mama dear repurposed gramps’ old wooden cigar boxes. she’d label them with a magic marker with a big Z or a big B on the front – which stood for zippers and buttons.
i have these old cigar boxes. The Z box now stores nespresso pods in our sunroom. the B box stores harmonicas, kazoos, egg shakers in my studio. the unlabeled corona cigar box is in the office and is loaded with business cards from days when my recording label was flourishing.
the zippers from the Z box are in with my sewing supplies.
and the buttons from the B box? there is a giant collection of buttons. tiny buttons, metal buttons, plastic buttons, wooden buttons, buttons with distinction, whimsical buttons, spare buttons in those tiny plastic bags along with a bit of matching colored thread – that used to come with every blazer, every shirt, every coat.
it is a direct connect to pass by these button-flowers – these fading daisies in the meadow – and think of mama dear, my grandmother, my sweet momma’s mom. she is the person who taught me how to sew and i simply cannot so much as thread a needle without thinking of her.
i found a letter from mama dear the other day. it was from early 1980. i was 20. in it she thanked me for a christmas gift i had given her and a card i had sent from a trip to visit my parents. no one knew at the time it would be her last holiday season. born in 1899, she was a feisty almost-81 with bright red hair and a penchant for gambling slot machines in vegas. in her letter she wrote, “i hope you are happy with your choice” referring to my staying in new york instead of going to florida with my parents as they retired.
at the time it wasn’t really a difficult choice. i was at the beginning stages of a composing/recording/performing career and retirement-central wasn’t the place to grow. so, yes, i was happy with my choice. until one day when that choice became dangerous and i fled all semblance of my budding career, leaving any feisty i had inherited from mama dear behind, devastatingly leaving all artistry buds behind for decades to come.
the button-flowers are charming. they punctuate the masses of goldenrod lighting up the meadows. and they make me think of my button collection.
i have no idea what i will do with all of those buttons. i suppose one day i will list them on marketplace and give them away to a seamstress or crafter who will make creative use of them. maybe i will tell them a little about mama dear, about how many of these buttons are vintage, about how they carry a spirit of feisty red-headed grandma in them.
or maybe i’ll just quietly gift them the collection and hold onto the feisty myself.
and every time i pass a button-daisy on the side of a trail i’ll check in – inside – and make sure it’s still there – the feisty – still growing, still challenging me, still repurposing into profound and important choices for the L box. Life.
fall has cracked the door open. and, though it may tiptoe around a bit in this teeter-totter season, it will not backtrack. it is on its way.
and nature – in its wisdom – is doing the work, prepping for cold to arrive, stoking up, storing up, guarding its ability to survive, seed heads readying to spread far and wide.
she asked me if i would be recording again. I wasn’t sure how to answer. i don’t know. it has been some time since my last project. recording is expensive and – because of today’s world of streaming – not particularly financially rewarded, making it a kind of skewed investment…heavy on the cost, extraordinarily light on the payoff.
yet, every independent artist knows recording is not solely about the financial reward. it is the expression of what’s inside, just waiting to hit air. it’s doing the work, prepping, stoking, storing, guarding – all for the seed heads to fly.
she asked me other questions as well – how i compose, if i hear music inside. her questions cracked open the door to a conversation I haven’t had in a long time, a real conversation about my music. i felt grateful – not only for her inquisitiveness, but for her obvious support of what i have already produced. it was a sort of balm on a wound that was just lingering, lingering.
I don’t know when – or if – i will produce another album. i’ve teetered-tottered just like the waning of summer and the rising of fall, just like daisies struggling to stay vibrant, open, to stave off utter fallow. i’ve wondered through these last few years if, after fifteen albums, i was “done”, wondered if, at 65, i was no longer relevant, wondered if i still had the necessary chutzpah.
i miss the stage, a piano and a boom vocal mic, a wood apron beneath my boots. i’ve missed telling the stories of songs and the gestures of instrumental piano. i’ve missed eye contact with an audience, finding resonant bits, making people laugh or reminisce, the moment you know they are right there with you.
the daisy seed heads are getting ready. it’s pretty certain they will proliferate gardens again in the spring after their fallow through fall and winter.
maybe – somewhere in here – i am getting ready too. i guess we’ll see.
in the rare moments d texts me, my phone ringtone is john denver’s annie’s song.
