“live life as if everything is rigged in your favour.” (rumi)
it’s when you go back – look at things in retrospect – that you are able to grok it. tiny details that had to align, mistakes and successes you experienced, things you regret and things you celebrate, things that brought you huge satisfaction and things that brought you great disappointment, things you found and things you lost – all were present in the story – to bring you here.
and you look back and realize that in all the positive, the universe held you – skimming the waves, floating with elation, so sure of the moment and yourself.
and you look back and realize that in all the negative, the universe held you – treading water, shaken, downtrodden, so unsure of the moment and yourself.
and, if you are fair, you notice that you are mostly steady. any wobble you carry from back then – whenever back then was – has eased up a bit. you are more resilient than you knew. you notice your grace, your balance, your deliberate, unceasing step-by-step.
and even on days when you are under great pressure – under the weight of everything you can still see in the rearview mirror, everything that worries you ahead – there are reminders of your strength.
this wisp felt like the touch of an angel’s wing. i don’t know which angel – there are many beloveds who are now angels – they have presence in some other plane; they are just over there, just on the other side, watching.
i suppose that from that place they can see that with which we struggle, that with which i struggle. but, having experienced both life and death, they are filled with perspective. and so i imagine them tossing the dice or rock-paper-scissors-ing to see whose turn it is, whose turn to summon up a cloud.
and then, whosever-turn-it-is waves their arm through the blueness of sky gathering up tiny sparkling glittered molecules – like mica – and the wisp forms, floating off to find me – knowing that i notice such things.
and i look up in the moment it happens by. and feel reassured.
right now i am here. right now i am alive. right now i am.
everything must surely be rigged in my favour after all.
buymeacoffee is a tip-jar website where you may support the continuing creating of artissts whose work resonates with you. ♡
***PLEASE NOTE: Both David and I are having WORDPRESS issues so today’s blogposts may look a little funky. Hoping we can resolve these tech issues soon. Thanks for your patience and – mostly – thanks for reading. xoxo
it is a period of lost horizon. right and left, groups of peoples are being marginalized. right and left, rights are being stripped. right and left, the insinuation – no, the out-and-out statement – of violence is threatened. right and left, the environment is suffering. right and left, the clouds are ever closer to the horizon. they are sinking down nearer where the sky meets the ground. the sun is not getting in. truth is cloaked in agenda. the experiment is suffocating. right and left.
and what will be left when the fog lifts?
in the backyards of this country, in the middle of hot dogs and potato salad and apple pie, red, white and blue bandanas and sparklers in the chubby hands of small children, are we being at all vigilant about clearing the fog? are we discerning? are we observing and weighing and thinking-it-through? are we casually watching fireworks that celebrate the independence we stand to lose? are we aware? are we fogged in?
it is a watershed time. right and left. all the way around.
this is not just about us. this is about all those who follow.
when you gaze at your grandson, your granddaughter, do you ponder his or her life moving forward?
do you ponder if they will understand – will respect – that this america was built on the diversity of its people?
do you ponder if they will have choices, if she will have autonomy over her body?
do you ponder if they will have access to social programs – like public schools, access to welfare, medicaid, social security, medicare – like you do?
do you ponder if they will live in a climate environment that is healthy, that is sustaining, that is replenishing, that is balanced?
do you ponder what they will learn about history in school? will it be real history or some edited abdicating version of history? from where will they draw wisdom?
do you ponder if they will hold a sense of gratitude for the veterans of this country – their great-grandparents, their grandparents, their parents, possibly themselves – for fighting for the independence of this united states of america, for fighting for the integrity of the constitution?
do you ponder if they will be able – to be free and welcome – to move about in the whole wide world, to pursue dreams, to love whomever they wish?
do you ponder if their world will be equitable for all people, all genders, all orientations, all races, all economic statuses, all worshippers, all agnostics, all atheists?
do you ponder the life of your grandson or granddaughter should he or she be gay? a woman? a person of color? poor? not christian?
