i cannot help it. memories swoosh around me constantly. and these days are no different. in fact, they deliver memories much like santa scooooching down the chimney – sans fanfare or warning. the memories arrive, sometimes with a kerplunk.
i suppose that it is simply a part of me to be wistful. and…the days are darker, the sun is shorter, it is colder and the holidays began to arrive in rapid succession.
i prepare myself for this – i know that time has flown on and that everything is different. yet…there is this piece of me that yearns to go back…to be overwhelmed with all that was going on when my children were little – the time of year that was fraught with choir and band rehearsals prepping, the time of year when it was hard to find alone-time to shop for surprises, the time of year when the children were counting down to school vacation, the time of year when end-of-year business records were lurking on lists-of-things-to-do, when you wrapped presents – that had been hidden in closets and the attic – around the the table in the wee hours, the time of year when you just really wanted to make cookies and fudge and sip hot cocoa around the fire with your children, reading christmas books, watching holiday movies. dreamy.
and then, there’s the further-back…the days in my growing-up neighborhood – along with our neighbors and friends outside caroling. luminaria, my dad making spiked eggnog and my mom fussing with cooking, the grandparents lingering on our old slipcovered couch, nieces and my nephew tiny and enchanted with it all.
it all seemed so innocent back then. and easy.
it’s not as easy now – as i watch families sort through all the gala preparations and the calendar of when who-visits-whom. there is much to do and, seemingly, not as much time to do it all. it makes me wish for a really big close-proximity-family with whom to share it all, all together, everyone from every side.
we prepare for our own christmas. i’ve been thinking and brainstorming and researching and googling and making lists for weeks now. we’ve been out browsing and shopping, we’ve had a moment or two indulging in a treat while out. we’ve encountered wonderful, joyous shopowners and salesclerks and a few not-so-wonderful nor joyous folks. we’ve tried hard to bring light to each person.
very happily, the boys will be coming and we are excited. but we will miss our girl and her husband. so many of us will have a facetime christmas and, though i am grateful for that technological ability, my heart – as always – yearns for in-person. so much bittersweet-ness. but…i am reminded by my own words earlier this week…“even if…enough”. it’s a good time for me to practice the enoughs.
i wonder – if it were possible – what it would be like to live back then and now simultaneously…kind of like walking from one room – the right now – into the next room – where my children were tiny ecstatic toddlers – into the next room – where i was a teenager surrounded by my island family – into the next room – where i was little and watched for rudolph’s red nose out my window.
i guess the gift of not being able to do that is the same as the hard part of not being able to do that – it is the wistfulness of it all. i guess wistful IS the gift. that thing that reminds you – just like in the movie about time to really, really live the day. “I just try to live every day as if I’ve deliberately come back to this one day, to enjoy it, as if it was the full final day of my extraordinary, ordinary life.”
*****
…and, by the way…just in case you misunderstood – in this climate rife with words like great and back – misused and twisted…as you are reading the words “go back in time”…i want to be perfectly clear…even in a post about these holidays…it’ s not THAT kind of going back. this is a post about love and respect for each other. it’s a post about time spent together and mutual generosity of spirit. it’s a post about decency. goodness. it’s a post about unity. together. it’s not that OTHER kind of going back. because we aren’t. going back.
“may this house shelter your life. when you come in home here, may all the weight of the world fall from your shoulders. may your heart be tranquil here, blessed by peace the world cannot give.” (john o’donohue – for a new home – benedictus, a book of blessings)
back in the day – referencing the 80s and 90s or so – i used to have lots of dried flowers – everywhere. dried flowers and herbs and red peppers were definitely a thing then, part of the homey, country look – hung on any hook, any trellis, any door jamb you could access. it all felt comforting, smidges of beautiful, tiny respites from busy-ness.
there’s a moment in the movie my big fat greek wedding when ian miller tells toula portokalos that he remembers seeing her a previous time. she, who has had a bit of a self-makeover, says, i was going through a phase then. i was frump girl. in one of the best he’s-a-sweet-guy moments, ian responds kindly, i don’t remember frump girl, but i remember you. and you cannot help your heart from going pitter-patter and you just know what might happen….
well, i have gotten over the dried-flower-phase. though i loved it then – and completely embraced it – there are no dried flowers hanging around now. though, truth be told, i do have a few dried daisies from our wedding tied with jute and a little garden lavender posey gathered with string. oh…and the first rose d gave me. and i think there is some hydrangea drying (long-term) in the basement and maybe a few wildfield thistles in the sitting room sharing a vessel with a bit of pussywillow. oopsies. i might have been a bit off on the word “no” in “no dried flowers“…
perhaps I should yield on using absolutes.
