john pavlovitz wrote, “if tens of millions of people get up every day and do a small something, that’s a pretty damn powerful something.”
his wise words suggested to “leverage your life where you are” and that we are each gifted with “the proximity to need and the agency to alleviate it“.
his wise words helped the paralysis that we were feeling.
in these times of extreme chaos, it is easy to be overwhelmed and we have felt that just like many around us. it helped to be reminded about the power – the moving of mountains – of leading with the intention of good, of choosing even simple acts of kindness. doing something.
tens of millions of people could get up every day and do nothing. tens of millions of people could be complicit with the state of the country. tens of millions of people could be cold-hearted, could not care, could place their own needs first and foremost and singular. tens of millions of people could look away from the chaos and the cruelty, the lawlessness and the devastation upon others in their community. astonishingly, tens of millions of people are doing just that.
but there are other tens of millions of people who believe in something different, who are showing up, who are cutting through the noise, who are helping, who are trying to make a difference, who feel the imperative to do something.
she said (words to the effect), “he’s worried that with all the politics and the chaos and everything else that is happening, fewer are paying attention to climate change.”
breck is growing by leaps and bounds, it seems. the top leaves are taller than the garage peak. it is both astounding and delightful, this little aspen tree.
because it has been an extraordinarily hot summer, i have watered breck consistently. last year the heat took a toll on breck and you could see it on stressed leaves so – between that and watching martijn watering his young trees on the youtube of his idyllic life in the mountains of italy – i decided it would be best to tend it more. breck has responded with glorious growth, rich verdant leafing, a bark that is appearing more white, quaking in every breeze, soaking up the attention.
and climate change continues.
because we are being expected to play along with the distraction games going on in our nation, our focus is being whipped from one manufactured disaster to another, with an attempt to keep our attention off all things horrific. because the current administration is gutting all things organic, all things scientific, all things that point to the intensified global warming that is caused by us humans – we will reap what we have sown and the already apocalyptic weather events will worsen. the damage is being done as we ping-pong back and forth between watching the gilding of the oval and the normalization of insane rhetoric, untruths of propaganda, a dying justice system, cruelty on the streets.
and climate change continues.
breck – in our backyard – dances when i water it with the watering wand. i can see it sigh with relief. just like, in particular, the basil and the sweet potato vine. the wilty jalapeño leaves immediately perk up, the cilantro ceases reclining in its pot. it doesn’t take much.
even as we love being right here – sharing space in our backyard with breck – we miss being out in the mountains. we feel at home there and yearn for a time to return. we know they will be there when we have a chance to make the trip.
we do, however, know that there is much happening out there. it is hotter, there are more wildfires and, hence, more mudslides. there is increased smoke at elevation, there is drought, there is risk for all wildlife and ecosystems. water availability is significantly stressed and pestilence is becoming more severe. erosion is accelerating with big-money-mongering efforts at more timber harvesting and various mining operations. the landscape is changing and we – as a species – are at fault.
meanwhile, the oval office and the colonnade are being tchotchked with gold – everywhere. the disrespect – of the people’s house, the people’s land, the people’s country, the people – is rampant.
there’s no reason to gild the lily of sea-to-shining-sea-america, the beautiful. it needs no ladening of gold, no tchotchkying of adornments. there is every single reason to protect it.
i’m pretty sure our mother earth would soak up the attention.
it continues to peel back. each rainstorm, each gust of wind, the ice and snow of winter, the baking hot sun…they all have impact. and the layers of barney keep peeling back. every iteration of this piano reveals its soul, a soul that never changes. despite disappearing obvious visual cues that say “piano” it is still a piano. the keys are virtually gone now, but remain, nevertheless, in essence. the stand that held music way earlier in this past century of its life has broken down. the sheen of lacquered varnish highlighting the grain of the wood has faded, melting into rays and raindrops. changed, barney is unchanged.
i wonder at the tenacity of such a soul. i wonder at the steadfastness of spirit. i wonder at how much more beautiful it continues to get – each and every day – despite all it has endured, all it endures.
there is a piano in our basement. it is my growing-up piano. it is a spinet, completely out of tune, even with itself. we had it moved down there and then built walls around the stairwell that turns and turns again, 90 degree angles making a complete 180. that piano may never be able to be moved back up those stairs. but if it could, i would bring it outside. the journey that barney has taken – with flowers and plants and chippies and squirrels – has only enhanced its real presence in the world. if i could, i would honor this old piano – this relic of my growing-up – with this same weathering of time.