do you ponder if they – as all men and women – with no exceptions – will be held accountable for misdeeds, will be held to the values and the law in this land of the free and the brave?
do you ponder if they will experience aggression – here at “home” – at the highest level?
do you ponder if they will live in a peaceful world or a darkly dangerous world, a world of main streets and neighborhood grocery stores and festivals and schools and religious institutions with concealed automatic weapons, a world ravaged with war, a world of hatred, a world built instead on nationalism and extremism?
what – exactly – is your definition of freedom? is it a manifesto – “project 2025” – built on a governing system sans checks and balances – a transitional template to tyranny? have you read these “promises” of “change”?
have you truly done a deep dive into what could happen – in this country – the one with spacious skies and amber waves of grain?
what do the fireworks symbolize?
are you circumspect at all about what will be there when the fog lifts?
and, in really defining who you are – now, in the partisan sense of the words “right” and “left” – will you turn right or turn left?
will you truly – truly – evaluate all that is at stake?
will you stop listening to the screaming voices and clear the fog and sort to what is really being said?
will you look beyond the hype and the surge of adrenaline and the shot of popularity that comes from expressing anger and riding the bandwagon?
will you read, research, ask questions, seek truth?
will you be responsible? will you be a responsible citizen?
will you step back, turn away – even momentarily – from the fervor of spectacle and actually look at that which is in plain sight, that which is up-close, clear, terrifying?
what do you want for that grandson, that granddaughter? really?
what do you want for your children? really?
what do you want for you, your family, your community, this country? really?
do you wish for amorality? tyranny? fascism?
what is our individual and collective legacy to Next?
the fog will dissipate and the horizon will become clear. that’s how fog works.
it’s merely nuance. just the subtlety of shades, leaves begging for us to notice.
surrounded by meadows filled with wildflowers and a splendid array of color, these leaves are blend-inners, standing out only by their presence in size. so beautiful.
it’s like people, sort of. there are blend-inners and there are stand-outers. both are necessary in the balance of the meadow or the prairie.
the stand-outers are noisier, more assertive – colorful and obviously there, attracting attention, striding.
the blend-inners camouflage into the surroundings, quietly supporting efforts of others, tenaciously pursuing their own bliss, no wish to be flamboyant or noticed.
the surprising thing, however, is when – like this prairie dock plant – there is suddenly growth that is astounding. flower stems begin to shoot up skyward.
if you only passed by in early june you would not know this. you would assume that these broad leaves were in monochromatic zen with the rest of the meadow. you would assume that they would silently simply green their way through the season, other wildflowers growing up and around them, perhaps stifling them.
you would not know that later – just a little bit of time later – these seeming blend-inners would herald tall leafless stems – even as high as eight feet tall – sporting bright yellow daisy-like flowers. it becomes a towering plant, high above the rest, hardy and pretty much invincible. not so silent anymore.
you just can’t judge a book by its cover, can you?
the last thing i expected to see – when we left the building – was anything of beauty.
and yet, there it was. just a little down the hill. growing out of a crack on the city sidewalk, a prickly thistle – with all its thorns – in full bloom.
the flowers were dynamic and dimensional. spiny. seuss-ish.
the plant stopped me. it stopped all thought. it stopped all manner of anything. it was that unexpected. and suddenly, i was distracted. and it was all about the musk thistle blooms. the mystery of prickly and stunning co-existing, a plant that can grow where others cannot.
and for a few moments, i was lost to texture and color…fuchsia and pink, purple and maroon, my heart lifting.
it is said – in the celtic tradition – that the thistle represents resilience.
friends of ours asked if we had cicadas yet. they live a short distance away in illinois and their friends – in another close-by illinois town – have so many cicadas that they cannot sleep at night. we haven’t heard a one. at least not yet.
instead, our nights are quiet. we can hear the gurgle of our pond, maybe a little wind. seems about right for the sweet phase.
