we watched global citizen’s concert ‘together at home’ on saturday night. this virtual concert featured a wide spectrum of celebrities and musicians and raised about $128 million for the world health organization as well as local and regional frontline healthcare workers in support of covid-19 relief. despite wildly varying opinions about this effort, i would have been proud to play in the midst of this. it was about humanity. some of it was pretty raw. people were in their homes, many the likes of which i will never enter. they were with their instruments, they were playing or singing songs they felt would resonate with those watching. a few were, as expected, clearly voice-tracked. a few were, as expected, a bit ego-tainted. split-screen performances and technology raised the bar for musicians everywhere. but it was a moment in time – eight hours in total between online and on-air – when you could see that all of us grieve and yearn the same way. no matter the size of your mansion or tiny house, no matter the grammys on your shelf or the lack thereof, this global pandemic is just that – global- and is not discerning of your privilege. it does not care. it can take anyone. and so we weep.
if there is a painting that depicts the face-holding grief and prayerful yearning for hope, it is this painting WEEPING MAN.
i wonder if he weeps for those who have fallen ill, those who have died. i wonder if he weeps for those who refuse to acknowledge the seriousness of this pandemic. i wonder if he weeps for those on the front lines, helping. i wonder if he weeps for those who have hidden in extravagant bunkers underground in far away countries. i wonder if he weeps for our isolation. i wonder if he weeps watching people intolerant of the isolation that will protect others, people who are selfishly and arrogantly protesting stay-at-home orders. i wonder if he weeps for the unrelenting non-discrimination of this contagion or if he weeps for the divisiveness of responsibility-taking, the it-doesn’t-affect-me attitude. i wonder if he weeps for the continuance of humanity. or if he weeps for the loss of humankind. or, if he weeps for the lack of humaneness. i wonder if he weeps because, in the middle of this trying and profound now, Next will come. i wonder if this painting is tomorrow’s tomorrow and he weeps with relief and hope.
THIS all exists. for each of us. it isn’t always good. it isn’t always not-good.
there are those moments. the moments you weep openly, the moments you cover your face to cry, the moments of overwhelm, the moments of absolute weariness that, despite all evidence to the contrary in your tired mind and body, actually do lead to Next. times you feel alone, times of sorting, times of grief, times of fragile vulnerability, times of regret. the times you put your face in your hands and weep…
and there are those moments. the moments you weep openly, the moments you cover your face to cry, the moments of stunning awe, the moments of sheer exhaustion at your goal-line, moments that actually do lead to Next. times you feel enamored of life itself, times of incredulity, times of unquestionable good fortune, times of serendipity, times of simple all-consuming sweet love. the times you put your face in your hands and weep…
we recognize it. we can feel it. and we know that in another moment he -or she, for there is no pronoun-hogging here- will slowly raise his head out of his hands and Next will have arrived. (reverse threading, and so he weeps, january 17, 2019)
we drew heavy curtains to sleep in the land of the midnight sun. my grandmother mama dear and i were in the arctic circle in finland and, much to the fascination of my eight year old mind, the sun refused to set. i remember a twilight like no other – a time of in-between that just lasted and lasted, not day, not night. it was stunning and magical and wreaked havoc on circadian rhythms, necessitating new practices.
EARTH INTERRUPTED VII makes me think of that twilight, that time in the river of not-this-not-that. a time of waiting, it appears that the telescope zeroed in on earth detects an interruption, a wafting darkness. in this time of pandemic, it would seem a portrait of covid-19.
but, as in all other times of darkness, there exists a glow of light. the blackness is dissipating, the shape of the earth is visible, the twilight is vibrant. this painting offers radiant hope.
just like pulling back the curtains in lapland, the sun will rise and we will have awakened from the strange twilight. we will have lost much to the dark. we will have learned new ways, employed new rituals. we will be tired and wary, cautious yet sure. we will have crossed the river of the midnight sun into a new day.
there is a place on a washington island road where the rest of the world disappears. you are walking alongside forest and can see the sky as you look up, tall trees framing blue, the sound of sandhill cranes and red-eyed vireos accompanying your steps. and then you enter this place. the trees gently arc over the road and you are covered by a canopy; we have sheltered in this spot during more than one sudden rainfall. even in the bright day, the green above you – which turns to brilliant umber, rich red, flaming orange during summer’s release on the forest – allows for little light. and at dusk, while the sun sinks into the water hundreds of feet away, walking in the middle of the road, it is dark-dark, the canopy a lure for night creatures, safe in the shadows.
