles and baby snakes, heron and mosquitoes punctuating our hike, it seems really odd – and slightly unnerving – to walk under the “i”.
you can’t help but look up at the cars and trucks going 70 or 80 mph just above you. i shudder to think of the infrastructure problems that might abound. 86% of bridges in the state of illinois are considered acceptable. i just want to be sure this particular bridge is not part of the other 14%.
as i have some trepidation under vehicle and railroad bridges, my imagination is working a little overtime as i slither underneath the overpass, my eyes on the light coming from the other side. it’s much cooler under the bridge – and surprisingly quieter than before we entered – and there is a pigeon who is touting his wisdom for hanging out where it is sheltered. but most pigeons are not civil engineers nor do they really worry themselves about that sort of thing. i speak softly to it as we pass; it’s not frightened, even of us.
of all the trails we have taken in our general area – i have to say this section hike of the river trail was the least satisfying. we were in a triangular map-section of three large highways, including the interstate. so we weren’t ever far from the noise. and noise – and general hubbub – is what we are trying to escape on a trail. nevertheless, i’m glad we section-hiked that part. it surely makes us appreciate the rest of the trail, in quieter areas, removed a bit from the ruckus of daily life.
perspective is a funny thing. there are times we get sort of lax in appreciation. we take for granted the everyday luxuries of contemporary life, the ease of movement, our connections to family and friends. we see same-same through the same eyes. it’s a theme with variations.
and then, there was the pigeon. it found its safe place under the underpass – a place where it was cool, where the river ran and it could sip, where the insects and worms might be plentiful, where passersby might toss it a morsel or two. it didn’t seem to mind that the interstate was directly above, that this spot was not nirvana for most.
idyllic is in the eye of the beholder. so is wonder. in a busy world, they are easy to miss, easy to same-old-same-old-put-aside.
so, instead of dissing the trail that went under the interstate, i’ve decided to be in amazement that we walked under a road that hosts a daily average of 1.5 million cars of people driving to their destinations. and that on the way back on our eight or so mile hike, we could stop and linger with the pigeon, out of the hot sun.
sharpening the dulled, putting new eyes on the ordinary.
buymeacoffee is a “tip jar” donation site where – if you wish – you can help artists continue to do their work in the world. thank you for considering this.
we were laying on the sand on a couple of old beachtowels. the feels-like was 90 plus, but we were under some trees and what appeared to be the only spot of shade on the beach. the breeze was coming off the water and we could hear the waves breaking at the shore. seagulls, the laughter of children in the distance, boats and jetskis out on the aquamarine water, you could think it was a beach resort somewhere, perhaps an island.
with my head on my small backpack, i closed my eyes and appreciated the wind, my feet still cool from walking the water’s edge, waves breaking on our legs. above us, the sky was cerulean, gorgeous cumulus clouds floating by. we couldn’t believe our good fortune, this ideal spot on the beach.
it was down the beach from where the work was taking place. there were tugboats and bulldozers and barges and boulders and giant backhoes – all to shore up the shoreline, a project by the state of illinois. interesting to watch, we were far away so as not to be intrusive. we were surprised to see jetskis zipping in and around the actual workzone; we wondered aloud about their lack of regard for the workers and safety issues.
we lost track of time as we stared at the water, watched golden retrievers fetch balls in the waves, marveled again and again about the cool sandy haven we had found. hiking back out – it was only a mile or so down the trail – it was hot again, humidity clinging to the marshland as we walked through.
back home we agreed that it was the perfect way to spend the afternoon. a little bitta beach goes a long way settling down your mind. our spot, like a guided imagery meditation, the quiet and almost-solitude, the sun filtering through the trees, the clouds dancing across the sky-canvas, and waves lapping the sand. restorative, it brought us calm.
but – juxtaposed on the same life-wave-riding surfboard – i love to get away. i love roadtrips and adventure, exploring backroads, immersing in new places. though i am fed noticing the extraordinary in the familiar, i thrive on images of the unfamiliar. more than once i have cried entering a canyon or at mountain-range first glimpse or surrounded by the scent of a lodgepole pine forest or the quiet of an empty trail or the quaking of aspen leaves.
