at this very moment, at this very time, with stacks and stacks of paintings and music, we both succumb to the realization that we are – indeed – under construction. the rests between the notes are there for a reason. space to breathe, to comprehend, to make the color and the music a part of your fiber.
the rests change you. they change how you see, how you hear. they give you pause. to re-appreciate what you have done and to wonder what will come. to be aware of the light.
it is the skill of an artist to learn how to sit in the rests without fidgeting. to just sit. it is an even higher level skill to create the rest. and then sit in it.
we lit the torches about 5pm. it was cold but not breezy and the lake was calm after several days of bigger surf. it was the last night.
we sat on the back porch steps and watched the flame flicker. we moved inside and watched it dance from the living room, a fire burning in the woodstove. we checked the wind and the weather forecast and said goodnight to the torches late that night, flames glowing outside with boxes packed around us inside. very early in the morning i could see the slightest of flame glimmering in the torches, the light of golden rising sun behind them. all through the night. they burned all through the night.
there was something profound about that for us – the flame that kept burning through the night. i’m not sure i can speak to it. i can just say that the welcome flame of the torches in the morning was calming, steadying, grounding. indeed, the sun will set, night will descend, the sun will rise. the flame continues. light continues.
it was the last night on island, for now. the first dawn of next. and, as these things do – every sunrise and sunset – it has forever changed us.
yesterday, while i sketched moments on various keyboards, both pipe organ and piano, d sketched on paper. and he somehow captured how i was feeling. the lifting of eyes to the universe, the imploring of the heart. his scribblings on paper, my scribblings on keys. two artists, expressing.
the telling of the story – through music, through painting or drawing – does not demand complexity. sometimes it aches for simplicity. a pure line of melody, unadorned. a few fast pen-lines, unfinessed. the telling of the tale, honestly, pitch by pitch. not the skirting of the story, the fancified version sung by an vocal acrobat. instead, the straight-up carole-king-richard-diebenkorn-versions, sung note for note, painted line by brushed line, color by color. intense in their clean simplicity.
the more complicated things get, the more i list toward simple. less is more. my piano left hand has always been a virtual non-stop accompanist to my right hand, arpeggiating ad nauseum. in recent years, i’ve asked it to calm down, to allow room for the delivery of the right hand, to allow breath, to allow lift. together, they have given space for the real scribblings, the true expression.
if you have ever been to a taize service, you will have experienced the wisdom and power of repeated simplicity, a line of music that will take you to your knees. nothing advanced or embellished.
if you have ever held a child’s drawing in your hand, you will have experienced the wisdom and power of innocence, art that will take you to your knees. nothing advanced or embellished.
“the box: a place to put all the stuff of our lives.” (from BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL liner notes 1996)
the old black suitcases store stuff. treasured moments, all in a jumble, some decipherable, others bits and snatches of times we want to remember, so we keep these feathers and ticket stubs, notes and river stones, scraps of wrap, cards, red rock. they proudly sit in the dining room, in a stack, their vintage scrapes and broken handles call to me each time i pass them by. they shower me with memories and times i have passed through, moments i have lived. i can feel what is in them.
in another box, in another place, are old dreams. torn vestiges of paper with lyrics, a few notes scribbled in the margins of old spirals. there are visions and imaginings, goals and undetermined outcomes. like you, these are the things undone. there are no ticket stubs or photos in this box; these are the things that have not come to fruition. these are the things that beckon over and over. these are the things that demand i consider and reconsider what i am doing today, tomorrow. these are the things that make me question. each time i pass them by. i can feel what is in them.
i am reminded:
“a ship in harbor is safe. but that is not what ships are built for.” (john a. shedd)
these are the full liner notes:
“the box: a place to put all the stuff of our lives. sometimes this place really hurts.” (BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL 1996)
download THE BOX from BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL on iTUNES or CDBaby
once upon a time, a geometric rug found its way onto our doorstep. it was carried in and put in the dining room, where all rolled-up geometric rugs go. it was The Boy’s rug and it would wait for The Boy to come get it. Rug waited and waited. until one day, The Boy came. Rug got excited. it knew it was going to go with The Boy and be his Rug. but The Boy gathered all the other large boxes in the dining room, which had become a holding ground for deliveries, and Rug heard him start his car and drive away. Rug panicked, thinking perhaps he had done something wrong, perhaps he wasn’t wanted. and so he sat, sad and alone, the only delivery left in the dining room, all rolled up and despondent.