moving on.
i am most definitely a fierce appreciator of dried flowers and wild weeds in the fields and meadows of our hikes and adore the textures and morphing shapes of them through the seasons. it is likely that we have already shared a thistle or two as our blog images, but – – – this one, this one counts too, i argue for its inclusion.
because of my propensity for hangingontothings – emotionally and in real life – it is quite amazing that all those -older- dried flowers made their way out of the house from the latest 80s and through the 90s. when you have lived in a house this long – 35 years – you know it will iterate through time. and you cannot hang on to all the vestiges of the last phase, no matter how splendid they are.
so now, here i am, not even sure what this post is about. this stunning in-fallow-stoking-up-energy thistle made me think of the dried-flower-phase, of things that – at some given time – made our home feel like our sanctuary. i suppose i might let you just try to connect the dots.
or you can just nod your head, roll your eyes and quietly support my stream of consciousness today.
the big chalkboard wall was in the basement for decades. and for decades it was signed and scribbled on by my children and their friends-through-the-years. there have been moments – in more recent years – the empty nest years – when i would hit the cement floor at the bottom of the steps, flip on the spotlights and stare at the colored-chalk names scrawled on the wall. lots of history there.
before i took the eraser to this wall, before i washed it off, before i realized the colored chalk didn’t really erase or wash off nomatterwhat, before i prepped it for paint, i took many photographs. once again, my thready heart is challenged – but photographs help.
my girl chalked this design in one of the corners – during the skateboard/dickies/vans era. the memory flood is fast and furious and i stood – touching the chalkboard and its names and illustrations – for some time before wiping it and readying it for a fresh coat. in the end, we put together new shelving for that spot adjacent to david’s studio and now it houses inspiring books of artists and musings…easy access for him, for both of us.
as i’ve written, there are many more of these woven threads in our home to unravel, to gently place aside, to memorize. but – inasmuch as it is a challenge, it is also a gift. because so many things are things we no longer notice, things to which we pay little attention. and right now…right now, we are paying rapt attention to each detail.
we are each telling stories of thethingsinthebox or ontheshelf or tuckedaway or rightthereinfrontofus. some of it makes me a little bit sad – no, i guess it’s more wistful than sad. some of it makes me try to think backbackback to the days backbackback. some of it makes me wish i could revisit those days, live them again, relish them in real time, or maybe live them a little slower or a little differently. and some of it just gives me a little standstill, like a tiny caesura – all part of the diapause, i suppose – one caesura after another.
we keep going. my curiosity is piqued as we open closets and bins, page through children’s books finding scraps of crayoned notes or pictures. i store it all inside, knowing that – even though i will likely forget some of it – it is all there – layers of memories and moments.
and the chalked diamonds will forever remain on the wall of the basement. because they were there, they are there. and they are part of it.
the glow of the setting sun teased through the grasses out front. autumn is rising.
my old hiking boots are waiting by the back door. soon – and very soon – it will be time to change out of our hiking sandals and back to these boots, worn from many, many miles of trails. we need to replace them. the podiatrist informed us we should purchase new ones every six months or so if we are wearing our boots regularly. since we are artists, this is not quite possible. and so, these circa 2016 boots have graced our feet for the last eight years of hikes. every bit of worn leather, every creak, has a story to tell. someday it will be a tad bit hard to retire them. they have served us well.
today is the first day of school here. i am completely out of sync with these touchstones of time. the trip to target – with school supplies galore – helped place me in time. but with grown children and no direct connection to the school system, we had to look up the district calendar.
a certain wistfulness comes on the breeze with the return of the fall sun. it happens every year. it’s hard to identify, but it is palpable.
i wonder if it is a kind of homesickness – for growing-up times back on long island and for my own days with a backpack – stuffed with textbooks, spirals and new pencils – slung over my shoulder.
i wonder if it is a kind of nostalgia – a yearning – for the times when my children were little, when they picked out new backpacks and pencil cases, gathered their wide-ruled notebooks and glue sticks, colored highlighters and crayons, those days when packing lunches and snacks and waiting for the bus were the defining times of the day.
i wonder if it is the bank of memories i carry – taking my children to college, unpacking into dorm rooms, apartments, toting stuff back and forth, my heart holding dearly to the threads of their childhood while, at the same time, supporting their gossamer winging wings, watching their contrails.
i wonder if it is a kind of longing – a pining for things undone to be done, for things not accomplished to be accomplished, for summer dreams to extend beyond the setting summer sun.
autumn rises and i feel invigorated. these are new times. there is new possibility. i have no idea what is coming but this rising autumnal sun is full of golden light.
golden. light. and my old boots are waiting by the back door.
