try to see what they see. i glanced back over what i’ve written the last week: about trying to see eye to eye, about assuming awe, about being relentless in a life that isn’t simply black and white, about being brave. is it possible to write too many words about the importance of empathy? the importance of trying to walk in another’s shoes to really understand their circumstance, their joy, their plight, their challenge? because it’s easy to forget, i never feel like i can be reminded enough; it’s always hard to remember my perspective is different than any-other-person’s-on-earth. sometimes it’s laden with stuff. it’s all so complicated.
when dogdog was little we were astounded by his exuberant joy. he was always bounding, seemingly ever hopeful. he still is. i’ve written about what his take on the world looks like to us; i’ve written about what babycat’s take on the world looks like to us. they look forward and see possibility, without the capacity to mull all the looking-backwards-stuff over in their brains.
we surround ourselves with wonderful pets who unconditionally love us. all of us who have dogs or cats -or any pet- we adore know this; people who dedicate time or their lives to keeping animals safe – like aly, a veterinarian, or jen, who has spent lots of time volunteering at humane societies and sanctuaries, or my sister, who just adopted a puppy-she-wasn’t-expecting…we all know this. they see us like no one else. and they are part of us in ways not easy to express in words. they aren’t looking at us with prejudice or judgement, emotional baggage or elitist measurements of value. they simply expect the best and somehow they find it in the very next moment. they find it in each moment. they clearly know something we don’t know. they don’t need to walk in another’s shoes. they just look forward and trust. it’s simple for them.
for us? we can stand to be in those other shoes AND to look forward. we can try to see what they see.
so i’ve decided that there is a difference between us and our pets. you roll your eyes and think, “she is clearly a little slow on this…” but i’m not just stating the obvious. i watch dogdog and babycat through their days and find wonder in their absolutely joy-filled acceptance of the moment. for dogdog and babycat, there is no continuum of how-am-i-going-to-feel-right-now; it is simply always at the apex of ‘happy’.
dogdog runs around the backyard gleeful. our neighbor and friend john says he can practically hear him thinking, “oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!” he meets us at the back door when we arrive back home or when we ask him if he wants to “go on errands”, vertical-jumping to challenge the best of basketball players. at the end of the evening, when he is sure it is time for “sleepynightnight”, he rolls over for a treasured ‘belly-belly’; nothing else matters to him at that moment. all of his actions are based in the moment. all of them assume the best.
if babycat can’t be laying curled up next to you, he seeks the sun and follows it around the house. he sits on the chest in front of the window (just as in this drawing of chicken marsala and babycat) and gazes outside, clearly enchanted by everything ‘out there’. he gets most excited by mealtime and a ‘treat’ will literally make him come running and put him over the top. all of his actions are based in the moment. all of them assume the best.
why is it that we function so differently? why is it that we cannot assume the best? we tend to pre-form our view about our day, our challenges, our life, our conversations, our relationships, our, well, most everything. we drag all the old baggage along with us, all of which contributes to heavy-hearted-difficult-to-circumvent-or-navigate negative assumptions of what is to come. what would it be like for us – as individuals, as couples, as families, as a community, as a country, as a world – to assume the best? to assume awe?
late yesterday afternoon, after a day spent working on computers and designs, with technology sluggishness taking over our souls, we headed to the woods to take a hike. any time we feel tired or ‘stuck’ we walk. around the ‘hood, along the lake, or to the starbucks about 2 and a half miles away. any time we feel exuberant or elated we walk. sometimes in the mountains (ahh!!) or in chicago or the third ward in milwaukee. any time we need a ‘business meeting’ we walk. mostly in the woods, in a county or state park. walking and breathing in fresh air brings us back to the moment. it re-centers us.
we hiked up the small rise in the woods, the light was waning and behind us the sky was deep deep orange. in the clearing beyond the stand of trees stood, very still, a deer. it was clearly the ‘lookout’ as way back in the field were six more deer, easy to count in the almost-dark as their white tails bobbed when the lookout gave the alert. we stood perfectly still watching this beauty, a magic moment in the woods. neither of us wanted to leave the spot. i took a picture, not because you can see the deer in it, but because it preserved the moment for me. i didn’t want to forget. because, as you already know, i am thready like that.
around me, every rock or feather or piece of wood or ticket stub or scrap of notepaper carries with it a specific moment – preserved in time. i could not necessarily tell the story of each of those moments – there are far too many for my synapse-challenged-brain to remember. but i know that each one had meaning for me. each one defined yet another piece of me, my relationship with someone i love, a time i shared with another being, a learning, a moment of sheer bliss, a moment of deep sadness. each moment renewed me and brought me to my next moment of living.
