“our forever work is to learn to hold the brutal and beautiful in the same palm.” (suleika jaouad)
i am trying to learn to list to the beautiful. lean into it. curve that way. take that path. abruptly turn, if need be.
in these fraught times, these times of brutal, we are finding how we wake – how we start our day – is crucial. we are fragile, maybe just like you.
and so we watch through the mini blinds, through the screen and storm window, as – out across the deck, reflecting on the sunroom windows, just past the awning over the back door – the sun – rising over the lake – climbs to a place where its rays sneak around houses and gardens and reach out and out, brushing our windows.
and we can see it.
we watch as it intensifies and moves up, up. a tiny gift for us to hold.
and then – as we sip coffee – one of us quietly comments on how truly beautiful it is. and our day is officially started.
barney – through wind and rain and snow and ice and blistering sun – has shed all the clothing of its keys – both black and white. this is the very last of it.
and, even stripped of so much, of the things that make barney look like a piano, barney is still a piano…barney’s soul is tenacious – still a smith-barnes upright – and we can feel evidence of scales and arpeggios and glissandos, of etudes and ballads, of pieces ethereal and bombastic. barney is changed and yet unchanged.
we will each face the storms of the future. we will surf waves and, sometimes, despite heroic tenacity, succumb to the inability to surf. but we will endure and persevere. we will look different and we will feel the same: changed-unchanged.
and, in the center of all of it, while we are on the way to later, stripped and naked of all that is superficial, smack in the middle of our souls, we will still be able to touch the black and white of our lives. just like barney.
“meaning is what’s left when everything else is stripped away.” (suleika jaouad)
even laden with new snow, the grasses spring up, ever resilient. they show fortitude in predicament and circumstance – a teachable moment for those of us humans who are not impervious to such things.
maybe it’s their golden glow in sun low on the horizon. maybe it’s that there are small critters taking refuge under the umbrella of stalky stems. maybe it’s the reverent bow of the fronds, the balance in the arch of growth and weight, a toppling over. maybe it is simply grace.
“i do not at all understand the mystery of grace – only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.” (anne lamott)
in moments of this past year i have found myself in the presence of grace. i have watched grace heal physical injuries. i have watched grace blanket people, restoring relationship. i have experienced grace reaching out its arms to envelop. i have received grace – the support of others. i have been surprised – even shocked – by grace and i have been surprised – even shocked – by a lack of grace.
for if the presence of grace – such an intangible mystery – does not leave us unchanged, then so does the absence of grace.
were the grasses to succumb, to be lying down, flat upon the earth, their glow of beauty and their cozy shelter wouldn’t be. their place in the world and its workings would be different, perhaps. their resilience seems to be the key.
“I know nothing, except what everyone knows – if there when grace dances, i should dance.” (anne lamott)
in the mystery that is beauty, that is grace, that is the intertwining of both – for surely they are hand in hand – there is an invitation for us to dance, upright upon a floor of dirt on earth under the sun, able to both receive and extend grace – like feathery fronds on an ornamental grass, ever resilient though the elements are threatening.
we carry that dance – tucked in – with us as we make our way. it is present, beckoning us. we can see it in the falling snow and the driving rain, thick fog and dark nights. it is there, ready to leave us different.
i pulled off quickly – into a small lot overlooking the lake – because i knew that it would soon cease to be there – this striping of snowy beach, lake, storm, clouds and sky. soon it would disappear – maybe in moments – this differentiation of color – this horizon – soon it would become mostly gray. soon the textures would blend and it would become flat.
i am – we are – in the middle – once again – of a big attempt to clean out. thirty-five plus years of accumulation is a lot to go through and re-organize, donate, discard. every single thing takes longer than you might think. and, frankly, i am not anxious to go through it faster, to flatten it all out into neat-and-tidy in as short a time as possible.
i actually want to see all the textures of all this time. i am – figuratively – pulling off into the overlook so that i might gaze and reflect, remember and feel.
already, i’ve come upon surprises. already, i’ve been given a chance to remember tiny details i had forgotten. already, i’ve danced through children’s books and old vcr tapes, cassettes from the 70s and scraps of lyrics tucked deep in desk drawers. there is much to be done, but i’m in no rush. our focus will mostly be right here – in this era of national upheaval – and we will take our sweet time.
“everything takes so much longer than you think,” stating the obvious, i looked over at d, immersed in his own tasks of our cleaning-out.
“that’s ok,” he replied.