so i yearn for these places – the ones we have been to and have loved and the ones we dream about.
i’m not high-maintenance when it comes to vacations. i’m not a resort-type or a cruise-type, not a disney-type or an amusement-park-type. i don’t need all-inclusive or my bed turned-down. i don’t need all-you-can-eat-any-time-of-day-or-night. i don’t need fancy or plush or luxurious. i definitely don’t need contrived.
it’s pretty simple. what i do need – is a little or big getaway. short distance, long distance. time to leave, see new things, experience new places, feel the sun from a different latitude or longitude. and then time to go home and feel the hygge that is ever-present back here, the moments that go by perhaps a little underappreciated, to feel the here and now without regret or longing, a chance to revive my homebody-ness.
the flower-power stickers adhering to my growing-up wall and my sister’s volkswagen beetle were these colors. hot pink and orange daisies, yellows, greens, vibrant and happy. and you think that some pantone or pms chart somewhere was the place they originated. but it’s not so.
this is where they came from.
and the tulips stand – proudly but not arrogantly – in their color, in their field. completely present and at ease, they open to the world, giving it all they’ve got. stand in nature and try not to be humbled…it’s impossible.
belleruth naparstek guides you – inside and outside – to quiet. a place of presence, of ease. not trying to push out thoughts or streams of consciousness passing by, but allowing it all to flow. with practice, you can feel the roots growing under your feet, the steady breathing of awareness, calmness.
and, if you are fortunate, you are held gently, right in the middle of tulip petals, and you are reminded, once again, you are alive. “knowing in a deep place that this place is inside of you…that you are better for this…“
i haven’t stopped. since march 2020 when my son – at the beginning of the pandemic – in an effort to help me feel connected to him and my daughter – suggested we have a shared text with photos taken in our day. a picture-of-the-day. and every day, not-failing, i have sent one since. i am in absolute delight when they now share a photograph on this thread; i know busy-ness and work and life have picked back up some time ago and picture-of-the-day is no longer on their radar. but, because i am a mom – and i know moms everywhere can relate – it’s still on mine. i look for something that somehow represents my day, every single day.
i have to say – this has been a good thing, this intention to seek and snap the picture-of-the-day. i take lots of photos, so some days this is easy. but there are others when my photo is of mashed potatoes or chicken soup or the accuweather tornado watch or glasses of wine at the end of the day. some days are just life. normal, regular, not supersized, life.
the trillium placed itself in front of the fallen log, clearly, on purpose. ready for its photo shoot, its bud profile at this stage resembling a mighty tulip, the toadshade waited for someone to come along and take its picture. and there i was.
that very day i ended up using a graceful fern in our backyard as my picture-of-the-day. the composition was just a little better, the curve of the fern beautiful. but the trillium knew it would end up featured. i had whispered thank you to it after my baker’s dozen shoot. it stood proudly as we hiked away, knowing.
paying attention – to the littlest details of a day – requires intention. i know i could get lost in the other details of our life, the more pressing, the more complex, the minutiae and nuances of moment-to-moment adulting.
but one text from my son changed that and offered me a continuing reminder to find something – any thing – big or little, positive or disconcerting, dreamy or a little bit scary – that was a real piece of my day. it also offered me a chance to physically let them know i was – at that very moment of sending – thinking of them.
i know there are days – i don’t want to think about how many – that my grown children look at their phones and – in unison from 1400 miles apart – roll their eyes as my picture-of-the-day drops in.
the chicago botanic garden spring field guide arrived. a really beautiful small magazine of images and quotes and information, i have kept it nearby to peruse from time to time. on the last page – under a stunning close-up photograph of the bud of an orange tulip poised to open – are the words “thank you for helping us thrive.” the text goes on to express appreciation for members who “allow our community of plants and people to flourish.” without members and their support, the garden would falter. instead, they are thriving. “come alive this spring at the garden,” they encourage.
there are moments – as an artist – that you feel truly alive…even more than other moments.
the moment the theatre audience stands at the end of your concert. and – maybe even more – the moment of hush at the beginning when first sitting at the piano, boom mic poised.
