and it’s time again. two years have gone by since the last time. it was two years prior to that.
and now, another. another Y. the third one.
appropriately timed, i’d say.
it’s not common to come upon a branch that is a literal letter y. most of the time it’s a stretch. but this is pretty obvious – and it gets my attention.. again.
like those previous two times – mid 2020 and mid 2022 – there is just as much reason now for nature to be asking “why?”. truth of the matter is – there’s more.
sometimes, there just isn’t time for a long, belabored, ponderous “why?”
this is one of those times. there isn’t. the time for this country is running out. we are accelerating down the pike toward the november 5 election day and it feels like things are beginning to spiral out of control.
i am truly having a very hard time grokking the current political state of affairs of our country. every day now it feels like the fabric of our democracy is on the verge of shredding. in extremist-agenda-riddled moves, at best, the destruction will be a demolition of this republic, at worst, it will be a hellish bend to authoritarianism. and the words of the declaration of independence “we hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” will cease to exist for all men and women. full stop. period. what is the united states if not united? what is this democracy if not a democracy?
baffling me beyond reasonable comprehension, it’s being facilitated by people whose evil intent seems obvious and it’s supported by those who are not asking “why?” it’s downright frightening to watch others rabidly embrace any and every single thing that will ultimately destroy this nation as we know it.
now, don’t get me wrong. i’d love to write about something lighthearted, something trivial, something that doesn’t feel like the weight of the world is hanging in balance.
but it is.
and – before november 5th, i hope you ask yourself “why?” for who? for what? why?
“and the spirit fills the darkness of the heavens it fills the endless yearning of the soul it lives within a star too far to dream of it lives within each part and is the whole it’s the fire and the wings that fly us home…”
and soon afterward, the sky was softer. and soon afterward, the clouds billowed like bubbles stacking up on a bubble-wand after gently blowing, finally releasing, floating off. and soon afterward, it softened to pink and pale lavender. and soon afterward, one single bird winged its way across the sky, blurring in flight.
and the shift in the universe brought a little bit of healing, a little bit of perspective. it eased the darkpain, the yearning for something different. it connected the dots from earth’s ground to the stars-so-distant. it lit hope and a freedom that had been elusive.
and afterward, my heart flew me home. back to steady. back, but with wings. for next.
“find out what you already know and you will see the way to fly.”(jonathan livingston seagull – richard bach)
“tonight while the lights are shining and the microphone is on, i’ll play for you…” (seals and crofts)
or no lights.
a piano perched among the boulders looking out toward the mountain range – in this very special place. a boom mic.
in my dreams, i can see it.
the bigrocks are seats and the program is not written. it all comes from the spirit in this place, from air, from healing. and – even more specifically in my dream – a yamaha disklavier pro minus the fancy-schmancy newfangled stuff – an instrument to record directly to disk…on-the-fly on-tape, in the vernacular.
in my dreams – in my regaining of feeling relevant – my fight to regain relevance – as a 65 year-old recording artist who broke both wrists snowboarding and then tore my scapholunate ligament (leaving me with a rh grand total of 45° forward rom) – i am sitting at C7 pros all over – in fields of boulders, in canyonlands, perched on mesas, in meadows of wildflowers, on a cool sand beach. i am playing the boulderfield, the canyonland, the mesa, the meadow, the beach. it is a conversation between us – even, maybe – through me. it is simply an offering to anyone – or any one – who wishes to listen. it’s a dream awash in unlikelihood but with maybe-just-maybe the smallest iota of possible. maybe we can make it happen.
i stood – again – on the most obvious rock from which to bow to my invisible audience. and i bowed low.
because sound or not, there is music. sheet music or not, there is composing. audience or not, there is listening. it is all happening – simultaneously. right there. in that place.
the boulders on the grassy knoll know it. and i can see it.