“yeah,” i sighed. “no need to rush,” a promise to go slow.
there’s plenty of time for neat and tidy, organized and pared down.
in the meanwhile, the textures of decades are on the horizon. in closets. in the basement. in the attic.
my sweet poppo and i would go out to get a “real” tree every year – sometimes as late as just a couple days before christmas. together we would pick out the one that seemed the most right. they’d wrap it in netting and he’d strap it to the top of the car with rope. decorating it meant also watching him meticulously place each strand of tinsel – individually – on the tree. because we placed the shinybrites on together after he first wrapped the tree with lights, it seemed like we needed to be a part of the tinseling too.
now, tinsel – real tinsel (and, well, even the newfangled plasticized tinsel) requires a special skill set of patience. one piece at a time, stepping back, looking at the balance of tinsel, placing another, repeat. but, when my dad wasn’t looking – thinking many of you might admit to this as well – i would back up with several strands in my hand and launch them high into the air so that they would fall on the tree, scattered and perfectly placed. eh. not so much. they would land in clumps, impossible to disguise as meticulously-placed.
tinseling was not my forte. and, once christmas trees were my own, they ceased to have tinsel.
but tinsel has always had a warm place in my heart and always-always makes me think of my sweet dad. i didn’t realize it back then but later it became obvious that placing each of these strands – one by one – was both a generosity of his for others – to lift them into festive – and perhaps a way for him to immerse into the heart of the holiday as well, to arrive. when it was time to take down the tree back then, my dad would – again – ever so slowly and carefully – remove each piece of tinsel, protecting and preserving as much as possible to be used again the next year.
and so i have a bit of tinsel in the box of decorations – just to simply look at it brings my dad here.
many years ago i added this tinsel tree to my tiny-tree collection. each year, i place it where it is seen and this year, well, it got top billing placement, seen as soon as you walk in the front door.
the holiday itself has passed and the frenetic has somewhat slowed down. it’s time to look ahead – there is a new year arriving.
this new year will have many challenges…it’s already presenting itself that way. i am hoping to meet them with presence of mind and fortitude and meticulous patience – like my dad tinseling the christmas tree – slow and steady, one day at a time, one challenge at a time.
the shinybrites remained tucked away and silver and crystal ornaments took over this holiday. soon – in a week or two – these will also be packed away, ready for next year, save for a few to keep light in the living room even on the darkest winter days. the tiny trees will go into the bin, though i can see one or two staying on for a bit, also lingering to bring light into the darker months. i’ll place the tinseltree in the bin with the other decorations – happy to have had its company, happy that it places my dad in our living room.
and we’ll gear up and turn toward the new year. much as i’d like to avoid it, i know the only way to the other side is through.
and so it’s time to tinsel the new year – to find as much light as we can and to carefully place it around us so that it might be something others can see. to carry love and generosity past these holidays and into next, a reminder to participate in that which lifts others, to protect, to preserve, to be meticulous.
i’m thinking – in the way people hang signs or posters with messages or have daily calendars full of positivity – that i will place a piece or two of tinsel on the frame we have in our room. maybe that way – each morning when i wake and sip coffee under the quilt, david and dogga by my side – i will be reminded of light and reflection and every one of my dad’s silent tinsel lessons.
maybe tinsel – like sprinkles – will make me a better-equipped person in these fraught times than i would be without it.
it did my heart good to wander slowly through milaegers garden center. like the line “it’s much more than a box” from the department store gift-wrapping scene in love actually, milaegers is much more than a garden center. and day before yesterday it was a holiday wonderland.
it was just what i needed. we strolled slowly, each of us raying out to what invited our eye. everything was decorated and the displays were glowing. we were searching for just the right thing and lingered around each tree – perfectly laden with ornaments and gleaming tchotchkes.
we finished our holiday shopping for the day and happily used a gift card we had held onto for well over a year – a local bistro where we loved sitting at the bar sipping a glass of wine and sharing a most-delicious burger. it was truly a day that put spirit into our spirits.
last night we sat in our living room under a furry white throw and looked around at our decorations, satisfied that we not only paid homage to a festive season but were true to our own sensibilities, a mashup of organic and glimmer. there is a shimmery incandescence in there we can both feel – particularly full of grace at a time of seasonal and out-in-the-world darkness.
the tiny trees we’ve collected are scattered about, both happy-lit and simply green. even the very plainest of these have their place.
the big branch in our living room – from the old tree out front – has now stood there for four holiday seasons. though it is wrapped in year-round white lights, each christmastime we have added something. two years ago it was silver bulbs. last year it was vintage shiny brites of my mom and dad’s. this year we added crystal prism ornaments. there is a lone metal star. it is – to us – really beautiful.
eileen’s tree – “e.e.” as it will always be known – has the place of honor, standing sweetly in the doorway from the living room to the dining room. a nod to the traditional, it has become, now, one of our own traditions. it all feels peaceful, which is our intention.
in the day the crystals on the branches in the living room throw beams of sunlight across the floor. with the room lights off, the happy lights of the trees on, the crystals on the branches in the living room glitter, anticipating the season of the return of light.
it is not milaegers but it is home and, in a world of frenetic and fraught, this luminous place is truly our sanctuary.
