“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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“follow me where i go, what i do and who i know. make it part of you to be a part of me. follow me up and down, all the way and all around. take my hand and say you’ll follow me.”
“you see I’d like to share my life with you and show you things i’ve seen. places that i’m going to, places where i’ve been. to have you there beside me, to never be alone. and all the time that you’re with me, we will be at home…” (john denver)
the first time i saw the rockies i was 18. i was in the backseat of my mom and dad’s dodge and they took my breath away. i was changed – those mountains stayed a part of me.
so when it was that he was from there, it just seemed right. our path now includes going there fairly regularly and always a desire to be there more and more, to return and return, to linger. those mountains…it’s that john muir quote: “the mountains are calling and i must go.”
there will be a day soon he will follow me to long island. we’ll go to the regular haunts. we’ll bring sage with us and, having lost them forty-five years ago, i’ll take those places back. and he will be there. with me. our path will take us to the beach and to the harbor, maybe out on the sound, definitely past my old house. we’ve been there together before – because we have followed each other – taking turns leading the way – for over a decade now.
“…take my hand and I will follow you.“ (j.d.)
the path through the john denver sanctuary in aspen leads past boulders of lyrics. we amble our way through, choosing to be slow. we have returned here. we will return again and again.
“come dance with the west wind and touch on the mountain tops, sail o’er the canyons and up to the stars…”(j.d.)
we have danced in places noisy and places quiet. we have danced in places with music and without. we have waltzed on our deck, in our kitchen and on dusty dirt trails. we have carried the wind with us and discovered stars on the horizon we had not noticed before. the path winds and makes unexpected turns. laughing and crying turns. and we trust it together.
“you fill up my senses like a night in the forest, like the mountains in springtime, like a walk in the rain, like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean. you fill up my senses, come fill me again.”(j.d.)
and we tell tales of the times we did not share together, the stories of before. sometimes we tell them over and over. they don’t get old. they are the pieces that made up who we met eleven years ago. two weeks after the day we first set eyes on each other, he came back – to see if it had really happened. sometimes you have to see home more than once to believe it.
“this is my autograph…here in the songs that i sing, here in my cry and my laugh, here in the love that i bring. to be always with you…and you always with me.”(j.d.)
and each path now – in the simple times and in the fancy times – we’ll hold hands or link arms, we’ll dance, we’ll lead, we’ll follow.
it was somewhat inconspicuous. the heartrock just tucked in with the rest of them, quiet, unassuming. it knew it would be seen; it knew it would be recognized. it was not unexpected – particularly that very day.
because earlier in the day – that very day – just a tad bit earlier – right before lunch – in late morning – inconspicuously and quietly – my beloved girl married her best friend. and, as unassuming as they wished this all to be, nevertheless, there were six parents in the world who felt the shift of the earth, whose heartstrings were tugged, who held her and held him – both – closely – in these intentionally-unassuming but admittedly-profound moments. sans tulle and without a nod to anything traditional, our families connected the dots and joined together. and a new chapter started.
i would have been surprised not to stumble across the rock that day. i worked kind of hard at not leading toooo much from my heart, tried to be casual, mellowishly nonchalant even. but i’m sure i lost some laidback points that day. i was celebrating my beautiful and fiercely bold daughter, who was choosing this dearest guy with whom to spend life. it’s a big deal for a momma…if not from an event-ish place, definitely from a heart-place.
and that particular day, the heartrock was waiting for me. it was just a couple hours past the moment. we took a walk – a most exquisite stroll – slowly through the sanctuary and it nodded at me as i started to pass by, making sure i noticed, grounding me. i let out a deep breath, a few happy tears. it was a stunning day in aspen.
because that particular day was different. not the mountains, not the blue sky and brilliant sun, not the smell of pine and the early quaking aspen leaves, not the roaring fork river gurgling.
the axis had shifted a little and things were changed.
and six moms and dads were there to hold space as part of our hearts married.
embrace of life – by mimi webster, the john denver sanctuary, aspen, colorado
THIS is how i feel in the mountains.
all worries, concerns, things we are suffering or things too complex – shed – as clothing falling off, a nakedness of joy, exulting in the sky, the purity of air, the scent of early spring in high elevation.
THIS is how i feel there.
it is not unlike how i feel at the side of the ocean, with waves lapping my feet, infinite blue meeting aqua on a horizon too far away to particularly discern, salt air sticking to my hair, sun beating down, uninhibited.
it is recent discovery that we realize it is a new time. though we both are – and have been – aware of the tenuousness, aware of how nebulous it all is – and one of us distinctly more thready than the other – we are beginning to see life in smaller morsels. we are not sprinting past on our way to somewhere which will ultimately be on the way to somewhere else. instead, we are slower and more deliberate. we are undressed inchworms – exposed – in miles and miles of life. intentionally.
at the entrance to the john denver sanctuary, embrace of life stands, gloriously. i needed no reminder. i walked in – throwing my head back to the sky – throwing my arms out to collect it all, to wrap in it, to bring it all home. my heart is open. wide open. air rushes in as we walk among boulders chiseled with lyrics and prose. each moment is shimmering.
because it feels like the past, the present and the future all at once and – here – it all wraps around your heart.
we are both john denver fans. not the ridiculous push-to-the-front-of-the-crowd-for-a-signature type. just the quiet, eternally-grateful type. he has inspired us. he has inspired me. he made the simple melodic gesture a visceral thing. he elevated folksy messaging and storytelling; he reinforced the beauty of a lack of adornment. simplicity.
and when we stand in this beautiful place – designed to honor him, his composing and songwriting, his vision of the world – we are standing in and with his spirit. and you can feel it.
we slowly walkabout, arm in arm. we hum the songs chiseled into granite boulders. we stand immersed, pondering, in front of quotes of john muir and leonardo da vinci and helen keller and rachel carson and jacques cousteau.
