we know its curves well. if they could whisper, they would share the secrets of our conversations – conversations of the last decade – times calm, times fraught.
if the curves could speak, the dirt we have kicked up with our boots would sputter and cough, spilling how many painful moments there have been on this trail, how many times one of us has wept.
if the curves could speak, the underbrush just to the side of what is worn down would rise and wave verdant leaves, singing about our triumphs or the laughter that has ridden the wind just above us.
if the curves could speak, they would talk of the ping-ponging of decisionmaking, decisions discussed, decisions debated, decisions made – all on this trail.
if the curves could speak, they would mournfully tell of regrets, of disappointments, of trauma.
if the curves could speak, they would opine on our opining…of health, of politics, of purpose, of relationship, of faith.
if the curves could speak, they would – with glee – share the tiny goodnesses they had overheard, the learnings they had witnessed, the big abundances they had eavesdropped.
if the curves could speak, they would brush the air with words that describe something fluid, something everchanging, something they have helped to not be rigid.
if the curves could speak, they would wordbubble with every shape and form of love, spoken and shouted, sung and murmured.
if the curves could speak, they would give up our secrets – every last one of them.
but the curves cannot speak. and they hold close our hushed voices, our loud voices, our confusion, our tears, our anger, our laughter.
they could not know how much knowing them has aided us, comforted us, pushed us, reassured us.
and i suppose we could not know how well they know us.
and there are things – here and there – as i continue to muster what i need to go through everything – things i find – things that must be considered delicate, things that must be held gently.
they are not the delicate things that one would label fragile, nor the delicate things that one would think of as valuable. they are the unexpected, the morsels of real life, of real moments, moments felt, moments lived.
there was the torn piece of paper – torn from a decades-old church bulletin – with the first notes of the first piece recorded on my first album.
there was the last physical mother’s day card i received from my girl, before everything went text and digital.
there was the note in little-boy pencil-writing from my boy, filled with hearts.
there’s a small green ceramic compass – just a trinket – i put on my piano.
there is a tiny stick person my big brother made of electrical wire.
there is the (very) ripped sweatshirt jacket i wore driving thousands of miles, criss-crossing the country in busy performing days.
there are the old notebooks. when the kiddos were here, it was my son who first spotted the spiral notebook. it was in a stack of spirals on a shelf in the office upstairs. but this one was sticking out enough he could see his handwritten name on the front cover. he immediately pulled it out to look at it, wondering aloud, “what’s this??” the notebook was empty – all the pages were blank and he asked why we had it in this stack, just as my daughter pulled one out with her name on it. “because we repurpose and there’s still paper in these, so we like to use them so we aren’t wasteful. plus they were yours…it connects me back,” i answered. i would never think of just throwing these out, without using up the paper still in them. it’s a total joy for me to use a notebook that has one of my children’s handwriting on it.
now, there are other things too. there are decorative plates and leaded crystal vessels, vases and wooden carvings, pieces of silverware, scandinavian artifacts, vintage ornaments. i’m guessing some of these items have a little bit of value, maybe – though i don’t imagine a lot. and that’s really ok.
for the things i am finding i hold most gently – the most delicately – are the realest things i come across: the list of homemade candles and tiny cacti i sold door to door when growing up, pulling a wagon behind me around the neighborhood, an early entrepreneur at ten or so. the handwritten notes from my mom or dad, pompom-ing me. the drawings and writings of the girl and the boy. the rocks – so many rocks – i come across, knowing that i chose each one for a reason, for a place, for certain minutes i spent. the earliest lyrics i wrote, the poems from my tree, the bits and pieces of me from a very long time ago, on a different trajectory, giddy and cells-vibrating, in a world i wholeheartedly trusted.
there are many, many things in our house – just like in your house. we try to surround ourselves with the stuff that makes us feel comfort, that makes us happy, that brings us a bit of peace.
