there are moments when everything seems like a big deal. our own planet earth is up close and personal, every concern a meteor about to threaten our very existence. the sum of the individual pieces too much to bear. we wonder, wonder, “what is going on?!”
and then there are moments when perspective reigns. when we can step back, see the bigger picture and realize that everyone has their brown paper bags full of baggage, of difficulties, of things to sort, to keep, to ruthlessly throw away. the moments when you stare up at the night sky into the milky way and feel ever-so-small, knowing that you are alive and this very moment will not pass again.
EARTH INTERRUPTED. pieces of everyone’s brown bags, torn, scattered and intermingled. no longer baggage-holding. an earth close-up and glowing. full of the hope of it all fitting together: people, issues, problems, loves, wishes, peace.
it’s the second time this week i have quoted john denver. surrender. sweet surrender.
this painting in david’s HELD IN GRACE series is called SURRENDER NOW.
giving it over, surrendering, relenting, succumbing, relinquishing. all synonyms with slightly different connotations, slightly different surrenders. within yesterday’s grey-ness and vulnerability, surrendering seems most obvious, most necessary. the letting-go-of-control-and-trusting is difficult. the barricades between you and surrendering a fortress of spider-webbed resistance. we tend to fight surrendering. we tend to forget that we will be held within that yielding.
columbus turns 86 today. somehow, in his ever-joyous soul, he is surrendering to a changing journey. somehow, he is gracefully surrendering to the anguishes of dementia that slowly, but surely, take over. he laughs. he is quiet. he tells stories. he has forgotten stories. he doesn’t remember things. he remembers things. he knows how to do tasks he has done for years. he has no recollection of how to perform tasks nor does he recognize the familiar around him. he doesn’t remember us. he remembers us. we hug him and he surrenders to the tears he feels when we leave. he is held. by his wife jeanne, by his children and his family, by his friends, by those who love him. he is held. his surrender, whether intentional and thought-out or simply reactional grace, is like a fish in the water, like a bird in the air.
it is against the odds that this tree clings to rock and doesn’t topple into the lake with a great splash and float away. instead it stubbornly holds on, a steadfast intention. the rock, the basso ostinato.
at a time when holding steadfast seems mightily important, i wonder about the questions we have been asked. will you stay? will you leave? will you love it here? in the midst of all the infighting, are you going to give up? will you hold on?
the answers may not be directly related to the actual intent of those questions.
will we hold on? yes, we will hold on. we will hold steadfast to our integrity. we will hold steadfast to the reasons we came here in the first place. to make a difference, to bring ideas and change, to apply that which we have learned, studied, experienced over at least 80 combined years of work, higher education and profession. to be honest and transparent and collaborative. to try and instill a sense of working together into a community divided by narratives too numerous to list.
will we hold on? yes, we will hold on. we will hold steadfast to our belief that people should be kind to each other, that people should not work around others nor should they undermine others, that people should instead lift each other up, not drive stakes into another.
will we hold on? yes, we will hold on. steadfastly. to honoring art, the driving force behind this initiative. to honoring creativity and the blossoming of beauty and wisdom, staunch tenets of artistry.
will we hold on? yes, we will hold on. steadfastly. to believing all is possible.
but, in answer to the real intent of the question asked us….will we hold on?
we will not hold on if others cannot join us in what is real, what is truth, what is most important. we will not hold on in the fire of pettiness or shameful self-serving underhandedness. we will not hold on, holding still while others take turns throwing rocks at us, at the real goals of this place, if those are indeed about art.
the answer to the question is not up to us. we can either cling to the rock, holding steadfast or we can topple, with a refreshing splash, into the lake and float away.
download HOLDING STEADFAST from BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL on iTUNES or CDBaby
my sweet momma would start the day by chirping to me, “good morning merry sunshine!” what a gift to consistently start the day that way.
i wrote this piece at a difficult time in my life. the titles on this album somewhat tell the story: boundaries. scattered. pulling weeds. holding on, letting go. it’s not black and white. figure it out. taking stock. baby steps. each one a descriptor of that time; each title written for the album before the music. i composed to each word.
but the most important title on the album, the arc that reigns over the gut emotion of the rest, i realize now is ‘each new day’. for we are granted yet another chance….to choose to live the day well, to embrace the new, to walk in tomorrow’s grace, to love, to choose kindness, to say we are sorry, to recuperate from something that has hurt us, to work toward balance, to forgive, to model goodness, to help someone else in pain, to learn something new, to listen, to laugh, to hold someone’s hand or share a hug, to do better…
time really does move breathtakingly fast. each new day counts. good morning merry sunshine.
