grey/gray rarely has such a line of demarcation, rarely has distinctive texture such as in this picture beyond our littlehouse yard. grey is simply gray. it is the zone of not right/not wrong. it is the living in-between-ness of doing life this way/that way. it is the space of not-knowing, asking questions, learning, being vulnerable. it can be uncomfortable. but it is necessary.
the most growing i have done has been in the grey zones. the times when i did not know, the times i made mistakes, the times choices were confusing, the times devastated by life events, the times moving forward meant tiny baby step by baby step, the times i was vulnerable.
i would add we can never know, or even approximate, what someone else is feeling without being unguarded ourselves. we can never know the unanswered questions, the struggles, the amorphous-ness of life without the grey. we can never create without the grey – for an artist languishes in grey, if for no other reason than to seek the color within himself.
we were lost when we brought dogdog home from the farm. it had been a long time since either of us had a puppy; our dogs had long lives and after that it had been years. the first few days we literally followed dogga around inside the house, like he was a toddler in search of an electrical outlet or a cabinet without childproof latches. jen and brad brought us pizza and wine and assured our deer-in-the-headlights-look that all would be well. so we read pretty much anything we could get our hands on and discovered (re-discovered?) the fact that puppies really like confined spaces. smaller spaces make them feel safe, secure; they are calming. it worked. dogdog was happy to be in the kitchen-ala-three-gates-in-the-doorways. he seemed to sigh with relief at the end of the day going into his crate for sleepynightnight. he was a happier puppy and we were (legit) back in our bodies. boundaries facilitated maturing (for all of us.)
there is a whole lake out in front of our littlehouse. the yard is big and full of green grass and flowers and grasses and trees. the deck has space and flower boxes. and then there is the rocking chair. in between two closely-placed-spindles, perched on the lower rail, this little tree frog found a place of solace. snugly in this warmed-by-the-sun spot, he lingered for hours, the tight place perhaps restorative for him, perhaps simply a sanctuary, its boundaries affording him the freedom to stay.
boundaries are underrated. we need them. to flourish. the constraints serve us. our clear boundaries for others create balanced lives. drawing boundaries. growth depends on it.
early on, given, say, three chords – and only three chords – to compose with limits the angst of analysis paralysis. it gives a place to start, a direction to go, discipline and yet, boundaries that reach only to the sky. it eases up the balking-at-it of artists. it facilitates the creation of a composition. it facilitates artistry. it facilitates energy. pushing the walls of these boundaries back little by little opens an artist when he/she is ready, when he/she feels safer. one step at a time. one rocking chair spindle at a time. one kitchen-dog-gate at a time. one muse at a time.
i miss my piano. i didn’t realize how much until late last night, in the darkened theatre, my hands touched the keys and i could breathe. my neck and shoulders, stiff and aching from undue stress, relaxed just a little. tears fell down my face. they are still there now, as i write this.
this morning, as d was making breakfast, a tree frog hopped out from between the cabinets and landed on the stove. fortunately, we were able to coax him from the hot burners and take him safely outside. it was unclear how he got inside. but his message was clear, a message we had learned from helen quite some time ago. f.r.o.g. = fully rely on God. and so, a giggle and a time of fresh, deep breaths.
when i have performed this piece NURTURE ME (as i mentioned in a previous post) i have loved to tell the story of the carrot seed, the absolute knowing that nurturing can lift anyone, any living thing, from fallow, from despair, from seed into grandness, into thriving, into life.
carrots, pianos, tree frogs. all are capable of telling the story. nurture trumps hate.