“you fill up my senses like a night in the forest, like a mountain in springtime, like a walk in the rain, like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean, you fill up my senses, come fill me again.
come let me love you, let me give my life to you. let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms. let me lay down beside you, let me always be with you. come let me love you, come love me again…”
and in those moments – daisy moments – i am reminded, once again, of the improbability of two tiny starflecks in the universe noticing each other, of the utter impossibility of our meeting, the sheer unlikeliness of our marrying, the astounding unimaginable gift of our time together.
even in the moments when my senses are overburdened, impatient, saturated, senseless.
daisies in any form, every stage – this wildflower fleabane – are just like hearing annie’s song. because i am me, they bring tears to my eyes.
“remember,” they whisper from the meadow on the side of the trail, “just remember.”
a long, long time ago my big brother penned a calligraphy print. it says, “may there be such a oneness between you that when one weeps the other will taste salt.”
daisies were on my shopping list. our daughter was coming into town and i wanted some fresh flowers on our table and in her room. so, daisies are our go-to.
but the pink tulips caught my eye. long slender stems and the palest pink buds, i could feel my whole body slow down gazing at them.
every time i look at them it feels the same way.
the buds never opened. yet, the tulips are still proudly standing tall, ten days later. it is an image of potential. a visceral right-in-front-of-us portrayal of stately beauty. or maybe it’s an image of choice – of taking a different road. these tulips are stunning. and it is not in their blossoming open.
both of us artists, i can tell you there are many, many unopened buds. they stack in corners and in notebooks, in the recesses of our minds, on our laptops. they are pale pink and soft. they are deep-red and fiery. they wait for their moment.
and some buds don’t open. i read those buds may have faced a particularly cold winter, or had too much — or too little — exposure to heat and sunlight. i’d add that they may have had naysayers naysaying at them. they may be competing for sun with other buds, other flowers, other ideas.
or maybe they just like it that way. as buds. standing tall and quiet, emanating peace and tranquility.
every time i have looked at these pink tulips i have thought about their color. i have imagined it on a wall – the palest pink – with white crown moldings and trim. never having had a pink wall, i’ve wondered about how it might feel to be in such a room. i’ve wondered if it might feel the way it feels gazing at these buds.
i’m cheering our tulips on for another few days, maybe even another week. i want to keep them around. they are making me breathe differently. they are giving me pause. they are making me imagine.
and maybe that’s the point. it’s not always about the blossom.
and the early morning autumn sun streams in the window at a different angle, shining into my face, making me squint and scooch over under the quilt. the light pours over us and, though the air in the room is chilly, we are warmed by the intensity of this october suntilt.
it is our anniversary. eight years ago today we were surrounded by family and friends. we took vows of commitment in this second chance we both had and spontaneously skipped down the aisle to the ukulele band playing and everyone singing “what a wonderful world” after we were declared “married”. the day was glorious – sunny and in the 70s – and everyone gathered at the old beachhouse, warm sand and lakeshore boulders inviting walks, sitting, a late bonfire. we all danced and ate sliders from the food truck, homemade daisy cupcakes and wine from the corner store in our ‘hood. we celebrated in community.
this year will be quieter. we will perhaps take the day. we may go hiking or go visit a town in which we love to stroll and browse. maybe we’ll try to track down the burgermeister food truck, sit in the sun and reminisce. we’ll see.
but before we start – before our feet hit the floor to getamoveon – we’ll just sit here under the autumnglowing quilt with dogga at our feet, sip our coffee and be in wonder that two people – worlds apart – had the good fortune to somehow meet.