until one day when we came home from the island. we walked in, carrying boxes and bins, unloading them in, of course, the dining room. there, leaning up against the cabinet, was Rug. sorrowful, lonely, dejected, left-behind Rug. i looked at the label on Rug and saw that it belonged to The Boy and so i assured Rug that we would bring him home.
like all other weird things we seem to get ourselves involved in, we decided to take the train to deliver Rug to The Boy. we could have driven directly to his door in the big city, but for reasons hard to comprehend, we picked up Rug and carried him onto the train. all three of us disembarked from the train and Rug and i looked at the gps on my phone. a beautiful day, it was only 2 miles to walk to the front door of The Boy’s place. and so, off we went. happily scampering down the sunny sidewalks of the city, a big triangle grin on Rug’s face as he anticipated his new home. we took Rug into a grocery store and rode up and down on an escalator, adventuring together. back on the street, people gawked at us walking with Rug, for it is clearly not often enough that people take rugs for a walk. when at last we got there, The Boy carefully unpackaged Rug and laid him on the floor, next to the new couch and under the new coffee table. we left Rug to uncurl and went to lunch.
in the pouring rain, walking the two miles back to the train, we talked about our next adventure. and we hoped that Rug was adjusting well.
we were walking in the middle of the street and the sun was going down. it was two days before we were to move off island. i was suddenly struck by the comparison between two days after we arrived on island and two days before we were to leave. three months have passed. the whole summer. it felt like way longer. looking back, it went by fast. it felt like way longer. looking back, it went by slow. crazy.
i wondered aloud about three months from now. i did the math on my fingers and said aloud, “what will two days before the end of december be like? what will have happened? what will we have accomplished? where will we be that day? how will we feel?”
this period of time has been pretty fraught. with more than i can, or wish to, list in this post. in the multiple simultaneously ever-spinning plates of life, there has been more than one wobble, more than one plate off-balance. it has made me wonder, “what, pray tell, is going on?” it all has seemed a bit crazy.
as a person who just wants to bring idea, passion, joy to jobs, i’ve been diving to avoid spinning plates as they seemingly veer off course, as they spin outside the gravity of what actually feels important, as they go haywire, as they head to strike the floor.
“you don’t have to be crazy to work here. we’ll train you.” a familiar hyperbole or idiom of sorts. maybe that means this: we’ll try to waylay you so you never get to the real work. we’ll ask you to make change but will rail against it. we’ll try to undermine or undervalue you. we’ll try to withhold information and still expect you to function. we’ll try to put boxy definition and constraints on the art you are attempting to create. we’ll try to grab the stick under the spinning plate and wreak crazy.
or
maybe it means that you will endure all these things. you will encounter havoc-wreaking and you will encounter messes. you will find others in the ‘here’ who will stand by you and spot you as you plate-spin. you will find your sisu and you will stand in the integrity of the work you are doing. you will survive, outlasting the crazy. and, you will, in the end, do some good work. crazy good.
your toes curl. your breathing is shallow. adrenaline rushes. your legs are a little shaky. your hands feel tingly. butterflies in your belly. you are on the edge. in that tiny place between before and after.
i gingerly walked to the edge of the canyon, my daughter encouraging me. at the moment i stood there, feet firmly planted, no guardrail, nothing between me and canyon wall, my heart slowed down and i breathed in both the enormity of the moment and the taste of both before and after. my girl and i laughed, loudly, the sound echoing across the vast canyon. and then, it was after.
i sat at the piano, ready to record this first piece GALENA of the first album, 24 years ago, savoring the safety of before but ready for after. at the edge of the put-it-all-out-there canyon, i walked onto the stage, brand new cds in the lobby, ready, with quivering knees and boots that gave me confidence. and then, in what felt like a minute, it was after.
now, many album and stage edges later, many life and love moments later, many work and play split-seconds later, i wonder what the next after will be. i can feel the edges; i can see them. i’m aware of my toes curling. my breathing is shallow and adrenaline rushes. my legs are a little shaky and my hands feel tingly, butterflies in my belly. there is a canyon beckoning.
we are living the contrast principle. the elementary-school-workbook-page-which-one-doesn’t-fit principle. that can actually serve you well or it can be the bane of your existence. i’ll allow you to decide which one you think it is for us.
we are not from here. we do not have roots that go back a generation, two or three generations, seven generations. we weren’t born here, nor have we been coming here for decades on vacation. this is a new place for us. we chose to come here. and we came here out of great and positive intention.
when i first saw the ad for the position we ultimately accepted, we got excited and were instantly full of ideas and possibility. with our backgrounds, our education, our professional experiences, it seemed a perfect fit. with our artistry, our passion, our zeal, our energy, our ability to facilitate positive change, it seemed a perfect fit. but that assumes a “fit” and it assumes trust and it assumes the best of the contrast principle.