in this part of our lives, we are finding that those things are not valuable antiques, newly-purchased tchotchkes or expensive collectibles, top-of-the-line anything. they are the things with story, the things we can carry without burdensome weight, the things that connect us – our dots – back and forward. they are the things that distinguish us from all the rest – our morsels – these relics. they are the delicate things, for without them, we would not be who we were or who we are.
this is the best place to think. it’s the best place to ponder, to wonder, to sort, or to just – simply – take one step after another. it’s the best place to be quiet and the best place to have conversation. we link arms. we walk. and walk. and walk. we can see why pct hikers keep on going. it is cleansing and powerful. and your body feels the world, your tactile connection with the universe, your feet on dirt.
in a moment i won’t easily forget, i recently had a chance to be forehead to forehead with a horse. we stood that way together for several minutes and i could feel his breath on my face. with both of us – boots and hooves on dirt – connected by touch, i could feel the rest of the universe gently holding space, woven in tapestry with us, close by. powerful moments.
particularly in these times, for more reasons than you will imagine, i am finding the reminder of this connection to the universe to be of comfort. particularly in these times, when there is little to comfort us here in this country, i am finding the reminder of this connection to the universe to be bigger than any story of our land – it overarches the evil intention of stories personal and of the populace. particularly in these times, with so little promise of goodness, so little accountability, so little compassion, so little attention to truth-telling, i am finding the reminder of this connection to the universe to be steadying.
i will keep my feet on the dusty dirt of the trail. i will take any chance to share forehead space with another living creature. i will remember how connected – interconnected – i am with this universe. i will draw hope from that.
i hadn’t had manhattan clam chowder in forever. but it was on the menu and the day in the village was sunny. with the scent of fresh bread baking wafting around us, we ordered a couple bowls and a couple kaiser rolls. we took it all outside to a tiny bistro table on the street next to the harbor. if we could, we would go back today.
when it was time to head out of town, we walked there early in the morning. a few blocks from the little apartment we were renting, we just wanted one more bakery visit. so in early sunlight, with a brisk breeze off the water, we walked over and placed our order for breakfast sandwiches – on the traditional kaiser roll. they wrapped them up for us to take.
there is comfort in the kaiser roll. it is most definitely a new york thing and, for me, even more specifically, a long island thing. growing up, my dad used to make breakfast sandwiches after church on sundays. he and my mom continued the tradition when they moved to florida, seeking out the best kaiser rolls they could find in bakeries run by people who had also retired from up north.
the bakery became our favorite place – in the several times we went there. witness to the ever-present crowd of patrons, you could feel there was a generous spirit there – of community and well-loved staff – diverse and embracing. because we aren’t really fancy-restaurant-types, in close second was the bar that had baked clams. the rest of the time we cooked.
somewhere down the highway on the way back, i realized we should have purchased a dozen or so kaisers to take with us. or one of the amazing loaves of bread stacked warm on metal pans or neatly in the display. because, then, we could have carried this community’s comfort with us.
back at home, i am feeling wistful for that small harbor town. not because it is beautiful. not because it is totally charming. not because it feels like a place straight out of a hallmark movie. but because – despite a feeling of sad, complicated, emotional disconnect when we arrived there – i left having been nurtured by that town. i left having reconnected with a place i have always cherished but had lost to trauma. i left feeling again the part of me that always loved it, that always felt it was a part of me, that always felt like it “fit”.
there was comfort in the kaiser rolls, comfort in my rocky beach, comfort in my old harbor town.
and, now, there is comfort in – truly – missing it.