there is a place in a tree in the yard of my growing-up house outside the window of my old room where the branches invited sitting. for hours i would sit there, write, ponder. in the summer the maple seemed to grant me privacy from the world, its branches full of leaves and canopying my little spot. a shelter.
there was a place in the wooden structure in our backyard that had a yellow awning that made a fort. when My Girl and My Boy were little they would play up there for hours, The Boy lining up matchbox cars, The Girl often reading a book. a special space, this little fort, it was hard when it was time to dismantle it and pass it on to friends with little ones.
these places of shelter – places of canopy – provide such a sense of protection, a sense of being held from harm – from the elements, away from others, in our own private place. much like our homes, they can give us pause, a deep breath, safety.
in this time of distancing and stay-safe-stay-at-home, i look around our house and give thanks for its canopy of shelter, for the way it holds us from harm, for the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years it keeps us safe.
like many of you, i have laid awake many nights now. exhausted when i lay my head down and then, voila!, wide awake. the middle of the night has many monsters these days. it used to be that as i lay awake and would get hungry and hungrier, i would convince david that the perfect thing, rousing him from sleep, would be to have a 3am bowl of cereal together. since we went dairy-gluten-free i’ve substituted and have chosen a banana in the wee hours. somewhere i read that bananas are sleep aids, so waking david up to have a banana seemed like i was helping him. but now, we have no bananas.
we need to go to the grocery store. but it’s complicated, with disinfecting wipes during our trip there and being absolutely careful upon our return home to wash everything or store it for a period of time. it’s important, vital. we step back from the person who is a personal-space-invader. we make room on the walking path for those coming the other way. we marvel at the recklessness of large numbers of people still gathering in spaces. we weep for those who have succumbed to a disease that is apparently sorely underestimated.
this painting, eve, is a beautiful landscape of color and shape. eve, religiously historic as the first woman.
is it possible that the apple of eve and adam, the one in the story from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, could now be seen as a casualness toward the spread of this pandemic, a cavalier attitude, a lack of regard toward social distancing or the peril facing citizens, medical personnel, workers at essential businesses? the apple that, in the story, changed everything, for all time?
there are moments when both dogga and babycat seem to be on the same page. sweetly tuned in to our every emotion, they put aside their own agenda to curl up, their warm bodies tucked in against one or both of us, just being there.
in this time of necessary and vigilant waiting, as we defer to healthcare workers, scientists, the experts, all in their prodigious work, perhaps this is the most potent aid we can offer. to curl our warmth and any practical and safe help we can muster around each other. to acknowledge each other’s worry, each other’s fear, each other’s process. to be tuned in, to listen, to offer words of comfort. to stand with each other, hold each other’s hands, even from afar. to quietly just be there.
in these times. the emotional upheaval is exhausting. worry is the crux of insomnia. we measure every step, every decision. we look to each other for reassurance, for a fast-receding touch of normalcy. we feel…lost.
in these times. we remember other times we felt this way. other times of confusion and fear, of social responsibility and adherence to new rules, new realities. too many calamities to name, it seems. too many times…lost.
this little book Peri Winkle Rabbit Was Lost was the product of such a time, as david created it – a one-of-a-kind – in response for a call for a children’s book that addressed the tragic hurricane katrina, a book given to children that offered empathy for the plight in which they were standing, their lost.
we, as artists, do what we can to offer comfort, to bring a little solace, a moment of breathing, a slice of hope in darkness, a tiny map in lost-ness.
we, as people, look to the arts for a little solace, a moment of breathing, a slice of hope in darkness, a tiny map in lost-ness.
in these times. standing in the darkness with each of you. maybe together we will not feel as lost.
the sun lights our room early in the morning. we don’t have room-darkening shades so if artificial measures haven’t been used (read: obnoxious alarm clocks) we wake with the light.
thoughts stream in with the light in this just-past-the-dark-hour. our quiet as we sip coffee, like jiffy-pop starting to pop on a hot stovetop, is punctuated by bits of conversation. the dreams we are climbing out of, the babycat’s snoring through the night, dogdog’s sweet need for early pets, what the weather looks like out our window peering into the backyard, projects we are working on, what is on the docket for the day. ideas, reminiscences patter through. we stretch into the day yawning in front of us, putting on, and trying to keep on, caps of making-good-assumptions. today is a good day to have a good day, as the saying goes.
good assumptions. apparently, they are a high ticket item. for we all are, in the world, surrounded by those who do not make good assumptions. my sweet momma would tell me, “don’t jump to conclusions.” “ask questions,” she would admonish. a difficult lesson worth oft-repeating.