though currently exponential, like most generations before us, we are living in a strange and scary time. the facade of our country is being peeled back. yet, what we are finding beneath this shiny well-lacquered veneer is not wholesome or all-american. as the soul of constitutional goodness is stripped – layer by layer, right by right, freedom by freedom – there is an ugly that is revealing itself.
when the keys are gone and the music stand is gone and the sheen is gone and the wood is splintering, falling into the garden to turn to mush, what will we find at the center of this country?
i fear it is not stalwart like barney. it is not getting more beautiful. its endurance is limited. changed, it will be changed.
the cosmos splashed across a bit of sidewalk were an invitation for attention. that color! instantly-happy-hot-pink.
she looked wary when i asked her if it was her house. she hesitated a moment and then answered, “yes, it is.”
we were passing by and, as is the case every time we pass by this house, we were charmed by the flowers out front, the porch, the cleverly colorful way the house is painted, the firepit in the front. it is just all delightful and so i told her, “we love it every single time we pass by.”
it wasn’t what she expected, i guess. she smiled, looking surprised, and thanked us, going back to watering her front garden.
and we walked on.
we are living in such trepidatious times. it seems much easier these days for people to say something negative to another person. we drive and blatant f*** you stickers are on vehicles, foul messages of rage and violence. it is clear that the bearers of these messages believe it is perfectly ok to display them to carloads of strangers – adults and children – with whom they are sharing the road. it’s disturbing. people have been given permission to be aggressive, to be filled with anger, to be vile to others.
and so, in light of all the rampant hostility, i realized – afterwards – that this young woman may have felt uncomfortable with my question “is this your house?” and i noted to myself to – next time – start with my compliment, “hi…we love this house every single time we pass by, so if it is yours i’d like you to know that.”
our town does a really spectacular job of flowers. there are stunning gardens in the parks by the harbor and beaches, pots of flowers hanging from the streetlights in downtown, in big planters on the sidewalk. they are all well taken care of and, from time to time, as we have passed people working in those gardens, we have thanked them. they always seem surprised.
i feel like we have fallen down on the job of being human when it is a surprise that someone is courteous, when it is a surprise to be complimented or treated kindly, when the expectation is first that of the possibility of pointed antagonism, when we succumb to spewing the loathsome and revolting rhetoric of hatred, divisiveness, bigotry.
it was late night on the train platform. though we had walked from the station when we arrived, our boys dropped us off for the way back home. the train was a wee bit late and there were a few people on the platform waiting, some a bit impatiently. we were tired but not impatient, grateful to not be driving home from the city.
the clouds and the moon got together, plotting a bit of choreography. nearly full, this waxing gibbous was extraordinarily bright, backlighting the cotton balls of clouds passing in front of it. with wildfire smoke particles catching the light, an orange glow encircled the white moon peeking out, the glow much like the salt lamp emits in my studio. we stood on the platform, waiting for the train, completely captivated by the sky above us.
in recent days i have been reading old journals. journals almost fifty years old. these were the days when i passed through teenage years. when my days and nights were long and full of adventures: dancing at discos and early sunrise photo shoots, beach-camping and scuba diving, fishing and arboretums and county parks and apple-picking, skiing and my red round transistor radio on a picnic blanket. they were days of my little blue vw bug and growing-up-nuclear-family time, guitars and poetry, climbing trees and frisbee and term papers, bike hikes, the mall, my dog missi and a plethora of friends. i was often writing in my journal at 2am, wide-awake, reviewing my day, waxing poetic, loving life. it is a pilgrimage into the innocent.
my late-nights are different now, indeed, than way back when. sleep is now something i really adore, much more so than when the most minimal amount seemed – maybe – necessary.
because i am reading and reading and reading, i am feeling somewhat immersed in back-then.
these days i turn on the salt lamp that sits on the chifforobe. i don’t do it every day, but right now seems a good time for it as i hold space for the going-through of things of the past. from this vantage point – looking back – i know the shatter of innocence comes. the voice in my journal changes.
the glow stays with me as i pass by the studio door.
and now, as sleep eludes me at night, i lay under the quilt and gaze at the moon illuminating the blinds.