the moment – performing in the glaring sunlight on a flatbed trailer or in the artificial light of a wholesale or retail show – people come to the very edge of the flatbed or the edge of your booth to tell you that your music has comforted them in a time of sorrow or has accompanied them in a time of joy.
the moment you open email to find a message – someone has taken precious time to write to you – that says, “our favorite piece of yours came on dish radio and we danced!”.
the moment someone orders twenty copies of a cd to give to all their family members.
the moment someone writes to comment on the many-many words you have penned.
the moment someone comments on your cartoon “i can relate.”
the moment someone says, “you have no idea how much of an impact you make.”
that is true. we actually don’t. have any idea.
it is with an abundance of gratitude that i think of anyone who has supported my – and our – creative work in the world: purchasing cds or tracks or tickets to a concert, forwarding a blogpost or cartoon, hanging a painting, sending us a written card or a virtual coffee. you have helped us thrive.
when you wear the shoes of an artist, you are not necessarily aware of any dent in the air you have made. you are not aware of the seeds of thought or questions or perhaps, hopefully, goodness that are scattered in concentric circles or in the breeze around or after you.
this minute magazine is full of inadvertent wisdom.
“love in bloom” is the garden’s initiative june 3 – september 24. magnolias and redbuds, tulips and shooting stars, azaleas and irises start off the spring. “blooms aplenty.”
you’re an artist and you know that your life is different; it lacks the security – particularly financial security – of others’ lives. the moment you look at the total bill for one of your full-length recordings you are reminded. the moment you open your meager royalty checks – in these days of online streaming – you are reminded. the moments you ponder what’s next. you are encouraged by people to make another album, author a book, produce more cartoons, yet you know that any of these are without the good heart-and-mind-fertilizer of solid footing, as there is no promised return on your dedication or time or that vulnerability that comes with the territory. yet, i stand next to my piano and ponder the scraps of songs, i linger over the keyboard of my macbook, wordsmithing manuscript, i lay out the next smack-dab and write the next blogpost. blooms aplenty. yes. asking for help? not so much.
“we hope you find inspiration in the brilliance of spring,” on a page listing 80,500 bulbs planted-last-fall.
you’re an artist. and you hope there is inspiration – even an incandescent filmy thread – in your work.
“the woods are a recovery story of resilience and bouncing back…” writes the managing ecologist, woodlands.
the albums, blogs, manuscripts, paintings, cartoon strips – all recovery stories of resilience and bouncing back. we – artists – are on tiny trampolines in the world, trying.
“consider making a gift so that we can protect and celebrate the natural world for many seasons to come,” rounds out the garden’s “thank you for helping us thrive” message.
share. pass on. join. follow. gift. donate. purchase. download. consider coffee. consider being a patron to an artist – of any medium – who helps you move from one day to another, one season to another.
“discover the world of spring ephemerals. the garden’s mcdonald woods…ephemeral wildflowers make their brief appearance.”
we – artists – are ephemeral wildflowers, making a brief appearance in this universe, ready for anyone who wishes to catch a glimpse, to share in the synergy of our art.
“in years with little to no spring rain, ephemerals produce fewer flowers and less seed, which can impact their ability to bounce back in future years….if plants are healthy enough and if they have the right natural disturbances such as fire, they are resistant to annual variability in the weather and can adapt to longer-term climate change.”
“i want to know if you will stand in the fire with me and not shrink back.”(oriah mountain dreamer)
we – ephemeral artists on our tiny trampolines – need the rain. we need the fire. we need you to stand in the fire with us. we need your help.
at the front corner of my growing-up yard on long island was a forsythia bush. and many years, at the march of my birthday, i remember having my picture taken there. home. spring. there are few things that make me think of Home like forsythia does.
except for maybe the voice of my beloved daughter on the phone. she is forsythia for me. for just moments or for an extended conversation or – if i am fortunate – in person together, the sound of her voice, her zeal, is Home.
and except for watching the way my beloved son immerses himself in his music. his hands – now all-grown-up man-hands – moving dials and sliders, his voice and body dancing, his explanations – it’s forsythia for me. Home.