we would sit on the couch at the end of the day, sipping tea and eating chips ahoy cookies. we’d talk about the day, bitter jabs by classmates or exclusionary moments i had endured. “try to find something good,” she’d remind me, while at the same time not underplaying the hurtful behaviors. “make good assumptions.” this is the same woman who, on the emergency room table in the wee hours of the night, in great pain and fearing a broken hip, looked up at a cranky and tired nurse and remarked, “you have a beautiful smile.” it changed the moment; i suspect it changed the rest of the nurse’s day; perhaps it changed all those who she interacted with thereafter and so forth. those undeniable concentric circles.
in early days with david, clearly in the beaky-beaky school of thought, one of the most-oft-repeated things i remember him saying is “ask questions.” don’t assume you know. don’t assume anything. ask. listen.
quite some time ago, mike stated, “God gave you two ears and one mouth for a reason.” watch, ask questions and listen, he advised. don’t make assumptions. the best way to learn, the best way to collaborate, the best way to approach challenge, the best way to move in the world.
momma would smile and look at me, facing down adversity or standing tall on a personal summit, and say, “wowee!”
i can practically hear her now, her eyes dancing, saying, “see? if you ARE going to assume anything, assume awe.”
ohmygosh, women are beautiful. women are strong. women are underestimated. women are courageous. women are tender. women are emotional. women are smart. women are bold. women are modest. women are utterly and undeniably amazing…
sharing two previous posts that i could not pen better than i did when i wrote them. thank you for indulging me this repetition. with love to the great big tribe called ‘womankind’. xoxo
WOMEN. WE’VE GOT BACKBONE. (dec. 1, 2016)
living with an artist means you get to poke around inside their passion. you get to see the things that paved the way, that set the stage, that were behind the scenes. you get to hear the stories of mountains climbed and deep valleys (read: chasms) scaled. an artist’s story is not a straight line and an artist’s art is fluid.
it also means you get to go through the piles, so to speak. i’ll play songs for him that never made it anywhere, onto any album, nor any stage. he’ll show me paintings or sketches that didn’t get framed or hung or shown or even looked at. sometimes i will just go downstairs into the studio and page through the painting stacks, traveling in time through my husband’s work. color and space and frenetic movement and paintings that breathe air; all tell a story about the place he was in when he painted them.
in a recent stroll through paintings, i stumbled upon this one. i pulled it out and sat down – right there on the floor – to gaze at it. there is just something about it.
grace. strength. i was struck by the beauty of its simplicity.
it made me think of so many women i know. my beautiful girl kirsten, who made her first turkey after spending a day on a snowboard on mountains she had never even seen a short three years ago. linda, tossing hay to a horse with a pitchfork and hugging alpaca, never before retirement dreaming of such a thing. marykay who wisely makes brownies (gf!) for every occasion, creating inroads for people to talk and share and become a part of a whole. jay, who is zealous about the children she works with at schools, a social worker beyond compare. jen, who stretches herself to learn new things at all times, while standing strong for her husband, stunned by changes in their lives over the last year. which brings me to randi, with a similar story and the same dedication and generous spirit. daena, who grades papers and reads elementary school novels in-between playing her handbell parts, because she is more than prepared every school day. susan, who, singlehandedly, day after day raises three young men and teaches them to see this very strength and grace in women. sandy, who quietly and fervently and proudly stands strong for the LGBTQ community. heidi, a writer who bravely serves up pizzas with a frantic pace, because it helps her family. dianne, who tirelessly works side by side with her pastor husband, keeping a full-time job and volunteering for, well, everything. beth, who posts a picture of her stunning chemo-bald self every time another friend is diagnosed with breast cancer. my sweet momma, who was kind every single time and didn’t see differences or lines, even in pain, even in dying.
because it’s true. in this time in our world, who of you cannot think of a woman or women you know who are the picture of strength, the picture of grace. i want to celebrate these women. i want to encourage these women. i want to honor these women. i want to celebrate, encourage, honor each of Us.
please forward this to women you know. not because there is a link to purchase Stuff – but because it is a Truth and as many women (and men) as possible need to see it…just to be reminded. add names to the list. in our herculean (and extraordinary) lives, let’s make this a herculean (and extraordinary) celebration.
i can’t think of a better time to further the celebrating, encouraging and honoring than right now. at a time when each of us WOMEN needs to be seen as strength and as grace.
we ARE women. and we DO have backbone.