“the sun shines not on us, but in us.” (john muir)
it would be an understatement to say we were excited to see a frog in our pond again. we’d been waiting and then gave up. it’s a tiny pond – and it has attracted a frog for many years save a couple – but it has been an extraordinarily hot summer and we thought it possible that we would never see one in our backyard watering hole this year.
and yet, there it was. we cheered and, later, before we turned on the last night of the democratic national convention, toasted his existence.
we named him DeeNCee Lullabaloo – after both the DNC and the lull in which we have dedicated ourselves. DeeNCee, for short, though his whole name is ridiculously fun to say aloud.
way back when, it was helen who told us what it meant to have a frog – “fully rely on God,” she said, encouraging us to trust in hope and what was to come. since that first frog, life has been a real mash-up of stuff that has happened. but every frog that has turned up – each spring or summer or early fall – has been another sign of hope, another small miracle. for each one we have been grateful and a little bit astounded.
DeeNCee showed up on thursday, the same day that kamala harris accepted the democratic nomination to run for president.
the convention had been unbelievably exciting to that point…speakers and performers and politicians all stoking the flame of hope, the sprinkles of joy everywhere, light – a part of our future.
until a mere few weeks ago, it all looked rather bleak, a country destined to fall under the leadership of those who aren’t truly concerned about e pluribus unum, those who want complete and utter power and control, those who do not deserve such a honorable task as to lead this nation.
and then…then…hope, light and joy burst forward and suddenly there is a chance for our gay son to marry, our daughter to continue to be in charge of her own body, our great-nieces and great-nephews to enjoy racial equality, our younger neighbors to benefit from affordable, sustaining healthcare, our older neighbors to enjoy retirement and healthcare through social security, medicare and their choice of medicare supplemental plans. the list of possibilities is lengthy and the GOP – which is self-destructing – tries to misrepresent what is possible, tries to evade real questions about project 2025 and agenda 47 intentions, tries to bully their way in their desire to push the populace into a dark cave.
but we are alive and we are voiced and we have energy and stamina and longevity.
DeeNCee Lullabaloo showed up at the right time – to help celebrate the convention and its promise and to remind us to be in the lull, a place of peace and hope, a place of light and joy, a place where we might soak in the wisdom of a higher power – whatever we choose to call that deity.
in our tiny pond DeeNCee will sunbathe and eat bugs, swim and hop – thrive – in freedom.
and in our country, we humans will also thrive – all of us in freedom.
i just scrolled past a winnie the pooh meme. “what day is it?” asked pooh. “it’s today,” squeaked piglet. “my favorite day,” said pooh.
we went back.
we bushwhacked through the overgrown woodsy area to make our way under the big fallen branch and onto the beach. “our special beach” we called it. we couldn’t wait to get there – to this spot of sand and pebbled shoreline that rarely had any visitors.
we emerged from under the big fallen branch and stepped onto the sandy overlook to see a beach full of people, full of jetskis and motorized rafts, boats anchored in the water, waverunners zooming in and out of the new jettied cove.
wow.
we stood for a moment, taking it all in.
for this was the place we went to for quiet. this was the place we searched for hagstones. this was the place we sat on big pieces of wild driftwood, watching the waves come in, the waves retreat. the place to reflect, sort, breathe.
we stood for a few more moments, trying to grok it, decide what to do.
we took a walk on the shore where the waves meet the sand. it was clear a lot of work had been done on this beach. and we had to agree that it was truly beautiful, even in its changed state. we walked south and then back north. and we found that – all along – there was a parking lot that led to the beach. all along there was an easier way in. all along there was access. go figure.
as we walked south, with the waves lapping our feet – in the exquisite way that feels on a soft sandy beach – we remembered the other days we had spent there. beautiful, peaceful days. we talked about how grateful we were for those days.
and then we walked north.
we took the road past the marina and stepped onto the boardwalk. we hadn’t ever gone this way before.
the boardwalk wound its way past all the slips, around the yacht club, past the charters. on a most gorgeous day we delighted in this new place to stroll. the sting of the busy-ness of the beach faded and we planned on returning to “our beach” later – maybe a late evening, maybe in september. in the meanwhile, this stroll was the loveliest thing.