and except for the look across the room from david – the moment he touches his hand to his chest while in his gaze – forsythia. Home.
and dogga – at the door with his angel-babycat greeting me – thrilled, once again, to see us. forsythia. Home.
and the love and care and concern that are abundant in our lives – our family, our friends. forsythia. Home.
and the work we have chosen to do – create – music, paintings, many-many words, cartoons. forsythia. Home.
there is often a need to step away – these days. for us, that mostly means a hike at the end of the day or a longer hike on the weekends. sometimes it means getting in littlebabyscion and just driving.
we are a little limited by lake michigan – we cannot mosey east from here. but we can mosey north and south and west.
mostly, we go west. a little north or south thrown in for good measure and to shake it all up a bit, but west. east would mean up and over the u.p. or down and around – through gary, indiana – which is no one’s idea of a good mosey. so. west.
it doesn’t take much for us to decide. our days are filled with trying to sort to optimism, to wishing wishes and dreaming dreams. we work on finding ways and places we can contribute all we have learned and worked at in these last decades. sometimes that is easier said than done. and so, there is often a need to step away, yup.
the wander women – amazing and truly inspiring thru-hikers – have a QR code on their youtube channel. when you point your phone camera at it, it brings you to a place where, in multiples of $5, you can express appreciation, channel sisu, buy them a cup of coffee (or multiple cups, for that matter).
it’s been suggested manyatime to us that maybe we should have a QR code. our very own. i know that we are pretty verbose – lotsa words – maybe more words than anyone wants to read, but you can pick and choose, like from those overburdened menus at tgif’s. but they’ve encouraged us, adding very generous words like “we love to read your posts” or “this would be a way we could say thank you for something that touches us”. their thoughts – QR trail magic – we could use it for coffee or maybe a glass of apothic or…if you wish, it could be thought of as gifting us with miles. miles of thru-hiking middle age. and so anytime we just needed to step away – go find zen in the country outaways west from our home – we could use those miles. to keep going and going and going, thanks to you and you and you.
and then, we could maybe – just maybe – stop and get a coffee or a piece of flourless chocolate cake on our way. if coffee and flourless chocolate cake and red silos and gravel roads don’t help, nothing will.
and so, with the pompoms of people we are grateful for, our QR code is born. we’re gonna name himherthem “qrky”.
it was easy to lose ourselves on the beach. it was cold, but the sun was out and we were all dressed for it. our hike had brought us through the preserve and then – a little jaunt through the woods – to the shore. deserted, it was sandy, punctuated by driftwood and thick stripes of rocks. the further south we walked, the more rocks. the shoreline curved and must have been the place where the stones were captured as lake michigan rogue waves carried them in. so much to pick up, with smooth edges to run our fingers over, ponder. so easy to lose ourselves.
we walked – heads down – looking, looking. the treasures were abundant, all right there. we found the first hag stone. there is something about hag stones. these rocks – with a hole straight through them – mysterious and beautiful, hag stones are thought to have special powers that represent protection and luck. sandstone, limestone, flint…we found another. and then another. we walked and walked on the beach, looking, looking – because it becomes addictive – finding treasures just waiting to be found. easy to lose ourselves.
it got colder and, with the wind picking up, it was time to leave. we ended up bringing home a few rocks, some magical hag stones, and some sea pottery, gorgeous sherds of earthenware with green glaze, worn down for years perhaps by the powerful great lake. despite no knowledge of the origins of any of these, the connection to the day and to the water made them alluring.
“luck will show itself when it’s there.” (ricko dewilde – life below zero) on challenging days, luck is certainly hard to see. the grass-is-always-greener mindset takes over and it’s easy to succumb, the we’re-never-lucky-like-that defeatist, unmoored. easy to lose ourselves.
but the grass-is-greener-anywhere-else moment yields. and after a pause, a deep breath, mind-quieting, a good lookaround tells us something else.
a walk on the beach with dearest friends. talking and laughing and quiet treasure-hunting. finding sea pottery and sea glass and heart-shaped rocks and smoothed-to-ivory driftwood and hag stones – there all along, just waiting to be seen.
and luck starts to show itself. even in ice cubes.
reverse threading 