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slow. slow. when we drove home the other day, we realized how very slowly we were moving here on island. the comparison began the instant we were on the mainland. we hadn’t driven over 40mph for a couple weeks; suddenly we could feel the push, the frenzy to get somewhere, fast, faster. it’s pervasive, that frenetic energy, and the closer we got to milwaukee, the more we could feel it. our heartbeats raced as cars darted in and out of lanes, as horns beeped and drivers gestured impatiently. no one noticed each other. they just drove, destination their only intention.
slow. slow. we walked home the other night. after porch-sitting and having a short meeting, we ambled down the middle of the road. no one was coming; no one passed us. the interruption in quiet would have alerted us to any oncoming car. we shared the woods around us with a deer, who was still, watching us for signs if we were going to approach. our pause on the road and our slow movements convinced the deer to not run, but to stay and just be still. to watch. an eagle flew above us. looking up, there was a moment we recognized that this eagle saw us. the deer, the eagle, noticed us. we were in the world together in those moments. no intention but to breathe the same air.
slow. slow. we are learning, slowly, about this community. connecting the dots, discerning the culture, perceiving the nuances. we are studying this place that is our job – a performing arts center with 250 seats on a tiny island you can only get to by ferry. a step away-away. a place in which we want to elevate artistry and growth. we move slowly, thoughtfully. our intention, our work, the maturing of this place that has been germinated and cared for. a rich garden, a rich forest of verdant adolescence, waiting to flourish. slow. slow.
we carry it all with us. baggage. baggage upon baggage upon baggage. i once (poorly) drew a graphic of a stick person with an “outbreak of baggage”. rollie bags and attaches, spinners and hardshells, suitcases and totes; i depicted a person with multiples of these, pulling and dragging and lugging them everywhere. each experience shoved into the depths of some piece of luggage; more and more loaded into expandable bags, the zippers stretched to the breaking point. we lose sleep, perseverating over all the baggage we have. the wee hours of the night nag us; we miss the hope of the sunrise.
but the sunrise happens nonetheless. and the grace of a new day is gifted to us. just as the tide-wave rushes in to the shoreline and cleanses the beach, washing away the footprints of the previous day, smoothing the rough edges, so does the new day grant us another chance. we stand – present – right now, feet neither in yesterday nor in tomorrow. our load is lessened, our baggage drops away. we are freed to step lightly into next. for our past does not dictate our future.
when we moved into this house 30 years ago the kitchen floor was an old green and orange linoleum. needless to say, this was not my favorite color combination nor was it my favorite floor. we laid a clean white tile floor on top; a temporary fix to hold us over. a couple years later we chose to put hardwood down, mimicking the rest of the house. that required stripping off the old floors – the white one and the green and orange one. weren’t we surprised at how many layers we found! but below all that mess was the sub-flooring, a solid foundation on which to lay new hardwood, a new start for the little kitchen.
peeling back the layers to expose what’s beneath it all can be exhilarating. but it can also be intimidatingly revealing. we are nervous to find what is below the surface. we feel trepidation about the underlayment; should we rip out and replace? what will we need to do to shore it up? can it withstand this?
it’s the same for each of us. we feel vulnerable letting others know what is underneath it all, this positive front of ours. the complexity of sedimentary-life-layers is confusing and we seek ways to not feel them, not acknowledge them, not share them.
but the firm subfloor is there. we are resilient and fluid. we have been shored up by the obstacles we have climbed, by the challenges we have surmounted and we are surrounded by others who all can relate, were we to tell them.
the orange and green linoleum of our lives is still there, underneath, but it is now serving us, either as the underlayment of our ever-learning-ever-growing-future or part of what we found, dealt with, ripped out and replaced. either way, there is room for the hardwood. the foundation is solid.
a burl on a tree is caused by the tree undergoing some form of stress. indeed, if this were true for humans, we would be loaded with burls. instead, our burls are inner-burls. they don’t generally manifest as growths on the outside or present as small or large bark-covered lumpy warts. instead, our worry makes us lose sleep, have intestinal issues and headaches. it makes us eat too much, pour the glass of wine a bit too early, seek medicinal solutions or drugged numbing. it makes us argue and lash out, insist on our own way, slam doors both figurative and literal. it causes sickness, physical exhaustion, loss of relationship or work or time in our lives. we become afraid to share our burls with the ‘outside’, scarcely making headway, fearful of the opinion of others, confused by the wart in our lives.