dogga wakes us early – this morning his first attempt was at 5 – jumping on the bed for pets and snuggles, he encourages us to get up and put the coffee on. but in those exquisite minutes between slumber and plugging in the cuisinart we can hear the birds greeting the morning, the spoon stirring in a mug through our dear west neighbors’ kitchen window, the quiet strains of symphony as the sun streams in through the window and spills onto our quilt. it’s a tender beginning to a day.
last night was warm – we sat out late after we ate dinner on the deck. sans air conditioning it was warm when we went to sleep. i woke up numerous times through the night…always trying hard not to start thinking – because once i go down that road – the thinking road – i have no real chance at going back to sleep. nevertheless, i went there.
it seems – most times – when you end up on the thinking road it is on autopilot, as if you have no ability to steer. last night, though, i tried to stay in control of the steering wheel. and each time my mind wanted to veer off and ruminate over something else, something of concern, i tried to gently bring it back to my breathing, to the sounds of quiet night, to the feeling of d laying next to me, to the gentle snores of dogga.
i’m pretty sure the cicadas will arrive. i hope so. i don’t know if they will be so loud that i cannot sleep. i’m not too worried. there are plenty of other reasons i don’t sleep. and i have actually been a cicada fan my whole life – i love the summer night sounds of crickets and cicadas and miss those when they disappear in the fall. i try to memorize the sound – until the next season of them. i find both reassuring and pointedly centering – “you are in summer,” they seem to say, “relish it.”
the sweet phase. it’s begun. every day. every night. we are fortunate, no matter what. because we are here. period. this is the time to remember that.
and the daisy turned skyward – cup-full. and as i passed, it reminded me of abundance and plenty.
for the measure of both abundance and plenty is not rigid. it is variable. my plenty is different than yours. and different expectations apply to abundance. it does not serve me well to gauge mine – my plenty, my abundance – by your standards. no, that comparison is not right. there are similarities. there are dissimilarities.
instead, i’ll look at the daisycup. i’ll set my face to the sun. i’ll count the times the dogga runs around the pond. i’ll gaze at the pussywillows on the white bathroom windowsill. i’ll savor the creak of old floors under my bare feet. i’ll tighten the back screen door handle. i’ll watch the house finches dine on grape jelly. i’ll feel his hand wrapped around mine.
we’ll go look for turtles from the bridge. we’ll clink glasses on the deck. we’ll listen to the wind in the chimes. we’ll paint rocks, write words and create big pots of soup. we’ll walk in sync on the sidewalk. we’ll make leftovers and serve them with happy napkins. we’ll relish time with family, with friends. we’ll make plans; we’ll revise plans. we’ll kiss goodnight.
“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…”
buymeacoffee is a tip-jar website where you may choose to help support the continuing creating – or the renewed relevancy – of artists whose work speaks to you. ♡
we waited until the really torrential rain stopped before we drove on to aspen. the forested slopes, sagebrush-dotted mountains and an amazing canyon are just too much to miss in driving rain. the marmot, the bighorn sheep and the mountain goats were all out on our way there – the reward of patience and not rushing. they grinned as we went by, slowing to gaze at them, all pretty close to the shoulder of the road.
we were gifted with a herd of elk lounging in a meadow on our way back from the ditch trail. it’s not to be underestimated – the size of an elk. they grinned at us from the field and told us that the real hulksters – the moose – wouldn’t be making an appearance that day.
and then, back a couple hours on the other side of the canyon, right in the middle of breck, this tiny family of foxes. momma fox watching over her kits, the incredibly adorable curious little babies romped around the old building, scurrying from one plaything to another, scooting under the foundation. none of them seemed fearful and we were grateful that people weren’t chasing after them like the nincompoops in national parks seem to be doing these days. they were grinning at their audience, just happy-go-lucky-living life and momma fox was watching over her brood carefully. we were enchanted.
we saw them a few times while we were there. each time we laid back, quietly watching, enthralled at their courage and delighted at their zeal.