we work to create relationship, to mend the crevasse between arts organizations and between groups of people, to structure and build community and let the arts rise. we brainstorm and read and study – new initiatives, data of the past, stories of success and stories of failure. we strive to re-commit each day, choosing to step past the rifts, past the dysfunction, past the you-don’t-belong-here-ness of it all.
because we did choose it. we chose to be the daisy in the field of black-eyed-susans. we chose to be the new in the old. we chose the contrast principle. it would just be nice for it to be a tad bit easier.
dogdog sits at the edge of the lake and gazes south. i wonder what he is pondering. south is where home-home is. south is where his backyard is, where he runs in gleeful circles when the dachshunds next door are out in their yard. south is where he goes on extended errands in the scion, where unka john comes over, where the upstairs gives babycat space from him and for him. south is where he barks and rules the domain that is clearly his.
i wonder what he is thinking. is he wondering what it all means? is he curious about when he will be home-home next? is he wondering where we are now? does he like this location, full of wildlife he hasn’t seen before? does he like the smaller space, putting us four all together more? does he like the treat he and babycat get every time we arrive home, the “mom-and-dad-are-home-treat”? does he like to fall into dreams at “sleepynightnight” time in his familiar crate in a mostly unfamiliar place, next to our bed as usual?
babycat was slower to adjust. his adjustment came under the bed in the middle room, as he sorted through his “where-the-heck-are-we-and-did-anyone-ask-me-if-i-wanted-to-come?” eventually he came out from under the bed and started finding that, yes indeedy, there is a bed with the quilt he recognizes that he can sleep on. and yes, indeedy, “they” brought my favorite toy, the turbo-scratcher-round-circle-chasing-ball toy. and yes, indeedy, it’s a different food bowl, but it’s the same food. he has discovered that he can sit by the french door to the deck and watch seagulls and ducks and geese and bald eagles flying past and above. it’s work but someone has to do it, and babycat is all-in. yes, all is seemingly well in babycat land now.
adjustments are a bit easier when your unicorn toy and bones and treats and chasing-toy and leash and kibble are there, are the same.
i, too, have sat on the edge of the lake and gazed south.
she was born in 1921 and saw everything change around her. she stood in a world that saw the great depression, world war II, telephones and cars, movies, televisions and news shows reporting on more wars than she could wrap her head around. her husband was missing in action and then a POW shot down over bulgaria, all while she was expecting a baby. she gave birth to their first child while my poppo was still a POW and stood in faith that he would return as that little girl died.
momma built a life with my dad, all the while navigating veteran-ptsd that hadn’t yet been labeled. but she figured it out. she held her ground, both supportive and snapping to action or to “words” as she would call arguments between them.
my sweet momma wore stockings and pumps “to business” and had housecoats with snaps, long flowing mumus and finally, at long last, blue jeans and keds for relaxing. momma drove a mean stick shift and, because they were a one-car family for the longest time, walked to the king kullen and dairy barn for groceries and milk. she turned her very green thumb over to my dad after he retired, likely to keep him out of her hair for a bit of time.
she volunteered as the girl scout president and in aarp alongside my dad. she loved wood and glass; she loved to paint with oils. she loved lists and calendars and math and writing and doing the laundry any time she was stressed. she wrote old-fashioned letters with pen and paper. she adored her word processor and then the computer and finally, her beloved iphone. anything to stay in touch. she texted, she called, she facebooked, she mistakenly took pictures of the ceiling and sent them on errant trips out to the ethers. momma loved to coffee sit and have english muffins or crumb cake or danish or chocolate chip cookies or pie. and she made extra homemade french fries every time she knew I was visiting so we could sit, drink iced tea, eat cold french fries and talk.
she didn’t let fear overtake her. she was strong in every way. she credited being from new york, but i credit just her – she just went with the flow and sort of ignored anything that got in the way, including any physical challenge that presented itself. two days after a double mastectomy at 93 she sat on the side of the hospital bed and, in good humor, sassed everyone around.
she loved that everyone called her beaky. and i mean everyone.
her journey was long, her experiences rich. she was an exclamation mark in life. she celebrated people and love and moments and I miss her. so much.
but it is part of my journey to miss her.
each of us bring to our journey our own punctuation. sometimes i think i am an ellipsis, but i realize that applies to all of us. we go on…
if i got to choose what singular punctuation i would want to be, i would want to be an exclamation mark, just like my sweet momma. for this part of my journey. for every part of the journey.
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reverse threading 