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.
we stood in the grocery store in brevard, right by the display. the food lion price for the charming smushy-flat white pumpkin was $8.99. it called to me, “you need me! bring me home!” but i got hung up on the price tag and we didn’t buy it.
we’ve had a pumpkin or two most years, often a pie pumpkin that we place on this funny wrought iron stand with arms, making it look like a pumpkinperson. we’ve gotten gourds – interesting shapes that tickle us. but not yet a white pumpkin, even though i really love how they look.
budgets are sometimes fun-oppressors. but any artist can tell you they are necessary. and any artist can tell you that there’s been at least one time that an $8.99 pumpkin – even one that might do the dishes and sorts socks – has not made the cut.
there is a sweet apple orchard out in the county. there is wine-tasting and a distillery at aeppeltreow, so there are spirits and spirited fun. there are a zillion apples and there are pumpkins and gourds and apple cider donuts. two years ago we picked out our tiny patch o’ pumpkins from their flatbeds and gardens of choices. coming home with a pear-shaped gourd and a couple smaller that were wart-laden we felt rich.
we bought pumpkins in aspen that same year and carved jack-o-lanterns at our airbnb with our daughter, leaving our artwork and extra candles behind for the next guests.
last year we featured our aging pear-shaped gourd in our sunroom, put out some orange happy lights and indulged in apple cider donuts at the orchard. despite the gluten they were worth it.
i think this year we will get a white pumpkin. and maybe two orange ones. three in all. just three.
“…adopt the pace of Nature. Her secret is patience.” (ralph waldo emerson)
no matter how hard we try, there is not one thing we can do to make the sun appear or the day warmer or the moon to rise or the snow to fall. we accept that time will come, time will pass, time will form and time will destroy. we give over to nature, anticipating that which we know, expecting the unexpected. we baby-step through this very time in the universe, our footprints barely visible on the timeline that is forever. we learn that no matter our stride, we are simply tiny beings. eventually, we learn, after giving over to patience, that that is enough.
the john denver sanctuary in aspen is a treasure trove. we have been there three times now. a garden of trails and large river boulders etched with lyrics and quotes, perennial daisies and aspen trees, it is a gentle sinking into peaceful. the city sounds of aspen fall away and the river and streams are lulling.
we wandered for hours, reading, sitting, pondering, the sun on our faces, the sound of quaking leaves slowing us down. i stood on a giant rock, like a stage under my feet, and bowed deeply to no one and to the brilliance of a man who knew how to tenderly shape melody and weave lyric into a fabric like a soft blanket.
we were immersed in poetry, in words, delicious to read aloud. we were quietly taking it all in, i in all my john-denver-glory, reliving the cassettes i wore out, rewinding, rewinding, listening again and again. this exquisite place, tempting all-day-hooky-playing, wielding a magic defined by thought, encouraging reflection, softly begging you to tumble in your own thoughts. this place slowing you down, reminding you that it is not stuff that defines you, it is not the stuff-of-you that will remain with others.
we wrestle with timing, with suspense, with expectation and disappointment. we measure against ladders of success and hold ourselves to higher higher higher standards of accomplishment.
nature quietly treks on, luminescent and glorious, patiently acknowledging every babystep moment of its impact, surrendering judgement and secretly, from the heart of the universe, signing its autograph on all of us, whispering to us to slow our pace.
on november 19 i wrote about the lights and decorations in our neighborhood. filled with the possibility of this light, these traditions, i pondered that we might get a “regular” tree this year, that we might splurge on a tree of traditional shape, traditional size.
but we didn’t.
the next morning i lost my job. little did i know, as we wandered through our neighborhood, twilight falling fast in our eyes, full of the hope of the season, that all would change the very next day, a “regular” tree rapidly slashed out of the budget.
the white branches have lingered in our living room all year long. lit with twinkling lights and adorned with silver balls, it seemed, by mid february or so, that it was time to put them away, to perhaps burn them in the fire pit.
but we didn’t.
the spring slid slowly into summer which slid into fall and the pandemic scorching our nation relentlessly continued. the white branches, the lights, the twinkling reflection off the silver balls suddenly seemed necessary, a beacon in a dark world of change. little did we know we would be relieved to have kept those branches up, to brighten our living room.
we hiked in the high mountains of colorado. the ditch trail in aspen became our favorite go-to, in-between the times of seeing my girl. a little over 4 miles, this trail was perfect for altitude acclimatizing and the vistas were amazing. there was a tiny pine tree on that quiet trail, an orphan that wasn’t going to make it. we thought about the struggles of this little tree and could have just kept trekking.
but we didn’t.
“ditch” rode home in a water bottle full of dirt and we planted it in an old clay pot with some good soil and a few red rocks. little did we know how we would cheer on this little tree. little did we know how tenderly we would feel about this tiny pine, a piece of our time in the mountains that we adore, the mountains that make me cry. a strand of white lights wrap around the old pot, a small silver ball and the tiniest pine cone now sit next to the base of “ditch”.
little do we know what is to come.
the white branches grace our living room in this season of everything unexpected, everything changed, everything different. the collection of small trees i’ve gathered through the years decorate our home; the silver balls from the bins in the basement are scattered to catch the light.
and a tiny pine tree named “ditch” is our christmas tree.
reverse threading 