“what day is it?” i asked david, a little lost in time having been under the weather for over a week and just starting to feel better.
it would appear that nature is decorating for the holiday season. even in the browns and tans and greys of the fallow, color bursts out at us. it’s stunning. the honeysuckle is unmoved though – it is standard fare in the winter to be berried. we, however, stop to appreciate it.
we decorated early this year. right around thanksgiving we put up our eileen-tree (which we named “e.e.”), pulled out the mini-trees i love to place everywhere, added twinkling white lights and silver ornaments. there are snowflakes and pinecones from the forest floor and heartfilled nods to my children-in-younger-days and my scandinavian heritage. we unearthed the boxes of vintage glass ornaments and shiny brites from my sweet momma and poppo and placed those ever-so-gently on the happy-light-lit big branches we now have year-round in the living room. it looks like christmas.
each day goes by faster now it seems. and then it’s friday again. i’m not sure where the time goes. as we make our holiday cards and a few handmade gifts to send out, george winston’s december is on repeat – the quiet of this album is speaking to us this season. bombastic christmas or vocal-gymnastic-laden carols seem like too much noise. restraint seems more in line with our spirits. more serenity.
there are many festivities to choose from – out there. we thought about a concert or two and lingered back. we thought about a holiday festival or two and lingered back. we thought about stores and crowds and lingered back. we will finish making our cards and creations and do a bit of boutique shopping. we may make a cookie or two. the krumkake of ages past nudges us and sip and feast taunts us with a long island italian almond cookie (gluten-free). we sit under blankets in a darkened living room – lit only by happylights. we savor the sparkle. we sit in content silence, we tell stories of past holidays – wistful, tearing up, laughing, lost in memories and hopes for future holidays.
and there is the woods.
whenever we can, we take time out there. the forest reminds us of both the everpresence and the evanescence of it all. it reminds us of the passing of time, the changing of seasons, adjusting to harsh circumstances and it reminds us of the rejuvenation and renewal of spring. we know that beyond the cold and frozen, there will be warmth. it’s all fluid and some things – like transition – are certain. there is silent wisdom – of the ages – you can feel as you place your feet – emanating from the dirt of the trail.
it is no wonder that nature has already decorated – with quiet fervor and vivid color – for the holidays.
and we are witnesses. to the thistle. to the meadow. to this slice of the earth.
we watch, as time passes. we note changes, dramatic and subtle. we are aware of the nuances of these moments – transitory. we are inside the ephemeral.
we are intentional; we fritter away.
and the thistle is witness to us as we stand still – for little bits of a while – in admiration. our gaze is focused, memorizing beauty, not questioning the randomness of our attention.
just holding it all in wonder. just perceiving the glorious. just unmoving and moved.
sharing this space of time – together – within the perpetuity of it all, what do the thistle, the meadow, this slice of earth see – looking back at us?
it doesn’t take much to get my attention. the drops of water. the juxtaposition of muted color. the use of the add-9 in a 1-3-5 chord. the tension that is created between that ninth and the tonic of the triad, begging for release, suspended to evoke emotion.
if we all spent time in the beautiful details of things, perhaps there would be little time for disagreement, little time for division, little time to perpetuate negativity. i suppose this all sounds a bit idealistic, maybe even pollyanna-ish.
when i was in high school, one of my best friends – marc – used to poke fun at me. he’d point out that i was all about sunrises, rainbows, bubbles. we’d argue the merits of musicians – me defending john denver, him defending bob dylan. i was an innocent back then, living in a family that was almost all a “generation” older, comparatively speaking. while other families were watching the wonderful world of disney and episodes of dark shadows, mine was watching doris day, rock hudson, debbie reynolds movies and episodes of gidget and hogan’s heroes and petticoat junction. my parents weren’t in front of the tv when saturdaynight live started in 1975 and the radio in the kitchen played wgsm from huntington, which didn’t include led zeppelin or aerosmith in their line-up. the record player in the living room spun robert goulet and jim nabors, herb alpert and the tijuana brass. my sweet momma did not dance to janis ian or carole king or joni mitchell or aretha franklin. my dad whistled all the time, but never a john lennon song or billy joel or david bowie. i wasn’t so much pop-culture-up-to-date-informed.
innocence has a way of exiting the building and sometimes this is by more profound circumstances than others. i’m in that second category.
but i still look back – to before – and think about the sunrises, rainbows and bubbles of that period of my life. sometimes somewhat wistfully.
and as i pass the mauve and olive leaves on the trail, noticing the tiny droplets of dew or the morning rain – still visible, i realize that somewhere in there, the unwavering john denver fan, the jonathan livingston seagull fan, the doris-day-rock-hudson-debbie-reynolds fan still exists. i can see her waving from other there. she stops me on the trail and reminds me. of goodness and beauty. and of sunrises, rainbows and bubbles.
reverse threading 