one of my favorite mother’s day cards came from david last year. we make all our cards for each other and on his he drew me, looking at a starry sky. there are two arrows pointing at individual stars and inside he wrote, “for the two times you wished upon a star.”
the wisps of miracles-of-all-kinds floating about the galaxy – the ones that became my children – have my everlasting gratitude.
for i have learned of the infinite spectrum that is motherhood. the triumphs and the failings, the angst and the bliss, the hugs and the pushaways, the unconditional love that somehow birthed an extra heart when each child was born – gracing me with whole hearts for each of them and with a heart to do the rest of the work, the heavy lifting of living.
in a world that is full of galactic nonsense, the real essence becomes more and more clear to me: each wisp of intense beauty, tiny nuances of time passing, the dust that is me – in a river full of stardust.
“if you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.” (hal borland)
it was the first tree i have ever bought.
i know plenty of people who buy trees, spend lavishly on shrubs, bushes, flowers, on landscaping, have much knowledge about plants and flowers and such. but i – well, we – are neophytes in the gardening category.
my sweet momma loved plants, including outdoor plants around our house back on long island. but they were simple heritage plants – hostas and daylilies, hydrangea, four o’clocks. all easy to cultivate – and easy to transplant cuttings from friends. i don’t remember spending any of my growing-up years browsing nurseries with my parents while they tried to decide which new plants to purchase, with no regard to price tag. there was the occasional vegetable garden out back where the round above-ground pool had been and maybe a new houseplant or two but propagating by division was my momma’s way and, with a garden full of nostalgia-type plants, she instilled in me an appreciation for the simplest, for the less-is-more on-a-shoestring approach.
in my own planting through the years i have found that i have mimicked my momma’s style. cuttings from friends, transplanting excess from others’ gardens into my own, it has been gardening-on-a-budget. my purple iris, my lavender garden were from the gardens of dear friends. though stunning, they did not sustain long-term as my neighbor planted snow-on-the-mountain on the other side of the fence and it completely smothered my more delicate garden. our wild geranium came from the beautiful garden of a dear friend out east. our hostas and our daylilies and ferns spent some time rolling down third avenue in a wheelbarrow when another friend was paring down her over-producing garden. we did purchase the first of our ornamental grasses, but now they not only sustain but are capable of filling in many gaps in our garden by their own – or our – cultivating. we annually, now, purchase a few flowers in tiny packs from flats for pots – though the woman who bought five gorgeous big plants at $16.99 each in front of us did made me a little bit envious. each year, now, as you already know, we are also planting herbs on our potting stand – there is joy in stepping outside with snippers while cooking. all in all, there is minimal purchasing going on – which lines right up with minimal knowledge. what we do know is that we really love our gardens, simple as they are.
that brings me to trees. i cannot remember my parents purchasing trees while i was growing up. we lived in a wooded area and just enjoyed the trees with which we were gifted naturally. though as i write that i recall a dogwood tree out front to the left of the driveway. i wonder if that was a special tree that they bought…or maybe the mimosa tree out front with its beautiful pink fluff flowers….so maybe there was a tree or two….
i can, however, attest to the fact that i had never in my life purchased a tree to plant outdoors. not in new york, not in florida, not in new hampshire, not in wisconsin. neither has d. not in colorado, not in new mexico, not in california, not in texas, not in kentucky, not in washington, not in wisconsin. though we love trees, tree purchases have never survived the budget cuts. until breck.
outside the city market in breckenridge, colorado, the stand of trees had a big sign: “aspens – $9.99”.
$9.99??? for a tree??? one of our absolute favorite trees???
we purchased it before even checking to see if it would fit in littlebabyscion. and, because I’ve written about it before, you know the rest of the story. it’s now been almost 8 years since we brought breck home. we have held our breath, whispered quiet prayers, wrapped blankets around it, researched how to attain its best health. and through it all – living in a pot – and then a bigger pot – on the deck, disliking the shady fern garden into which we planted it – tucked next to the garage, and the big transplant to where it is now – it has not only patiently survived, but it has flourished. breck is now as tall as the side of the garage, as tall as the first story of the house. it seems happy and well-adjusted to its life in the ornamental grass garden, a spot for birds to linger, the object of our love.
maybe someday there will be a reason to buy another tree. we may have more space somewhere or more desire for shade or a wish for a stand of aspen or – the real factor – a bigger budget.
in the meanwhile, i feel incredibly content with our one tree purchase. breck is – obviously – ridiculously dear to us. it is a song of success in our simple backyard.
“trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.” (kahlil gibran)
we venture out of the mind-boggling absorption of what’s really happening out there every now and then. and sit in the sun. or browse plants and flowers at the nursery. or take to the trail. or pet the dogga.
because we all need a break from it at some point, this devastation that wracks our hearts…just a few tiny moments away from thinking about it.
the rest of life is going on. people are working and sleeping, having babies and leaving this earth, healing and fighting disease with all their might, doing real life. right smack in the middle of horrific – – real life.
and sometimes that is enough.
really.
enough.
the rest of all of it is just too much.
“…well, everybody’s heart needs a holiday some time…”
in these days we are waking very early. our old dogga is hungry, maybe a little stiff, needing to get up and get us moving. and so we do. we open blinds and let the sun rise through our windows. we sit with our coffee against pillows in a bed we have now lowered closer to the floor for dogga. we listen to the birds and our pond gurgling. it is quiet. really quite exquisite.
we wake to the beautiful barebones of this universe – and sit in appreciation, silent as we listen and absorb the dawn of this next day. we are both very, very aware of this gift of time, this gift of stillness. we revel in the simplest of things for it is the simplest of things with which we surround ourselves; our budget is squishy-tight and we try our best to abide by the premise of ‘less is more’.
and it is in those moments – the moments of rays across our quilt, coffee in our hands, dogga at our feet – the moments of listening – that i can’t understand.
i can’t understand how anyone – particularly any person in any influential position of leadership – can wake up in the morning with evil-agendized intent in their heart. i can’t understand the superficiality of wanting-it-all, needing-it-all, having-it-all. i can’t grok the indecency of plotting against persons, peoples, missions, goodness.
i wonder how it is that one can wake so conversely differently, full of dreadful scheming. i wonder how it is that those people are of the same humankind. i wonder what twisted them, what broke their connection to morality, what tore the silken filaments of the recognition of unconditional beauty from them. what maelstrom enveloped their souls and trapped them in an eddy of cruelty.
we sit on the deck and look to the sky through the mixup of branches above us to the north. dogga lays nearby and the sun is sinking lower, the dusk sky an ombré canvas.
and – like many of you, i suppose – i still can’t understand. and it still doesn’t feel real.
but it is. and there are those – waking up yesterday, today, and – with nothing stopping them – likely, tomorrow – the textures of our woven universe unimportant, their own needs driving corrupt obsessions of power and control, their view of the world – this country – dark, their actions ruthless and cavalier, each of them impervious to the exquisite.
and the barebones of the universe sigh deeply, grief spilling into the technicolored chiaroscuro sky of dawn, the ink of dusk.
every time i turn a shampoo bottle over and empty the remains into a new shampoo bottle – each upside-down tap of the bottle, drawing the last vestiges of shampoo to the top, makes me think of her.
every bird in the backyard, every endcrust of bread, every leftover dinner, every time i do laundry or make lists, merry morning sunshine.
every time we use the wire cheese slicer, every time i pass by the snake plant, every time i tend our houseplants, every time i thank someone who has generously served us in some way.
every time i see a dachshund or a hosta, every time i think of Long Island, every time i write in my calendar, every area rug on a wood floor, sweet potatoes, math.
every time i make do, every time i save something for ‘special’, every time i turn a few specific phrases or use a coupon, collect rocks or driftwood, every time i make – or have – french fries or iced tea.
every time i see liverwurst or have rye toast, catch the aroma of roast beef in an oven or see a jar of ragu sauce.
when i see beets, when i have onion dip, when I devour crumb cake or chips ahoy, when i coffee-sit, when i repurpose things, when i think about baked ziti or darning socks.
when i defend how to pronounce “sauna”, when i see the “sisu” sign in my studio, spiral notebooks and scrap copies, when i hear “wowee!”, when i stood at the edge of the grand canyon.
every time. i think of my sweet momma. and I wonder how it is possible that she left this world ten years ago today. ten. ten years without her. ten years of not being able to pick up the phone and call her. ten years without mom hugs. ten years without a mom who would listen to any story i told her – any number of times i told it – knowing that my biggest fan was this woman, who was ahead of her time in so many ways.