our tiny stars somehow aligned, bumped into each other in the galaxy and glimmerdust washed over us, never to be the same, always to be loved.
though we haven’t heard from him – on his youtube channel – for a long time now, joey coconato has a thing about meadows. he was in the presence of superb forests, the most majestic of mountains, rushing water and red rock canyons, but you could feel his reaction when he came across a meadow. it was like a breath of fresh air. a deep breath. i see a meadow and, now, consequently, think of joey.
the meadows we pass on our trail are revitalizing. post-invasive-species-eradication, they are greening and the vegetation is multiplying, more quickly than we can keep up. like breck – our aspen tree out back – we notice new shoots of growth every day, new tiny blooms of color. and then – there are the daisies.
this daisy caught my attention. even more than the others. mostly, maybe, because it wasn’t facing us. instead, the daisy had its back to us. and it seemed to have turned its face to the sun, soaking up energy and warmth, in a full-on beach-towel-on-the-summer-sand kind of invitation.
there have been days when face-to-the-sun is the best we can do. our meadows, sometimes fraught with invasive species and problematic drought, need us to just stop a moment and look up. turn our faces to the sun, let the shadows drop, soak it in.
when i think about our hiking and the moments that stay with me in the bank of yearning, they are the ones in pine forests, in and amongst quaking aspen, alongside quiet streams. they are on mountains with views between branches out to other mountains, ranges in the distance.
but the moments that are really prevalent – really impactful, even in their familiarity – are also these – the ones we know best, the turn in the trail, the scent passing a certain stand of pine, and the new beginnings – rebirth – in the meadows.
there is a single dried daisy on the dashboard of littlebabyscion. it’s been there now for just shy of ten years. i don’t suppose it really even looks like a daisy anymore, but it is. it’s one of the first daisies – well, one of our first daisies – from our first meeting a decade ago.
when we clean the inside of littlebabyscion, we are careful around the daisy – for surely, it could easily turn to dust after all this time tucked into the dash. if that happened, i’m quite sure we would survive. it is merely a marker, a relic of the start. time – and the we of this story – continue on. even – someday – after the dust.
she told me that she could see a small green shoot. in between all the beautiful dried daisy dust and the dust of fallow and the dust of disappointment and the dust of challenge, a small green shoot. she reminded me that all of creation is starting anew now in this season of spring and that we are no more and no less of creation than the new daisies or striped squill or dandelions or grand tulips and budding aspens and flowering dogwoods and early redbuds or cherry trees. we are no more or no less than the creatures busily preparing their nests for new birth. we are no more or no less than any planets lining up in the night sky. we are, like everything else, shimmering stardust.
i can feel the green. it shows up with the open window to my side. it shows up with the sun on my face. it shows up – roaring – in the wind from the west and it shows up – quietly – in the east side of the sunset.
in the decimated woods of the trail we love there is green sneaking up between the mulched branches and underbrush. the energy of the green is contagious. new possibility on the horizon…to abstract, to notice, to build upon.
nothing can quell the energy of stardust. no matter when. it – like everything – continues on and on, vibrating in absolute connection. a metamorphosis of seasons. daisies on the dashboard.
in junior high i wrote a piece which i titled “old age is not a disease”. i was the child of older parents; most of my friends’ parents were at least ten years younger than mine, some fifteen. many of my parent’s friends were also their age and my grandparents were significantly older, so i was surrounded by elders.
i’m not quite sure what compelled me to write this piece, but it was written with fervor and i was passionate about my assertion. though i’m certain it’s somewhere in a bin downstairs, i’ll rely on my tenuous memory when i say i backed it up with facts and a great deal of emotion. always thready and emotional. from the beginning, i suspect.
so i guess it should come as no surprise that i am drawn to things waning. i find the flower on trail past its prime, bowing to the forest floor, petals wrinkling. i find the fallen tree, nurselog to a little community of new trees, striving. i find the dried grasses, glowing in late autumn. my photo library is full of these older-agers.