as i have moved through life one thing has become certain. that everything changes. nothing stays the same. life is in flux, always fluid. what more do we have than each moment as it arrives for us? i ask myself, “how do i want to spend this moment? what do i want to feel about this moment?” for i can never get it back. i can never re-do it. time has moved on. and so i must keep moving. i write about moments, i compose about moments, i tell stories about moments. for me, those details count. attempting to put succinctly (ha!) into words my philosophy-of-what-moments-mean is impossible; it is the umbrella that skies over everything else i believe, everything else i think.
when The Boy was little, he called the rearview mirror in cars the “review” mirror. particularly poignant i think. i have seen it written “don’t stare into the rearview mirror. that’s not the direction you are going.” instead i try (read: TRY) to review the past moments, learn from them, find grace in them, save the memory threads. and wholeheartedly embrace the ones to come. the moments. unique. in every way. i love this chicken marsala image.
every summer i break one of my two little baby toes. every single summer. last summer alone i logged tons of miles on my $2 old navy flipflops as a result. i even talked about it on this blog. what did i learn? in particular, what did i learn THIS time as opposed to all the other times? i learned to either 1. slow down a little 2. watch where i’m going a tad bit more 3. never go barefoot. the thing is, i’m pretty sure it will happen again. i’m still learning.
i haven’t fallen off my bike in quite some time (and hope not to cause these days it will hurt much more than it used to) but i can relate in countless ways to our chicken marsala monday in the melange this week. i can distinctly remember taking off the training wheels and teaching the children to ride their two-wheelers, running down the sidewalk next to them. for that matter, i can totally -and (yougetthis) viscerally- remember teaching them how to drive.
we’ve been watching the olympics. athletes of inordinate ability who had to start somewhere – and, for sure, who fell in the process. not afraid of failing, but keeping on keeping on. being an ace anything is far off. do any of us ever really get there?
as an adult (ugh, i guess 58 qualifies me if for no other reason than sheer number) there are a lot of things i still want to learn. a few years ago i wanted to throw pots. i spent more than i bargained on for clay and lessons and studio time and more clay and ended up with the most wonderful tea light holder. (ok, i also threw a cereal-size-bowl and a few other assorted incredibly-shrinking-bowls as i struggled to center them and not have the clay collapse on the wheel.) let’s just say i was not gifted at this. but it did (and still does) make me laugh. and i know that i will someday try it again and i will add to my assortment of teenytinyclayobjects in which i can store paperclips.
when we see my amazing son and his boyfriend, we seem to be developing this tradition of bowling together. now, even though i live in wisconsin – and it is practically a law to be a good bowler here – i am pretty bad at bowling. every now and then i do something (like pick up a spare or get a strike) and am shocked, but most of the time i am aghast at how the ball creates splits in the pins and i find myself leaning while watching it careen (generous term) down the alley. the thing i must say, though, is that each time i do a little better. and the reallybadscores will, if i dedicate any time at all to practice, perhaps improve. mostly, i laugh. and i wish i could bring that to ANY thing i am learning – be it a new sport, an artform, a study of some philosophy or political issue, or – a big one – relationship. we fall. we get up, brush ourselves off, ask for grace and try again.
even though there are so many venues of crashing, the recording studio is a prime place to watch yourself fall down. you’ve written music, lyrics. you’ve practiced and practiced – there’s muscle memory in each measure. you’re ready, water and coffee by your side. (for me, not so much water once in the studio as it ….toomuchinformationalert…makes throat noises i can’t avoid.) and then you start. there’s so much riding on the line. and some days? some days you can’t get through a track. something is amiss; something is wrong. the first track of my first album was recorded in a studio in evanston. ken, my producer, was a stranger to me and i drove down with a posse of friends. i felt a little nervous, but mostly felt confident i was prepared. hours later, i had recorded the solo piano track for galena (the album released from the heart) and ken gave me a cassette tape (how funny is that?!) to listen to. i put it in the cassette deck of my old chrysler blue minivan and turned it on. and was appalled. rigid playing met my ears. it sounded nothing like me or my playing, or my piece of music, for that matter. all that confidence translated to a coldness, an unemotional-ness instead of a good track. i called ken (who i barely knew then, but now the same brilliant producer who has produced 14 of my 15 albums) and he suggested that, “maybe you should just write the music and have someone else play it on the recording FOR you.” what???!!! uhhh, i didn’t even know what to answer that would sound in the least bit polite.