we were lost when we brought dogdog home from the farm. it had been a long time since either of us had a puppy; our dogs had long lives and after that it had been years. the first few days we literally followed dogga around inside the house, like he was a toddler in search of an electrical outlet or a cabinet without childproof latches. jen and brad brought us pizza and wine and assured our deer-in-the-headlights-look that all would be well. so we read pretty much anything we could get our hands on and discovered (re-discovered?) the fact that puppies really like confined spaces. smaller spaces make them feel safe, secure; they are calming. it worked. dogdog was happy to be in the kitchen-ala-three-gates-in-the-doorways. he seemed to sigh with relief at the end of the day going into his crate for sleepynightnight. he was a happier puppy and we were (legit) back in our bodies. boundaries facilitated maturing (for all of us.)
there is a whole lake out in front of our littlehouse. the yard is big and full of green grass and flowers and grasses and trees. the deck has space and flower boxes. and then there is the rocking chair. in between two closely-placed-spindles, perched on the lower rail, this little tree frog found a place of solace. snugly in this warmed-by-the-sun spot, he lingered for hours, the tight place perhaps restorative for him, perhaps simply a sanctuary, its boundaries affording him the freedom to stay.
boundaries are underrated. we need them. to flourish. the constraints serve us. our clear boundaries for others create balanced lives. drawing boundaries. growth depends on it.
early on, given, say, three chords – and only three chords – to compose with limits the angst of analysis paralysis. it gives a place to start, a direction to go, discipline and yet, boundaries that reach only to the sky. it eases up the balking-at-it of artists. it facilitates the creation of a composition. it facilitates artistry. it facilitates energy. pushing the walls of these boundaries back little by little opens an artist when he/she is ready, when he/she feels safer. one step at a time. one rocking chair spindle at a time. one kitchen-dog-gate at a time. one muse at a time.
and then, while no one really paid attention – distracted by other things….
this painting is called ICARUS and, not being too much of a study in mythology, david told me the story. now, somewhere in the bank of knowledge that i have learned and somehow forgotten, it resonated. no matter. it is certainly relevant now. the shout of “squirrel!!” and the shifting of gaze happens time and again. our attention-deficited-culture becomes distracted by you-name-it and we miss things that are happening, that are more monumental than we realize. icarus flew too close to the sun. we try too hard. we push. we seek to achieve. we don’t pay attention. we miss. we get burned and fall. others fall around us. we don’t really pay attention.
what is really happening in our world while we are paying attention to the latest headline? what is really happening in our world while we get caught up in the latest rhetoric? what is really happening in our world as our politicians play shell games with us while the stuff of real importance they skirt past us?
david knows that i don’t really like this painting. it’s one of a very few that i would say that about. (just as i am quite sure there are musical compositions of mine that are not his favorite.) i feel a kind of mayhem, a kind of negativity from it. it unnerves me. but, alas, it is a contemporary statement. we don’t really pay attention.
my sweet momma had a painting of a modestly nude woman hanging in her master bath. she was proud of this painting and of its location. it traveled with them from long island to various homes in florida, an item that made the keep-it cut time and again. now, this painting was not a brilliant work of art, for it was actually a paint-by-number that she had painted at some point before painting her own abstracts. (more on paint-by-numbers at a later date.)
but momma’s painting was meaningful to her and i suspect it represented a powerful statement – the beauty of a woman’s body, the grace of line, the respect shown. perfection. i think it resembled her in her youth, and in later years reminded her of earlier years, an earlier body before babies and emotion and injury and surgeries and wrinkles and time changed everything. changed the shape and the look of body but added strength and wisdom that only life lived can add. momma was indeed a woman before her time.