i am surely turning into my parents. at least when it comes to their love of birds.
early this season – and after much research – we went to the nursery. we were set on purchasing trumpet-shaped salvia – for our hummingbirds. they didn’t have any but recommended cardinal flower, another flower that attracts these tiny birds.
we planted it in an old metal firepit out by the back fence next to the big leaf hosta, adjacent to the hummingbird feeder. and waited.
months. it has taken months for it to grow and to sport blooms. for a while we thought we would need to go find salvia, our original choice, to add to the planter. nothing was really happening with our cardinal flower.
until all of a sudden.
it shot up tall – almost as tall as the fence. and then, to the drumroll of the universe and its independent timing, stunning red blooms began to open. and, in a validating moment of glee, we watched a hummingbird hover next to multiple blooms and drink from them. finally.
this cardinal flower should have come with a note attached – “please be patient”. as it is a perennial, we hope it will return next year as well in this big metal urn. but we will plant some salvia just inside the perimeter of the urn next spring, because, well, we aren’t all that patient.
in the meanwhile, I’ve kept our red glass hummingbird feeder freshened and ready for any hummers on the move. it is completely delightful to watch them zoom in – they know the feeder is there – a tiny gps keeps track of these things in their tiniest brains. it never ceases to amaze us.
just like the birds who swoop in to the feeder out back or land on the edge of the birdbath, one of our favorite purchases from a couple years ago. they know. seemingly, word has spread to the house finches that we have grape jelly, word has spread to the sparrows we have dirtbath access, word has spread to the robins we have water to sip, word has spread to the cardinals we have easier access to food. because it is obvious that they know.
we couldn’t be more proud.
it starts for us when we wake to the sounds of early birds outside our windows. and, at the end of the day, out on the deck in the waning sun, we watch the swallows and bats compete for airspace while other birds seem to be finding shelter and places to rest.
yes, my parents used to sit for hours watching the birdlife. they seemed absolutely content, quietly observing and talking about feeders and birdhouses.
the chipping-peeling-paint white cabinet spoke to me. it sat on top of a side table in the booth straight ahead of the walk-through from one building into the other at the antique shoppe. it had some sweet personality and i visited with it, lifting the old clasp handles to open it and peer inside. with shelves ready for stuff to be tucked away, this little cupboard charmed me.
i took a few photographs, noting the price, and we left.
i had an old aquarium stand next to my bed as my nightstand. it held a few photos and framed notes from my kiddos when they were little: “goodnight mom” and “mom” with hearts. it held a jelly jar with pens and pencils, a pair of readers. it held a small clock and a glass nightstand lamp that was my sweet momma’s. it held a box of tissues, babycat’s old “meow” bowl with trinkets and my earbuds. underneath, on the bottom glass shelf, it held a wooden crate that serves as a special box for earlier decades.
you may be getting the picture.
the fishtank stand held too much.
we visited the little white cupboard a second time, measuring it and taking more photographs, pondering.
we moved things around in the bedroom and i emptied the glass and wrought iron metal stand, paring down as i worked. and still pondering.
and then we went back to the antique shoppe – our favorite. i held my breath as we came around the corner to the place where you could see through the passageway into the other big room and into the booth where the little white cupboard still sat, patiently waiting.
and this third time, after a smidge of price negotiating, the little white cupboard came home.
because we do not have a matchy-matchy kind of bedroom suite, it seemed right to add this little cabinet to the old black-painted cedar chest that had been miss peggy’s from next door, the medium-toned wood dresser that had been lois’ before she left for overseas teaching forty years ago, the spring from my dad’s antique bassinet, holding tiny clothes-pinned handmade cards we’ve given each other. the live-life-my-sweet-potato print and the black and white canvas of babycat. the gingham print red and white wingchair lazyboy, the small black jewelry armoire i bought off marketplace, the pine cabinet from the town in the north carolina mountains where we bought property over four decades ago, the quilt a friend made when i broke both my wrists that graces the bed from which we removed the frame so it would be easier for our aging dogga to jump on and off. it is a venerable hodgepodge and we love it. the peeling-paint white cabinet is right at home.
we have always been drawn to items – particularly vintage – that are painted black. but lately, it seems, we are attracted to the things that are painted white, things that show life, things that have had some miles and some stories, some lovin’-on. but lighter, brighter.