“the smallest act of kindness is worth more than the greatest intention.” (khalil gibran)
it had been a long day. a very long day that was preceded by other very long days. we were tired and road-weary. the last couple hours were brutal. at one point i just wanted to stop in the middle of a dark intersection and weep. we kept on.
when we finally got there – after driving through corn-edged roads with slices of moonlight shining on the asphalt – i pulled the truck onto the gravel drive and – without any finessing to my parking – just stopped, more than ready to get out.
we opened the tiny cottage door, taking a breath, knowing that – sometimes – a place to land is merely that and nothing more – just a place to land.
in the moment of stepping over the threshold, it was instantaneous. the little cottage reached out and held us as we entered, its every detail thoughtful and comforting.
we wandered room to room – the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom. everything was impeccable. we were struck by the abundance offered in this place, instead of the sometimes helter-skelter just-enough conglomeration of furnishings, decor, necessities.
we stood in the bathroom by the cabinet, literally stunned by the stacks of thick, fluffy towels on its shelves. we had just come from a rented place where the towels were thin, musty, ragtag – the sort of towels we have downstairs in our laundry room for cleanup duties not guests.
we had a small dinner – on plates and glasses that neatly filled the kitchen cupboards, at a table with flowers and napkins, adjacent to a counter with a basket full of snacks.
but it was when we got ready for bed that really got to me, that helped me exhale my held breath and granted me a new, big, deep breath.
there on a giant scrumptious bed – with a thick comforter and quilt and multiple pillows – were two andes candies.
the tiniest sweet gesture.
yes, we paid to stay at this beautiful cottage that perched on a hillside above the river boasting plentiful water fowl and eagles. but we’ve also paid to stay at many, many other places. truth be told, we usually like them all, finding charm in the location, the aged history, the quirk. even when there’s only one spoon or one glass, a hodgepodge of plastic plates, not enough lights.
but when you are as embraced by a place as we were that night, you are reminded that going the extra mile is worth it. that any hospitality we might offer others – whether as a generosity or paid – whether near or far – whether beloved or stranger – should be considered, heartfelt, gracious, unsparing.
even the tiniest of gestures. like a couple andes candies.
because many people these days – in places all over the world – feel like weeping in the middle of a dark intersection.
this brings me joy – stepping into this tiny little corner garden. each year it has been a place to wonder, to learn, to dream, to envision bounty. tiny as it is, it is a place of abundance and, even as autumn falls, i cherish its every bit of 28 square feet.
the parsley and the basil are still producing – they graced our homemade tomato soup last night. there are a few jalapeños left, still growing. the dill has dulled; the mint has faded. the cilantro has bolted time and again, despite my best efforts to convince it otherwise. the cherry tomatoes are ripening on the vine and the rosemary is a small tree. i suspect the rosemary will make its way inside for the winter. it all makes me think of next year’s planting – adding sweet potatoes in planters, more tomatoes, maybe a few other vegetables. it’s all been a lesson in embracing something new. it is a tiny space of zen.
we are considering some changes as we look around our house. in the cleaning-out mode, less and less is necessary. clearing away a child’s desk, a lateral file, unused appliances or electronics…it’s all fodder for the space we need – particularly in these times – for cherished quiet, for serenity. i am finding there is a direct connection between the more clear space and the more breath. it will take some time, as it has taken decades to acquire so many things. but we have time and, i believe, we have the wherewithal to go through our house, room by room, and invite in a sagefilled peace.
it’s really all about intention. though we do not live in a vast home and are not surrounded by vast acreage, we bring an intention to our home that is purposeful. as we move from room to room, slowly parsing out the unnecessary from the necessary or the wanteds, slowly replacing items with other items or replacing items with air-and-space, we tend to how it feels. we want to create a space in which we feel comforted, supported, valued. we want to create a space in which others feel comforted, supported, valued. we want a place filled with soul and acceptance of the inbetween moments in all of life.
today we’ll make a batch of pesto. as i look at the basil plants, i figure it will likely be the last batch this season. oh, there will be a bit for our homemade margherita pizzas, but not in real quantity. so we’ll go slow. snipping and rinsing, chopping and grating. we’ll talk about our garden – truly, for the umpteenth time. we’ll relish the pungent aroma of freshly-picked basil in the house.
and we’ll stand in the kitchen – looking at each other – with tears in our eyes – astonished at our good fortune.