this is always a hard place to leave – these mountains. we try to make the most of the gloriousness while we are there. every breath here counts.
and i wonder if someone is watching from some other planet or galaxy or dimension. they can see us – david and me – romping and scurrying, playing and scooting – just like the baby fox. they might think we were just happy-go-lucky-living life. they might be enchanted.
no matter where i am there comes a point when this happens.
when i was little – and everyone else went to sleepaway camp – i tried it on for size. twice. the first time it was ok. we went to camp koinonia in upstate new york and i was with my best friend susan. we stayed in a screened-in cabin with bunkbeds and there’s not much else i remember, save for the lanyard-making. the second time it was another upstate sleepaway camp and, again, i was with my best friend susan. that time did not go well. it rained a lot that week and that contributed to my wistful homesickness. i remember kickball and crafts and i remember a bit of weeping. i didn’t try it again.
i guess – as much as i now love going away – traveling and adventure, immersing in new places – even my favorite places – i am also kind of a homebody. i miss our house, our routines, my feet on our old wood floors, our dogga.
paradoxically, i feel fortunate to have gotten away from home. we needed a little bitta time out of town, a little bitta time away from the usual stuff, a little bitta time near family, a little bitta time in the mountains.
i think even a short stint of time away interrupts us. it grants us fresh air. it pokes us to not take loving our home lightly. it stirs up the wish-we-were-closer proximity yearnings. it gives us fresh eyes to return to our routines and the projects and challenges on our plates. it makes coming home sweet.
i am really, really familiar with the view out the front door of our house. this tree has been there the entire three and a half decades i have now lived here. and i have seen the sky and the seasons change through the arc of its branches.
the trees next to the sidewalk on our road have been aging out. one by one we wake up or arrive home to the roar of heavy chainsaw sounds. it makes me worry about our tree. it would be tough to see that tree removed.
going away and exploring – meandering around – is good for the soul. it’s invigorating and can take you out of your comfort zone. it’s rejuvenating. it gives you space.
coming back home – after going away and exploring – is also good for the soul. it affirms the everyday, the mundane, everything you consider ordinary, the very-familiar. and it elevates appreciation of all of it.
i saw the letter k immediately. one always sees ones initials, i suppose.
it immediately made me think of the way i used to sign everything – back in the day. (note: “the day” means the 70s – which is now – shockingly – half a century ago – which makes me laugh aloud!!)
i used a combination of my initials K, E, A – joined together – nothing extraordinary, it looked like this:
i used it everywhere. i signed my poetry with it. turned in lab reports with it. i autographed my lyrics in black-and-white-speckled composition books. i signed all my greeting cards with it and left notes on crunch’s windshield adorned with it. my monogram traveled with me everywhere.
and soon, recipients of my dedication to this began to use it back to me. i even have a beautiful gold necklace that was gifted to me with my cherished self-designed monogram.
and then, the guitar strap.
it was a present.
it was during the time that tooled leather had more than a minute. like everyone, i already had tooled leather keyfobs, bracelets, belts, change purses and full-sized handbags.
but the guitar strap stood out.
i used this guitar strap for five decades on my guitar. i had compartmentalized what it represented, the person who had given it to me, the time of which it reminded me.
until one day, a few years ago.
when you join together with a partner much later in life, you are full of the stories of the rest of the time you were not together. it’s rich history, narrative begging to be shared. and so, these stories start to tell themselves a little at a time as you get to know each other. and so one day i told him the story.
in horror he listened. he held me as i wept. he gently asked questions. he was quiet with me.
the bungie cord tightly lashed around the compartment of the sexual abuse flung free, snapping back, narrowly missing us. and the box was opened.
i removed the guitar strap from my guitar, unweaving the leather cord that held it onto the neck just under the tuning pegs. i stared at it for a few minutes, my monogram tooled into stiff leather that had somewhat softened through all the years.
and i took it outside and placed it in the garbage can.
reverse threading 