and so these pure white flowers that are in our dear westneighbors’ yard are just exquisite to me. these hydrangea seem like the flowers of posies of love, of weddings, of hope. they bring a smile every time i pass by them, backing down or pulling into the driveway. such delicate beauty, these blossoms on shrubs where tiny birds gather.
maybe it’s the balance of light. this room – our house – has great sunlight streaming in many old double-hung windows. in these times, as we find ourselves slightly more insular – again – staying home with our old dogga – we are spending much time in the spaces of our home. the white fuzzy pillows, the white chunks of concrete, the old white door learning against the wall, the white throw, the white iron obelisk trellis…they hold light.
and right now – particularly right now – as we make our way through these times, it would seem important to gather around ourselves things that hold the light for us.
“live as if you were to die tomorrow. learn as if you were to live forever.” (mahatma gandhi)
the last time they were here, we made them promise that they would keep nudging us. we urged them, “don’t let us get lackadaisical!! just keep pushing us to learn new stuff, try new things.” they laughed and promised, but i hope they know how much we mean it.
it is too easy to become sedentary about learning, to be aloof to new technology (or, worse yet, to be rigidly opposed to it). it is too easy to be mired in the-way-it-used-to-be-done or to be too lazy, overwhelmed, or afraid to take on new challenges and attempt things that are hard to grok, things that are difficult to wrap our somewhat-older brains around. and so, we are placing the onus of responsibility on our kids (though our daughter doesn’t yet know this) to make sure we keep growing, to encourage us and, mostly, to help us as we try to keep learning. we don’t have too much of a problem at this point – we love to learn new things, even if we have to wrangle with complexity or confusion.
anyway, we are committed. and we hope they will help.
it is in that very spirit of things that we have signed up for classes or taken on new software or attempted new gardens. It is in that very spirit that we have books about writing poetry or youtube how-to-fix-stuff or google new recipes and the best way to store fresh herbs or stream our son’s EDM music.
so when we walked outside and found a few gorgeous sunflowers growing next to our old garage – in the spot where we have unintentional composting – we got excited. the birds frequenting the birdfeeder several feet away clearly planted these beauties and their very tall successes got us dreaming a bit.
“wouldn’t it be just perfect to have sunflowers growing all along that garage wall in between the garage and the fence?” we pondered. it got us to thinking and googling and a little bit of research.
and there is nothing like a deep dive into sunflowers – or sweet potatoes or wellness or newly-found poets and recording artists or emissions or old appliances or yep-roofing fixes and options or hiking boots or thru-trails or history or fact-checking or antiques – to take your mind off the obvious.
albert einstein said, “once you stop learning, you start dying.”
henry ford’s “anyone who keeps learning stays young” resonates with me as well.
we saw it on the wall: “tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” (mary oliver, of course)
he says that one day we must go on a trip that is specifically about photography. that we will slowwwwly stroll – wherever it is we are – and i can stop and linger – at any time – and take a picture – or twenty – of any single thing along the way. i am excited about that and we have a really, really long list of the places we might choose as destinations. an endless list, actually.
the funny thing is – this is pretty much how i do every day. on the trail, in our backyard, at the garden center, at our potting stand, in the antique shoppe, at the grocery store, in our ‘hood, in the mountains, on the beach – anywhere.
i have always loved taking photographs. even a dear old friend, who i hadn’t spoken with in about four decades, remembered that i always had a camera in my hand whenever she and i were together. it goes way back…for me, to those pocket instamatic cameras and the cameras with the square bulbs on the top that rotated for the next shot. in college i did photo shoots with my new 35mm manual camera for extra money. i climbed fences to take sunrise shots on beaches. i hiked in rivers to capture the fauna along the edges. i adored being the photography editor of my college paper, toting my camera to disco parties, softball games, campus events, college-sponsored ski trips, lunch with paul simon. if there were no pictures of something or someone from back then, there were good reasons.
there have also been times – along the way – when i have realized that taking photographs would take away from the moment – and, in those times, i have chosen to put the camera away – to simply memorize the moment instead. but this thready heart of mine loves to scroll back through images that place life and time.