CLASSIC is such a painting, but is exquisite art. the beauty of a woman’s body, the grace of line, the respect shown.
momma would have loved this painting of david’s and, probably, would have convinced him to hang it for her in her own home. it would remind her of how much she loved being a woman. of how she taught her daughters and granddaughters to embrace being female and yet, not to stand by meekly or idly or retreatingly. to revel in the beauty of having a body that is female, but not to tout or compare or compete. to move with grace as best as you can, for in that movement grace will be found. to show and expect respect for your own body, in all ways. to recognize perfection. in all the times of life.
he painted this early on in the days he lived in wisconsin. a big canvas, his brushes moving effortlessly, carefully, intentionally, jars of paint by his side. and JOY came to be. i immediately loved it. equally, i loved being present for the process. i got to WATCH. a creation in the making. beautiful. he stood back and looked at his work.
regardless of your belief, you certainly must acknowledge that somewhere along the way there was a big blank canvas. a divine being named whatever-honoring-name-you-want-to-name-this-presence moved brushes effortlessly, jars of unimagined colors, buckets of stars, clouds full of rain and snow, mountains of hills and mountains, fields of fields and open rangeland, oceans and lakes full of water, gigantic test tubes of atoms and cells that would eventually turn into plants and trees, amoeba, bacteria, organisms, mammals, reptiles, amphibians, people – all by the side of the canvas. this supreme being moved effortlessly, carefully, intentionally. and the world came to be. a creation in the making. beautiful.
we hang this painting and gaze at it, interacting with it daily. we feel the joy of it, the color. we have relationship with the painting; it speaks to us and we listen. we respond to it, respecting it, hanging it out of direct sunlight, preserving it and keeping it beautiful.
we stand in the world and gaze at it, interacting with it daily. we feel the joy of it, the color. we respond to it, but do we respect it? do we have relationship with it? do we listen as it speaks to us? do we concern ourselves with its sunlight, its atmosphere, its water, its land, its living things – all of them? do we preserve it? do we keep it beautiful?
the studio in our basement is full of beautiful paintings that haven’t yet found their proper home. it is also full of boxes of cds that have been replicated and shrink-wrapped, ready for their new homes. there is no shortage of completed work down there, no shortage of heart projects, no shortage of sweat and tears. there is no shortage of work in progress, canvases prepped, notebooks of lyrics and melodic gestures.
we moved our 20’s father’s paintings last week. today we will move the remainder. as we carefully loaded big red, you could not help but feel wistful about these paintings moving away from their home, to be stored by 20. duke was a prolific painter and his work is stunning; we wondered where and how these mostly large pieces would find a permanent home. where does it go from here?
any artist, thinking about the impermanence of life, wonders that. where does it go from here? who will purchase it, hold onto it, look at it, listen to it, read it, ultimately – feel it? will it matter later on? does it matter now?
i researched. for months. looked at tons of sites and reviews. i ordered brochures from the chamber of commerce (which, incidentally and almost predictably, arrived after we returned from the trip.) i poured over other people’s adventures and stories, made lists of things to do and places to go. it was a really important time for me and i wanted it to be perfect: my-children-under-the-same-roof-at-the-same-time. the perfect mom-gift.
always up for a roadtrip adventure, we drove to hilton head in our littlebabyscion. first thing upon arrival, we opened the shades in the living room. the dunes and the ocean exploded into view, the sunset beckoned us. without unloading, we took two juice glasses of wine and a blanket down to the water’s edge and watched the sky relinquish day. night arrived and it was perfect.
My Girl flew in the next morning and My Boy the very next day. the sun was bright, the sky was blue, the sand hot, the ocean was a constant lure. walks and conversation, games and homemade sangria, bold coffee and generous glasses of wine, watching crabs on the sandbar and googling jellyfish, chips and guac and kirsten-margaritas, eating out on the deck under the umbrella and time in the pool, watching kirsten or craig prepare a meal or two, relaxing on lounge chairs and a one-time bowling adventure. this was the stuff. it was hot; over 100 degrees with the heat index; a bit too hot for kayaking or standupboarding under a sunburning sun. but time seemed to morph and days passed us by in the way time on the beach does.
later i wondered why i didn’t take out my lists, my research, my reviews, the brochures i got from the grocery store. why i didn’t insist on an adventure-a-day, an activity. but jen encouraged me to let that go. she said she does that every time she is lucky enough to have her children all-under-the-same-roof-at-the-same-time as well. a mother’s brain (and heart) on overdrive.
it isn’t the activities or the adventures. it’s simply the time. when you are there and you are real and you share bits and snatches of life, joyful or trying. when you catch your breath gazing at your children, beautiful human beings experiencing the wide spectrum that life offers. and you love them beyond words, grateful that they have given you this time. together. under-the-same-roof-at-the-same-time. HH. hilton head. perfect.
reverse threading 