a couple decades ago a dear friend tied some stems of lavender together with string and gave them to me. it was a wish for peace, for calm, for comfort. one of the stringed-together stems still hangs in my studio.
sometime after that another dear friend shipped me lavender from her own yard – so that i might plant it in mine. for a time i had a lavender garden – returning each year until a neighbor’s invasive ground cover usurped my more fragile lavender.
the summer we lived on washington island we were privy to an amazing lavender farm – walkways in between beds upon beds of lavender in a field of tranquility.
a couple years ago i carefully dried some stems of lavender – hanging them in the basement – and then extracted the seeds, putting them in tiny organza bags to send to family members and close friends with wishes of healing and serenity.
in these last years we have planted big clay pots of lavender, anxiously waiting for the soft purple flowers and the scent off the breeze to lift us.
each year i am amazed by the clusters of diminutive flowers that make up the whole. each year i photograph the green stems and the tiny buds waiting to spring into bloom. each year i run my hand along the stalk and gently along the blossoming lavender, always taken by the fragrance.
it is no different this year. i sat on the deck next to the pot of lavender. my mind wandered back through the years – the lavender years – the gift of a posy, the plants flown to me across the country, the lavender in the fields on island, the lavender my girl picked out at the nursery. english lavender, french lavender, sweet romance lavender, bundles of lavender drying downstairs, beautiful sachets ready to be gifted.
we are not high-brow gardeners. our gardens are simple and have many heritage plants and things that are not complicated to grow. we know little but each year try to learn a wee bit more than we knew before.
maybe one day we will add a raised bed or two to our patio – where we might add more herbs, more vegetables, more flowers.
the thing i know we will always have – whether there is a simply a potting stand and perimeter gardens like there are now or something more – is a big pot of lavender.
it had been two years. two years plus since we last hiked there. after the woods added a high ropes/adventure course we were less inclined to go there, less eager to go hike its trails. the tranquil quiet was interrupted with the sounds of groups on the contrived course, the echoes of planned adventure bouncing off ancient trees and the forest floor.
but the other day – on a blue-sky-slightly-warmer-less-windy day – we decided to go back. because it is still merely early-spring, the course wasn’t yet open, though the staff was there training. one of the guys – suspended in a harness on lines high above us – called down to us, telling us how happy he was to spend the day in the woods.
we set out on our trail, a bit eager to see how things might have changed, how the familiar might be a bit less familiar after so many seasons had passed.
seeing this much-trod-in-the-past place was sheer joy. there is something about knowing the bend in the path, something about knowing where the tiny ponds are tucked in the woods, something about knowing certain trees and where the green glow might be starting.
we took our news-weary eyes and placed them – instead – on the roots crossing the trail, on the rise and fall of our breathing. we focused on spring arriving in the woods in this place where we have spent so much time.
we were – gloriously – nowhere else for a couple hours.
“and into the forest i go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” (john muir)
barney has been stalwart, steadfast, unwaveringly standing in the garden through every infamous weather challenge – the rain, the sleet, the snow, the ice and the wind, the extreme heat, the drought.
it is one of the most gorgeous things in our backyard. we have watched it age, its wrinkles, its furrows, its jowls. we have watched it struggle to stay young, fresh, shellacked. we have watched it give in – to time and the elements. and, in that giving-in-ness, we have watched grace in real life.
in this insane world, i have thanked our old house and its painted-wood countertops, its old floors, its cracked plaster, its doorknob-less six panel doors. i have admired the tile floor in the bathroom and the way light streams in through the double-hungs. i have relished the paintings on our walls and the fabulous chunks of concrete that serve our living room. i have whispered to our house and i have thanked its familiarity and its comfort. i have taken refuge in its security. i have reveled in our comforter, our dogga at our feet, coffee by our side, happy lights. i have simplified need and put want to the side.
in this insane world, i have patted littlebabyscion as i get in and out, stroked big red as i have walked past it in the driveway. i have noted with great appreciation the wild geranium and the day lilies pushing up through cold dirt, the buds on breck. i have sat on adirondack chairs on the deck – still a bit bundled up – watching birds and squirrels, sipping wine and eating maybe too many chips. i have been grateful.
and i have gazed at barney-the-piano, over there, in the garden. i have felt it steadying me.
in this insane world, i have thanked barney.