it feels somewhat like cheating when you take photographs at a nursery such as i did for today’s image. i wandered about the aisles and aisles, greenhouses and gardens of nearby milaegers, entranced by the vast opportunity to capture color, texture, utter beauty. there is no end to it. even the flowers that are wilting are absolutely divine. i walk, arm in arm with david, and i feel fortunate to see so much that touches so many senses. it is impossible to not feel it. we are surrounded by the glorious.
and so we plan – one day – to take a trip sheerly about photography. i will be excited to plan it, to choose idyllic places and vistas that offer moments like the shimmer of sun on iridescent raindrops.
in the meanwhile, i will carry my iphone and its remarkable camera everywhere i go, capturing everything else that is beautiful, that is evocative, that means something, that will be a source of joy or heart or memory, that is life.
in ways i can explain and can’t explain, i am really dedicated to sephora. a few years back when our daughter was visiting we went to a greenhouse and nursery. she has a green thumb and it was cherished time to walk around with her and chat. she pointed to this plant – an arrowhead – and said she was growing one back at her home. i instantly decided to add it to our sunroom and named it after another adventure we had the days she was here. it is important to me that sephora thrives, just like charlie – a heartleaf philodendron she gifted me previously.
i watch sephora like a hawk…always trying to figure out if she needs more water, less water, more sun, less sun, more fresh air, less draft. we have a complex relationship; i think sephora knows the power she has over me and she wields it abundantly. i comply nevertheless. like i said, dedicated to its survival.
even as sephora’s individual leaves turn yellow from time to time (causing me much angst) i find this plant to be so beautiful – the light from the window causing the leaves to glow and radiantly light the space.
a girlfriend and i were talking about the cleaning-out process in our homes. she has readily cleared out much of what her two daughters had accumulated – but not taken with – in their growing-up years. they both live nearby now – in the next town over – all grown-up – and she sees them and their families regularly every week. my friend no longer has much stuff of their youth; with their proximity, she found it easier to dispose of most of what they no longer wanted, even in recent years giving away all the baby clothes and paraphernalia she had saved for possible reuse. she was surprised to hear i still have so much of all this. she laughed at my difficulty – surely a form of paralysis – in getting rid of everything.
i thought about this a bit, trying to figure out why i am so thready – besides the fact that i was born thready, have always been thready and likely will always be thready.
i realized that, though some of this is simply my heart-on-my-sleeve personality, it is also a holding-on of sorts. a peril of motherhood.
it would be dreamy – absolutely dreamy – to have my adult children living nearby, merely minutes away. it would be amazing to see them often, though always respectful of their busy lives. we are fortunate and joyous that our son is just one big city away, a couple-hour backroads drive or an hour plus on the train. to be able to jaunt over and see our daughter at any old time would make my heart burst. she has lived far away – with many states in-between us – for over a decade now, so visits require planning and are much more complicated.
i remember when my parents would come visit from florida – or we would go there – it would be an intense time of visiting in the days they were here – or us there – before it was time for them – or us – to leave and a big expanse of time would gap our shared in-real-life moments. i believe it is harder that way – the concentrated-period-of-time visiting instead of bits and pieces of life scattered like seed throughout the calendar.
in moments of looking through my momma’s things after she died, i could see the remnants and relics of me that she had saved. for in her lack of ability to see me as often as she would have wished, she held on with artifacts of our time together. the dots lined up. i completely got it and it became one explanation for the difference in the ability of my friend and me to let-go of stuff.
my holding-on – of the stuff left behind, the trinkets of their growing-up, the mementos of any grown-up visit we have had, wherever they have lived – it is the holding-on of love.
as claire middleton (the sentimental person’s guide to decluttering) points out, “we think that keeping all of those things will let us keep a little of each child who left us.”
my heart skips a beat.
ahhh. to be a thrower-outer, a clean-sweeper.
i’m working on it. i just had my first two sales on the resale site poshmark, which gives me incentive again. the baby and toddler clothes are bundled up and waiting patiently to go to the mission that gives them away to people in the city who need them. the cassettes are in a box, to be sent with payment for recycling. there are things on marketplace and ebay and craig’s list and the goodwill stack is ever-growing.
but nothing, though, stops my my-name-is-kerri-and-i-am-thready momheart from the wistful.
and, as i gaze at sephora’s stunning golden leaf – sunlight shining through it – i hold my beautiful golden daughter close, blow her a kiss, and miss her.
reverse threading 