i wonder how she is feeling now about the turn of all she left behind. i wonder if she has that certain stink eye she’d get, wishing to admonish this country’s current leaders and those following in lock-step. i wonder if the public deflection and distraction of some – avoiding the truth of their choice, avoiding taking responsibility for that choice, literally cheerleading this horror, loudly or silently – i wonder if seeing all that makes her crazy. knowing my momma – and her humanitarian and political leanings – i’m fairly certain she is pretty “irked” – as she would say. she is likely fired up and giving someone a piece of her mind somewhere on the other side. as high-road as she was (and, probably, is) she is not one to put up with the destruction of the country for which she and my dad sacrificed.
and so, every time i speak up or speak out i think of her. every time i voice absolute protection of the rights of members of my family. every time i express horror for the dismantling of this democracy and the cruel disenfranchising of people of the populace. every time i see another nail skewering women. every time i read about the dumbing-down, the elimination of history, the blunting of truth, the big-time grift. every time i stand up for what she taught me about kindness to people. every time. i think of her.
and every time i see the print “live life, my sweet potato” i think of her. and i miss her. yet again.
it is hard for me to avoid. i simply cannot help it. or maybe i just can’t resist the impulse.
we play rummikub every monday and thursday with 20 after we share dinner together. and – every single time – something one of them – d or 20 – says, makes me break into song.
we were talking about the obvious – you know – the state of our country. it was in an unusual fit of optimism. it was right after we talked about bernie sanders and aoc and the pushback of intellectually woke people against authoritarianism etc etc etc (i know you hear that line now – from the king and i – uh-huh, uh-huh – etc etc etc).
it had been a week since we had seen 20 (which is also unusual) and much had happened – on both sides – so there was a lot to talk about.
in that week we had found a different trail. it wound its way through a rural landscape and we enjoyed its newness. and then there was this tree. one sturdy old gnarly oak in the forefront of a blank field. stunning. perhaps a hundred years old. perhaps more. its silhouette against the sky so intense, strikingly gnarly in a good way.
we have such an appreciation for these lands of space through which we hike. we have hiked out east, down south, out west, up north. we’ve hiked in county parks, state parks, national parks. we dream of thru-hiking one day on one of the national trails. we hold these places in high regard, grateful for the glorious beauty, the potential for peacefulness, the celebration of the wild.
and so our conversation of late and of that night – of course – is also about the threat to these places (in addition to all the other gnarly-extremely-twisted corrupt threats of the administration too long to list or even grok in any conscience-based way.) we talked about our new forest preserve hike and we talked about national parks. and it feels sickening inside to think of the decimation of any of this. and all for the wealth of the wealthiest.
in the middle of our rummikub game – me…stuck with gnarly chips – a double of black 13s and a double of 1s and the grasp of the plastic trophy seeming bleak – and in the middle of the accompanying punctuations of news-chaos-of-the-day conversation – it suddenly came to mind, rose to the top.
the song ooh child was written about times of strife.
i started singing.
and hoping.
that some day we – this broken country – will put it together and get it undone. and then we’ll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun – when the world is much brighter.
they rolled their eyes, poking fun at the records spinning in my brain. and, for a few minutes, we all laughed.
were my momma still alive, i would purchase this for her. she would have loved the bright colors, the sweetness of it. mostly she would have loved the message – be kind. she was not a complex person, not really. she had a basic approach to living. be kind pretty much encapsulates it.
were my momma still alive, i would bring it to her and we would plant it in a garden she could easily see or, more likely, plant it in an indoor pot, maybe with a snake plant or aloe.
were my momma still alive, we would chat about things. we would talk about how the illustrator of this garden-art post depicted happiness. we would talk about color and folk art and hearts and simplicity.
and then we would talk about right now.
were my momma still alive, she would be appalled at the state of this country. she would be gobsmacked by the outright cruelty and lack of attention – shall we say – to the law, to decency, to morality. she would be devastated by the rifts in her own family. she would be sickened by the rapid dismantling of our democracy and the descent into hellish authoritarianism. she would remind me – though i need no reminding – that my poppo fought against fascism, risking his life being taken prisoner of war – all to keep this country safe from the exact sort of thing that is now rampant.
were my momma still alive, she would weep. and i would try to console her, wrapping my arms around her in a hug, holding her just as she used to hold me in times that i was inconsolable. she would be tired then. she would lay down in exhaustion, wringing her hands in intense worry, fear across her brow, tears on her cheeks.
my sweet momma died ten years ago now – on the 29th of april. i still feel the loss of her in every fibre of my being.