and so i painfully listened to the recording again and sat back down at home on my bench. and i realized i needed to be ready -at any moment- to fall. THAT is what would make the piece sound like me and sound like, well, music. the rawness, the every-moment-ness, the vulnerability to mistakes and moving beyond them. that is what would make it shine as a learning. preparation is wise, flexibility is a must, a sense of humor is required, confidence is irrelevant, perseverance is utmost.
my sister and i were toodling around milwaukee on one of her visits here, years ago now. we went to this great little coffeehouse on the lake and there was a stand of cards. one read “begin anywhere” a quote from john cage. procrastinators/a.d.d. twins, it jolted both of us and we laughed. it launched a really honest and vulnerable conversation between us over our coffee mugs. we bought two of the cards. hers sits inside a glass frame on her counter in her kitchen. mine is inside an old window frame on the wall in the bedroom.
starting is the hardest thing. so often we don’t know how. and we dread the not-knowing, fearing that we will fail or fall short or never “finish”. finish what? we are never “done,” i believe. we just keep moving. toward who knows what sometimes, but we keep moving. life is fluid and fluxes and we try to be flexible. and sometimes, after we force ourselves to JUST START, we find that the task wasn’t as difficult or involved as we thought, or we were better at “it” than we thought, or there really weren’t the demons we imagined.
i love this CHICKEN MARSALA. in honor of my beautiful daughter-of-the-snowy-mountains, in honor of all the athletes competing in the olympics who started their sports long ago, in honor of artists of every medium everywhere standing in front of a notebook, a piano, an easel, a barre, a microphone, in honor of THE ROADTRIP – a second start for david and me (starting AGAIN is sometimes a beautiful thing) we offer this CHICKEN NUGGET in the studio melange this week.
you’re at the gate. poised. fearful. anticipatory. excited. your imagination is going wild.
wednesday nights in the trinity choir room are pretty funny. is that because it’s wednesday? is that because it’s easy to have fun singing or strumming the ukulele with a wholebunchapeople or playing handbells while talking about everythingunderthesun? maybe it’s a little of everything. wednesdays are like that. we need the fun, the laughs, the rolling-of-eyes to get through the rest of the week.
FLAWED cartoon is also like that. you may laugh. you may groan. you may roll your eyes. but any way you look at them, they are good wednesday fare.
FLAWED cartoon was another run at syndication (which, by the way, is compared to winning the lottery, according to a friend of ours whose fun strip THE BRILLIANT MIND OF EDISON LEE runs daily and who said he felt like he had won the lottery.) david and our dear friend 20 created this cartoon and i have handled all the technical blahblah of it. we cackle every time we jot down a new idea. ohmygosh, isn’t “cackle” a great word?!?
the wiener dog sled makes me laugh aloud. we are pretty devoted life-below-zero fans and have great respect for andy and jessie on that show, both of whom run dogsleds. john and michele next door have three wiener dogs and i just can’t imagine them pulling ANY sled. and, although i don’t remember her well, i spent my babyhood years with a dachshund named shayne, who tells stories through my momma’s books of the same name. wiener dogs rock, but as sled dogs?
and so, our melange of studio-created-stuff continues and FLAWED cartoon wednesday will hopefully bring a grin to your wednesday-can’t-wait-till-friday-face.
we share studio space. it’s a kaleidoscope of color and sound and texture punctuated by laughter and brainstorming and quiet and dancing…a melange of our work, created individually and together.
for a year we worked on syndicating our cartoon chicken marsala. our chicken strip was sweet and funny and was met with enthusiasm by a couple of syndicates, but ultimately, was not syndicated. however, chicken marsala lived on with us, in our lives. full of goodness and radical kindness, he’s this little guy who is a part of us. so we decided if not chicken strips, then how about chicken nuggets!
LOVE NEEDS NO WORDS is the first chicken nugget we share with you. i could say a lot about the caption of this nugget, but LOVE NEEDS NO WORDS really needs no words.
welcome to our melange. welcome to our studio. see you tomorrow.
try to see what they see. i glanced back over what i’ve written the last week: about trying to see eye to eye, about assuming awe, about being relentless in a life that isn’t simply black and white, about being brave. is it possible to write too many words about the importance of empathy? the importance of trying to walk in another’s shoes to really understand their circumstance, their joy, their plight, their challenge? because it’s easy to forget, i never feel like i can be reminded enough; it’s always hard to remember my perspective is different than any-other-person’s-on-earth. sometimes it’s laden with stuff. it’s all so complicated.
my sister and i were toodling around milwaukee on one of her visits here, years ago now. we went to this great little 
reverse threading 