WOMEN. YOU MADE IT THROUGH. (dec. 6, 2019)
“i want women to see that you do not get pushed around.” (* attributed below)
this piece today is dedicated to all the women who have made it through, all the women who are making it through, all the women who will make it through.
your fire has brought you to the edge of the battlefield many times and you have still made lemonade; you have still prevailed.
you have made it through intensely emotionally abusive relationships. you have picked up the pieces and you have moved on.
you have made it through physical or sexual abuse. you have risen from the ashes.
you have made it through terrifying health scares. you have pulled up your boot straps and determinedly plodded through with massive courage.
you have made it through society’s prioritizing of body image and appearance. you have been measured by your cleavage or lack thereof, by the indent of your waist, by the clothing you choose, by your hair. you struggle to remember you are beautiful. you stand tall.
you have made it through vacuumous times, the middle of chaos, the middle of multi-tasking. you have created.
you have made it through physical summit experiences. you have scaled mountains. you have boarded down untracked chutes. you have trained your body with weights and exercise. you have run. you have skated. you have pedaled. you have breathed in and sighed an exhale. you’ve run thousands of lengths of playing fields. you took the next painful recuperating step. you dove to the depths. you have been on world stages. you have risen with hungry or fevered children night after night. you have competed. you have given birth.
you have made it through falling. you have made mistakes. you have been human. you have forgiven and you have been forgiven.
you have made it through an education steeped in gender-inequality and bias. you have chosen to learn more, to actively seek the resources, rights and opportunities due you, to resist against the discrimination.
you have made it through a system that undermines your success and devalues your value. you have fought for your place.
you have made it through financial challenges of single womanhood, of single motherhood. you have been scrappy and, without complaint, you have layered onto yourself however much it took to get it done.
you have made it through work situations where you’ve questioned how you would be treated were you to be a man. would you be yelled at? would your professionalism be questioned? you have asked these questions. you have stayed, holding steadfast, or you have moved on; you have decided what is best for you and moved in that direction.
you have made it through the skewed-world fray into leadership roles where your every decision is challenged or thwarted. you have overcome; you have triumphed.
you have made it through being-too-young and through aging. and you are not irrelevant.
you have made it through. you have spoken up, spoken back, spoken for. you have written letters. you have marched.
you have been pushed around. but you have pushed back. and, just like the tortoise, you have made it through.
“when we choose to be parents, we accept another human being as part of ourselves, and a large part of our emotional selves will stay with that person as long as we live. from that time on there will be another person on this earth whose orbit around us will affect us as surely as the moon affects the tides, and affect us in some ways more deeply than anyone else can. our children are extensions of ourselves.” (mr. fred rogers)
i simply cannot think of a more succinct way to say this but for the words of mr. rogers.
forever changed, i am sensitive to every little thing my even-as-grown-ups-children are experiencing, celebrating, enduring, adventuring, loving, suffering, yearning for, achieving. i feel their joy as my joy, their sadness as my sadness.
parenthood, a profound honor, in all its diamond-facets is no small feat. the vexing complexities, the moments of sheer joy, the heart-wrenching worry, the holding-on-letting-go-ness, the unconditional love. all of it.
like the moon, their tide surely affects my tide. and i would have it no other way.
to peruse david’s online gallery, please click on the box above or click here
dogdog and babycat have an interesting relationship. seemingly-by-dog/cat-definition partisan, they cross the aisle everyday to beg together when they are looking for a morsel from our breakfast, stand together when looking for dinner, lay together on the rug when conked out at the end of the day. they have figured it out and i know that they love each other, despite their differences and the personalities they have as well as the traits we have assigned them by speaking for them judging by the looks on their faces.
dogga stares out the front door window and wonders. the cat not so much; he stares but doesn’t seem to really wonder. but they share the front-door-rug and we provide the conversation and thoughts. we have many one panel cartoons of the two of them at the door.
the thing i would point to, in all of the cartoons we have drawn about these two supposed-foes, is that they get along. they respect each other’s toys, food bowls, spaces on the bed. they may think a rude thought here or there, but they don’t voice it aloud. they don’t name-call or lie to each other. with the exception of babycat’s black chair, they don’t destroy things, they don’t shred the garbage, spewing that which is trash all about. they take turns at their shared water bowl. they are empathic creatures, loving and tuned in to things around them and the real state of affairs in the house. they are quietly candid and honest, albeit b-cat a tad bit sarcastic. they are loyal to the bigger picture, their home. they accept each other. without exception, without pretense, without anger or contentiousness. they embrace living together, right here, right now.
reverse threading 