“pardon my sanity in a world insane.” (emily dickinson – and barney)
in the most not-normal times, this quilt has seen us through. two broken wrists, the quilt. the covid pandemic, the quilt. getting fired, the quilt. our babycat dying, the quilt. losing three other positions between us, the quilt. a few other circumstances and initiatives that wouldn’t fall under any gollygee category, the quilt. it has been a mainstay.
and here we are.
and life is not normal.
it is an intense time. and it’s only been a week.
and, anytime i’ve forgotten for a moment or two – or maybe even an hour – it all comes roaring back. and i remember.
and then i remember that people chose this.
chose it.
and now they are acting as if it is all normal – as if they can’t see the band of cruelty that binds all the intention of this administration.
these are not golly-gee little-house-on-the-prairie times.
i viewed someone’s post on social media that stated we should all keep our political opinions to ourselves and post dog pictures instead.
i had…er…mixed feelings about this.
ok, so not really mixed.
this approach feels a tad bit pollyanna to me. a little sloughing-off of reality. perhaps a tiny bit delusional. not that I wouldn’t wish everything would be like that – all sweetness and everyone and everything light of spirit. but it isn’t. life is not normal now.
i would like to point out that lack of sharing honest information is how we got here. because of the lack of truthful information. because of the abundance of misinformation. because of the elitist-extremist-isolationist-bigoted blather that always seemed to be elevated on fox as powerful and all-knowing, the singular news source full of putrid propaganda…that is what brought us here.
so, i respectfully disagree with the post i viewed.
we are a country desperately in need of conversation and communication – and, whether you agree with someone or not, it’s pretty damn pretentious to think we all need to dumb it down – posting only fluff – to the exclusion of the tough stuff – that which is real.
social media is a place for us all to share life, what fun things we are doing, what work we are undertaking, what our children and their children are up to. a happy-go-lucky place to remember birthdays and anniversaries. a place to cheer on your sports team or ask for chiropractic recommendations. a place to brag. you might wish this to be merely a peaceful community with no fraught issues, no debatable topics, no what-the-hell-is-happening posts. but – just as important in this online world as positive chitchat – social media is an opportunity to reach out and ask questions, reach across divides and learn, reach compassionately to others, acknowledge struggle and pain, sort to ways we might all be life-giving. life is the current cruel chaos happening right here right now AND everyone’s dogs, my friend. social media is not a quilt.
when life is relatively normal it may be all well and good to not stir the pot, to post the quintessentially charming things. quite lovely, actually.
but when life – in these united states – is completely out of kilter, and nothing you have posted even nods to the chaos that is ensuing, nothing you have posted even makes mention of your horror at the demolition of this country, nothing you have posted even touches on the cruelty that is happening in our country – which is also your country – it makes me wonder what cave it is into which you have stuck your head.
and then i am rapidly brought back to reality.
there are those of you who wanted this. and so the reason you haven’t said anything about being horrified is because you aren’t.
you wanted all this.
agenda and project intentions about which people are afraid and hurting, clinging to the last of their freedom and rights.
and you wanted this.
people in your families will soon feel the impact of all this, the impact of unconscionable authoritarian, extremist rule.
and you wanted this.
so just know that when you post the gollygee things you are posting as if life is normal and everything is totally ok – i am here knowing you wanted all this and that you are not sorry and that you weren’t willing to be factually informed and you can’t be bothered to even pretend to be compassionate.
when you post on social media as if life is normal, it doesn’t make it normal.
when you post on social media as if life is normal, know that my heart is broken.
reverse threading 