i keep the daisies until it no longer makes sense. but it seems that is way past when others would keep them. their curling petals no longer crisply open, instead shrinking and closing. they are beautiful. all stages.
daisies are kind of important to us. i was holding a daisy when i met david in baggage claim nine years ago. the second time i met him with a whole armful of daisies. and then, daisies walked with us down the aisle. i suspect they will be with us all along.
so, like us, i recognize their allure in every stage. even in waning.
this past weekend the father of my beloved children, my first husband, turned 65. i wished him a happy birthday and texted that i was astonished that we are the ages we are.
the time between back then and now has flown by and, were i to be defined as a daisy, i am grateful the petals and that yellow center of joy are still present, though a little crumply and a spectrum of many flaxen shades.
i know i don’t look like the daisy of yore. but every stage of a daisy counts.
“may the light of your soul mind you,
may all your worry and anxiousness about becoming old be transfigured,
may you be given a wisdom with the eye of your soul, to see this beautiful time of harvesting.
may you have the commitment to harvest your life, to heal what has hurt you, to allow it to come closer to you and become one with you.
may you have great dignity, may you have a sense of how free you are,
and above all may you be given the wonderful gift of meeting the eternal light and beauty that is within you.
may you be blessed, and may you find a wonderful love in yourself for yourself.”
(john o’donohue – “a blessing for old age” from anam cara)
if there is an icon image for us, this would be it. the full image of david’s daisy painting includes language: you said, “i’ll be the one.” yes. you are.
i was the one holding the daisy. way back when now, in baggage claim, thinking he would have no idea who i was, i texted him i would be the one holding the daisy. we hadn’t ever met yet, but our backandforthandbackandforth email letters had been going on for about six months and it was time to see the face of the other half of the backandforth.
i was nervous in the airport waiting. i got there early, which, in and of itself, is a feat because i am not a way-too-early-to-the-airport person. i visited the mirror in the ladies room a number of times, checking my outfit, my hair, making sure i had no food in my teeth (linda can tell you bill t. had made me paranoid about this). the evening before, i agonized over what to wear. a nice outfit? a dress? leggings and a tunic? i ended up with my favorite old jeans, my boots and a big oversized black chenille sweater. i needed to feel like me.
the girl in the airport restroom was waiting for her fiance to return from the service; their wedding was merely two months away. she asked me who i was there to meet and i told her the (short) version of the story. she laughed and said, “ah. it’s obvious. you two will find out you are soulmates, ” which made me laugh. clearly that was silly.
i only knew his face from a tiny photo on a website. i had seen photographs of his coffee cup in various settings and his paintings (which i loved), but not his face. the identifying daisy in baggage claim – in my belief – was necessary.
that daisy was quivering when this guy with jeans, boots and a black shirt and outer jacket was walking toward me and i realized the girl in the bathroom might be right. a kind face and easy stride, he walked up to me and, laughing, we hugged. we skipped out of the airport, the daisy cheering us on.
the rest is history, as they say. there have been uphills and downhills; the roller coaster for two artists living together would challenge any six flags amusement ride. life beginning together as two grown-up adults is navigable but requires much negotiation. two people with different pasts – one of us with children, one of us without – is full of lessons and storytelling and learning curves. the smack-dab in the middle of middle age brings its own neuroticisms; the late 50s is not necessarily a time that you feel at the very apex of feeling good in your body. we pay attention to health and diet and know our time together is not the decades and decades of our parents’ times together. we try to maximize moments. and we sometimes struggle with the feeling of starting over. not the resilient twenties or thirties of our first marriages, yet starting again with much of the same arduous uphill climb.
so in the roadtrip of this life together were i to assign an icon it would be this daisy. because this daisy in the painting on our wall reminds us: i’ll be the one. yes. you are.
reverse threading 