“i’ve practiced many years and i have come a long, long way just to play for you… my life is but a song i have written in many ways, just to say to you…”
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they seem ready to burst. seeds perched on the starting line, waiting for the right wind to pick them up and scatter them. they have gathered energy – all along – soaking in the winter sun, dried by cold breezes, clinging to the safety of their stalky stem. and now – it’s time soon – to release – to go forth – to spread their fluffy seeds. and, in their own way, they will be heard.
this is not unlike many initiatives. times where people work tirelessly, gather information, research and sort in the fallow times, soak in rare moments of rest, waiting for the time to burst. and then, the marketing campaign hits the market, the album is released, the gallery opens its doors, the ballet has an opening, the law is introduced for passage and enactment, the hearing starts.
so many seeds gathered in one giant fluffball, waiting. though uncertain about their future – uncertain about whether they have stoked enough energy, soaked up enough sun, gathered enough wind in their seed-wings – uncertain about success or failure – they wait. ready to burst.
“hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. you wait and watch and work: you don’t give up.” (anne lamott)
“when she stopped conforming to the conventional picture of femininity she finally began to enjoy being a woman.”(betty friedan – national organization for women co-founder)
ripped jeans and boots are – most often – my dress of choice. i add a black thermal shirt or a long (black) tunic and feel like me. it’s my dopamine dressing, regardless of the colors, textures, ensembles on the dopamine charts.
my studio is not large. it’s one of the bedrooms on the main floor – in the front of the house. there are three double-hung windows – two of which face south – so nice light. there’s a chiffarobe holding a big old black-framed window, pictures of my parents displayed. there’s tin on the wall with photos of my children. there’s a painting by david and two framed collages with my first two albums. there’s a photo of me as a little girl, a rocking chair, music stands and mic stands. and there’s my piano. it’s a 6’5″ yamaha grand so it’s a presence.
and now – over in the corner opposite my bench – hangs this lampshade. i suppose it could be used as an actual on-a-lamp lampshade, but ever since i saw fabric-repurposed lampshades hanging in that iowa farmhouse we stayed at, i have been intrigued by the simple hanging of a lampshade. and so, a couple days after the new year, while out antiquing, we came upon this shade. it was hanging in the middle of a vendor’s booth, with no price tag. it wasn’t for sale. but – like the chunk of concrete – this spoke to me.
its femininity was appealing. torn strips of silk and organdy, a feathered hairclip, i was smitten by it. i could imagine it in my studio – softening the straight lines of plaster walls and crown molding. it felt – forgive me for this generalization – girly. in every good way.
i asked at the front checkout about it and the sales associate and i took a walk back to it. she double-checked, looking for a tag. it looked like it was there to dress up the booth. and, indeed, it did. it was charming.
we left without it, but the associate said she would contact the vendor and let me know the lampshade’s status: available/notforsale. my concern was that even if were available – or if the vendor made it available based upon my desire for it – the demand-cost equation might enter in and it would be out of my range (which, frankly, most things are).
the next day i got a text. $15. i re-read the text. $15. i wrote back, double-checking. surely it wouldn’t be only $15 for me to bring home this piece of softness – this very cool boho shade that reminded me of all the layers of who i am.
i wore – as usual – my ripped jeans and boots, a vest over my black thermal shirt. we walked in and the lampshade – the lampshade waiting for me – was on the counter.
there was a group of women standing near the checkout counter, all talking at once. they glanced over at the lampshade, admiring it, asking me what i was going to do with it. we all laughed together, visiting and having those amazing moments you can sometimes have with a group of women (or people, but in this case it was women) who don’t know each other at all but who all-of-a-sudden have a common interest. the lampshade.
this is a good time in my life for this, for the ripped ribbons of silk and shreds of organdy that flow gently from its structure, for the skeleton of a for-a-lamp shade to have new out-of-the-box purpose, for a reminder of femininity and of who i am.
on the way out, carrying my lampshade as i passed by one of the older women standing nearby, she turned to me and said, “it looks like you.”
the flock of cranes were above – heading south – their bugling loud in a blue day still of rushing wind. we stopped on the trail and looked up, expecting to see one or maybe two sandhill cranes flying by, from one meadow to the next. instead, there were two distinct v’s – in the ancient pull of migration.
we stood there – still – watching…until craning our necks for the cranes was too much. i lowered my gaze and felt the earth tilt a bit in the headrush of returning to terra firma. a gorgeous sight – in my eyes and ears.
it is delicious – that sky. it is magnificent – that sky. in the day and in the night. i have been astounded and humbled. i have counted the stars and imagined the clouds. i have been soaked by its rainstorms and reveled in its snowflakes. i am fortunate to have felt the sun and the moon.
i have stood under that sky and i have realized that it is – yes – the same sky that the others i love are also under, despite any distance between us. in my mind i migrate to each – seeking the intuitive connection to their places in the world.
in tasting the sky all is possible. and, in my looking up, i feel grace and hope dizzying down on me.