we should be like trees. the burls cover with bark, insulating from the outside yet evident to the outside. they grow in response to the stress of disease or injury or insects, but a tree may continue to live with these burls indefinitely. actually removing the burl exposes the tree to infection. the burl wood is prized, with swirling grain patterns. often, burls are harvested (both legally and illegally), with stunning furniture and wooden bowls the goal of burl-wood-turners. these trees stand tall and mighty, growing from seedlings, co-existing with disease, injury, insects and, even, together with trees more beautiful sans burls. they wear their wrinkled protuberances with grace. they don’t rid themselves of the evidence of life amid stressors, seeking botox to hide irregularities and minimize affirmation of living. instead they continue on, growing and growing and growing – despite a few warts.
“don’t judge a book by its cover,” my sweet momma used to say. i’m missing her today as i write this post for tomorrow. four years ago today she left this good earth and i could feel it tilt on its axis, trying vainly to readjust. she was generous when it came to people. she saw past what was on the outside; she sought to see what was inside.
the rough exterior we sometimes see on the outside of people is quite often a guise. we all know someone we believed to be gruff, but turned out to be quite the mush, once you were able to peel back the protective layers. we believe we know what someone else thinks or feels, but we are actually unable to physically pare back those visible and invisible outer layers, the extrinsic stuff, to get to the raw of their heart, to feel their actual worries or concerns or fears.
we each have our bark-masks, carefully designed for the venue or situation within which we find ourselves. we choose what to share with others, rarely brave enough to shed all that outer bark. for there have been times when you have peeled back the layers, revealed truths in confidence, perhaps looking for wisdom or common ground, and have been torturously walloped with judgement or scorn. it becomes much harder to allow the next shared peel.
it takes courage to BE who you really are with others. it takes courage to meet on common ground. we fear the gruff outermost skin, we are afraid of what we see and don’t understand. we may not realize someone else feels that same fear.
but there are cracks in the bark; there are fissures in the icy exterior. the tree may be shedding, the trunk expanding, growth waiting in the wings. allowing for cracks, fissures, reaching toward and not away – those can be the gps to another’s heart. it’s not always what it looks like. growth is waiting. because, you know, you can’t judge a book by its cover.
“…no one can tell us because life is not something which can be understood from a book…” (krishnamurti)
when my big brother died almost 27 years ago, my world tilted, never to return to the same again. i struggled to understand that this amazingly smart, talented, witty man – someone i depended on my whole life – was no longer going to be in this world. losing him left me with a lot of questions.
ever since then i have not been able to wrap my head around how the world keeps going if you cannot feel it anymore. and yet, each loss i have experienced is evidence that is exactly what happens. the world keeps going. it’s all a mystery. no one can really tell us.
there is no handbook available to explain all this. life’s complicated layers and sideroads, the junctures where we choose left or right, the places we decide to stop or go…it’s all a mystery. no one can really tell us.
nearly every day there is some world-tilting reminder to wholeheartedly embrace the moment you are in; nearly every day we forget. it’s not as easy as just remembering. it’s not easily understood. your shoes are not my shoes and, although it is easy for me to sense all the concurrent emotions in a room, i still cannot grasp what you are actually going through. my sun could be your rain. it’s all a mystery. no one can really tell us.
so we try. we try to understand, without instruction, the strands and tattered fragments and shiny-mica-bits that weave together into life. mostly, we keep feeling life. and the world keeps going.
often, david has a signature in his paintings. not his initials or his name, but these petals…they bring an element of the organic into a piece that may not speak to nature in any other way. they are a breath, sneaking their way into a painting to remind you that your relationship with this very canvas is a living, changing, ever-evolving thing. the gift of art in its every form: we grow by it, through it, with it.
reverse threading 