it was while i was waiting for the person to arrive to pick up the desk that i started. it wasn’t really on purpose. it was simply a way to keep an eye out the window at the front of the house. i opened the small chifforobe cabinet and began to pull things out and stack them on the floor of the studio. then i went over to the small desk and did the same thing. before i knew it, it was chaos on the floor of the studio, piles on the padded artist bench, even small piles on top of my piano.
in the unearthing of space, i am finding notebooks of lyrics, slices of songs, chord progressions jotted on scraps of paper. there are piles of process cds – from demos of songs to recording studio takes, edits, production in all its phases, final products of albums released into the world. there are radio charts and encouraging cards, pencils and erasers and staff paper.
i think of my son – at the other end of the journey – the closer-to-beginning part of his artistry. though he is waaay past just-beginning, his heartbeat is quickened by his own growth in his music and by the outer reaction to and support of his EDM. i remember those days and i celebrate for him and with him. they are the days that feed artists when we are depleted, when we are in the midst of hunger, when we are pondering our place in our art form, when – if we are feeling disoriented – we are trying to see where it was – discern how it was – we got lost so that we might find our way, when it’s a little bit agonizing, when we are a lot a bit tender, when we are wondering.
later on – much after the computer desk was gone – after the frenzied muse had left the building – i groaned looking at the mess.
but there is no going back now. it’s time to keep going, to keep going through, eliminating, filing, re-designing the spaces and space in my studio. time to bring in new light, time to give it a chance.
in more than a bit of vulnerability, i must say that i don’t really know if that will change anything. i know that the studio will look more spacious, it will be slightly less muddled in there, more austere, more piano-focused. i feel like that could definitely be a good thing…a tiny step toward actually playing, actually composing. cleaning out will remove some of the tangible tokens of feeling remote, or of hurtful, harmful things that have undermined my artistry, that have waylaid me. it might remove some of the visible and invisible layers between me and my music. i guess that’s all to be seen. as overwhelmed as i am – thinking about all the work in front of me – i do see some magical bits of light in the dark, even amid the squall of chaos.
when my grand first arrived – over 25 years ago – it was the only thing in the room. just a big C5 on bare wood floors with high ceilings and freshly painted white walls of plaster and beadboard. it was pure and glorious.
since then – for various reasons – i added a chifforobe, a writing/reading chair, a desk, music stands and mic stands, other instruments.
maybe sorting through, reorganizing, removing the desk, minimalizing stuff, clearing the space will surface the essential reason for this studio, will distill the paralyzing fog that has settled over the space and in my heart, give light to a dimmed imperative. maybe a tiny bit of balance will return. maybe it’s all still relevant.
i stand in the doorway and acknowledge that i don’t know.
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.
“your hand opens and closes, opens and closes…your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding.” (rumi)
brave thistle plant – even in the bitter cold – open. this star in the meadow reminds me to stay open…fluid in breath…in and out.
i sometimes wonder about my music. my grand sits in my studio, waiting. it is patient, although i can sometimes hear it in hushed tones, calling me. there has been much between the last time and now, much that has left me closed to it.
i’ve touched it a few times in a few years. i don’t want it – or anyone, including me – to overreact to that. it is beautiful and full-stick and keys-open and – like the thistle – it bravely stays starlit even in the fallow times. and so, it is – every now and then – inviting. but it is complex – complicated – and it’s obvious I haven’t sorted through all the layers yet.
it is an artist’s imperative to create. but there are no rules that state the medium must remain the same. and so…in these inbetween times…i write. to be open to something different is to dance with that imperative.
the heavy old mic stand tucks right outside the doorway to the studio. it’s holding a vessel for candlelight right now but – at the end of our hallway – it reminds me of microphones and wood stages, simple lighting and boom stands. and then i wonder again – about all that.
the real answer is that i don’t know. i don’t know what will happen in these nexts. i don’t know if i’ll compose more, record more, perform more. there are a lot of ifs between here and there, a lot of details, a lot of stars that must align.
but the little thistle plant in the meadow reminded me that even with all that – all in the galaxy that must cluster – constellations in the cold are possible.
the leaves have not all fallen yet. looking out back, they are still clinging to the oaks, the maples. i gathered a few that had made it onto the deck…just bits of green, yellow, a little orange, red. they went on the dining room table under the gourd that had spent long sunshiny hours on the potting stand, wicking away its outer layer, stripped down to its mustard shell. we celebrated the simplicity and lit candles to showcase these small trinkets of fall.
our stock pot of irish guiness stew simmered for hours. we shared it with our son and his sweet boyfriend, sipping wine and dipping chunks of baguette into our bowls. it was a joy to be there – at that table together – on thanksgiving – and i was grateful in each moment.
i’m more and more aware of the tiniest showcases of miracles. from our quiet hikes on trail to listening to the wind resonate the tenor chimes in the dawn hours to walking about inside post some clearing-out and rearranging in our old house to times spent with others. in silence and in boisterous noise. an abundance.
the light shines. it radiates through. noticing it is not only our task, but it is our gift.
reverse threading 