“if what one has to say is not better than silence, then one should keep silent.” (confucius)
and then there’s the other side of the coin – the side where silence is not golden.
silence doesn’t stop injustice. it doesn’t stop bullying. it alludes to apathy and indifference, even complicity. it is a ship in a harbor. it is safe. it is spineless.
speaking up – of truth – is not babbling. it is not the proliferation of lies, of the made-up. it does not propagate agenda nor does it perpetuate a culture of the unquestioning. it screeches falsity to a halt; it brings focus to ambiguity; it stands up.
we choose our course. we choose what is or is not important to us. we look to others for wisdom and the ability to sort our path. we make errors in judgment; we keep quiet. we learn. we find our voice.
for me, cousin jerry’s t-shirt said it all: “SPEAK UP!”
because:
“silence becomes cowardice when occasion demands speaking out the whole truth and acting accordingly.” (mahatma gandhi)
“if you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. if an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality.” (archbishop desmond tutu)
“we must always take sides. neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. the opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.” (elie wiesel)
“each time a woman stands up for herself, without knowing it possibly, withoutclaiming it, she stands up for all women.” (maya angelou)
“in the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.” (dr martin luther king jr)
“you own everything that happened to you. tell your stories. if people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” (anne lamott)
“each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope.” (robert f kennedy)
“do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” (the golden rule)
“speak your truth quietly and clearly.” (max ehrmann)
with a modicum of tact, with compassion for those who have been wronged, with courage and vulnerability and timidity holding hands-hands-hands, standing in the fire of what is truth-telling, there is hope.
and then, there it was. in our pond. the first frog in a couple years.
it was helen, who is steeped in her gift of faith, who told us the significance of having a frog appear. “f-r-o-g,” she said, “fully-rely-on-God.”
it is astounding how very much the appearance of this frog means to us. in the middle of the middle, a nod (or hop) of reassurance is unbelievably gratifying.
not every frog likes a photo shoot, but “hope” participated nonetheless. she was shier than most of our other frogs, but maybe that’s because she’s just getting to know us. one of our frogs – 2020 maybe? named “pando” – actually let me pet it, stroke its head and speak to it up close.
regardless, we’re a tad bit worried because it is so late in the year. she arrived on the equinox and the fall weather will race past the starting gate, sprinting to winter.
it sounds like you should grill it and have it with rice pilaf, some sort of midwestern whitefish.
it’s not.
crunch’s stripahs, back then, in the day, were striped bass, so these tiny blooms would not truly bear his nickname.
it’s these “invasive” flowers that are decorating our yard these days, paving the way for the dandy dandelions. they are actually quite beautiful. “puschkinia” in plural, which sounds like an americanized-botched-spelling plural of a mini version of those ridiculously yummy sweet-filled polish paczki donuts. everything sounds like something.
for me, peering for spring in the front yard, they are a sure sign of hope. early arrivers these early stardrift, they signal that maybe-just-maybe the snow is over and maybe-just-maybe warm sun will take over where cold march days left off. they are harbingers of open windows and adirondack chair time and basil sharing space with cherry tomato plants and flipflops. so much anticipation in tiny flowers.
these days are unseasonably warm. we are not sure why the jet stream seems to be blessing us with this gift but we are elated to walk in degrees that are in the sixties and even seventies. spring in wisconsin has never – in my experience – been a season of warmth. i remember too many soccer and baseball seasons huddled under blankets tucked into my bagchair. but this one is different.
next week is supposed to be back in the fifties. but even those temperatures are happy for us. maybe-just-maybe i’ll get a glimpse of forsythia one of these days, a sure sign of spring on growing-up long island.
reverse threading 