i might go get this garden-art post. because – though it would cost money we are big-time reticent to spend – it would be like my momma is physically here. at least just a tiny bit.
it had been two years. two years plus since we last hiked there. after the woods added a high ropes/adventure course we were less inclined to go there, less eager to go hike its trails. the tranquil quiet was interrupted with the sounds of groups on the contrived course, the echoes of planned adventure bouncing off ancient trees and the forest floor.
but the other day – on a blue-sky-slightly-warmer-less-windy day – we decided to go back. because it is still merely early-spring, the course wasn’t yet open, though the staff was there training. one of the guys – suspended in a harness on lines high above us – called down to us, telling us how happy he was to spend the day in the woods.
we set out on our trail, a bit eager to see how things might have changed, how the familiar might be a bit less familiar after so many seasons had passed.
seeing this much-trod-in-the-past place was sheer joy. there is something about knowing the bend in the path, something about knowing where the tiny ponds are tucked in the woods, something about knowing certain trees and where the green glow might be starting.
we took our news-weary eyes and placed them – instead – on the roots crossing the trail, on the rise and fall of our breathing. we focused on spring arriving in the woods in this place where we have spent so much time.
we were – gloriously – nowhere else for a couple hours.
“and into the forest i go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” (john muir)
the sky set softly on the end of the day. it was chilly on the patio, though still. any wind off the lake had eased up. it had been a day.
we attended the hands-off protest here in our town. i had some trepidation before we left to go. still too close in memory are the riots from 2020. still too close are the screaming-loud trucks-with-flags driving around our neighborhood before the election. still too close is the distorted reality that we witness from people who voted for all this destruction, chasms of morality difference. still too obvious is the hyped-up aggression we are witnessing every day. too much to bear is the annihilation of civil rights, impartial justice, checks and balances based on the rule of law. trepidation seems appropriate.
but the protest was inspiring. heartening. people – regular folks – rising up for the rights and freedoms of our constitution, speaking up for our democracy.
the footage around the country – big cities and small towns all – of people – neighbors and friends and strangers – all standing together to clutch onto every filament of this republic.
and i wondered, “what now?”
for fighting fascism from this side of the election seems much more onerous than from the other side – before the election – when people needed to completely grok the far-reaching impact of their very important vote.
we have an arduous journey in front of us. and i know so many of us are already exhausted.
“if i’m laden at all/i’m laden with sadness that everyone’s heart isn’t filled with the gladness of love for one another.” (he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother – bob russell/bobby scott)
when i look in the mirror these days i am struck by the lines around my eyes, the lines etched above my lips, the furrow etched into my brow. i wonder how they all arrived without my noticing, as if – at night, while i was sleeping – a clay sculpting tool had gently drawn lines in skin no longer as resilient as it had been.
i glance at photographs from merely five years ago – and then ten years ago – and am startled to see the difference. but i know what the last years have been and – so – i should not be surprised. these wrinkles have been earned.
for it has been a time.
we all have them – these timelines of challenge or disappointment or frustration or grief.
in the humanness we all share, it would seem prudent to share these heavy burdens, the stuff of life that is made easier with someone else to help lift them.
“so on we go/his welfare is my concern/no burden is he to bear, we’ll get there.”
but this last decade.
as is woven throughout the history of this country, the extraordinary of abject cruelty and its ugly head raise up and shock our belief in equality and kindness. this last decade.
the hypocrisy of institutions supposedly dedicated to the love of one another – to goodness – to compassion – shifts the ground under our feet and we have been gobsmacked by the betrayal. this last decade.
our very own communities have quaked, stormy, seismic shifts forming a crevasse between us – not merely a difference in opinion, but a difference in basic morality. we reel from the impact, from the air that is sucked from our lungs as we grok this. this last decade.
last week. my birthday. d’s homemade card next to my early morning coffee. the pink tulips from 20. dogga’s momma-kisses. the call from my girl and her husband. and that moment my son handed me a tiny carrot cake – remembering. i felt the light, the easing of the load, the gladness, the love. each time.
i do not understand the dedication to cruelty, to evil intention, to undermining others, to destruction, to the bandwagon of every-man-for-himself-every-woman-for-herself.
“it’s a long, long road from which there is no return/while we’re on the way to there why not share?”
i wonder how it might all be different.
i suspect there’d be far fewer furrows and creases and wrinkles.
“and the load doesn’t weigh me down at all. he ain’t heavy. he’s my brother.”
reverse threading 