it’s a new season. the signs are all around us. the windows are open, letting in cool breezes.
and yesterday – of all days – i opened instagram to the suggested reel of a small child i had never seen before, never heard of.
there she was – the tiniest little imp of a girl – all buckled into her carseat, saying: “you can’t worry about what other people think. i mean, have you MET other people?”
this darling little girl – maybe 4 or 5 in this video.
and then, a few more words, words to work on taking straight into my heart:
“people don’t have to like you. people don’t have to love you. they don’t even have to respect you. but when you look in the mirror you better love what you see…you better love what you see.”
pretty much each year – for years – we have had a frog in our pond out back.
but this year there was simply nothing.
to say we were disappointed would understate how much these frogs have meant to us. we were pretty sad and wondered if we had done something that had inhibited a frog from choosing our tiny pond as a summer home.
until a few days ago.
d had seen a glimpse of green hopping in the water a few days prior, but we could not tiptoe up to the pond quietly enough to see it sunning on a rock or watching the world go by, tucked into a nook or cranny. we thought it was simply a momentary visit.
on thursday, though, we had a lucky day. and, as we stood quietly at the side of our pond, scouring the edges for a sighting of a frog, there he was.
little.
we named him “little” not at all having to do with his import to us, but because he seemed one of the smallest frogs to have lived in our pond.
you would have thought we had found gold coins hidden in the rocks of our water feature – our excitement was off the charts.
and – because every frog needs a theme song – i could instantly hear his in my head (sung to the tune of sugar, sugarby the archies): little – ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba/ oh, little little ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba/ you are our tiny frog/ and you got us hop-hoppin. (etc etc etc)
each year has brought a different reason to look for the meaning of a frog’s visit in our personal world. each year the resilience and transformation, renewal and abundance messages have been positive bits of symbolism for us and have made us feel that grace has dropped in for a visit.
this year is no different. little’s appearance has been like a single candle lit in a dark night – a warm glow, a talisman for reflection and hope.
we never know how long the frog will stay. but we do know that just making an appearance is a gift. for our small pond – in the middle of other suburban yards of grass and gardens – is maybe 18 square feet – and it seems fortuitous that a tiny frog would even find it.
but maybe somewhere in frogland there is a list…and frogs can check it – like airbnb – to see where they might find a little pond they can call their own. or maybe where it is they may be named and doted upon. or maybe where it is they might get their own theme song.
“life is strange. you arrive with nothing, spend your whole life chasing everything, and still leave with nothing. make sure your soul gains more than your hands.” (no attribution)
it’s happening.
we can feel it.
i stood in his shop’s driveway talking to our beloved mechanic. “a simple life,” we agreed. we just want to live a simple life. not a life lived for or gauged on the stuff we have.
because that stuff – the stuff of life – inundates us. everywhere we look people are chasing it – a materialism that just never culminates in any moment where it is “enough”.
and in these unbelievably fraught times, stuff seems even less important than it ever did.
one of my best friends from high school sent me a bunch of texts early this past week. we were out on a trail, trying to soak up sun and hold at bay the yucky cold symptoms we were experiencing. suddenly, there were multiple notifications. he had become a first-time grandpa.
i stopped short on the trail and looked at the photographs of the baby girl just born into this world. i was overwhelmed by the sheer miracle of that and the miracle that this man and i had been friends for over fifty years (despite seeing each other only once in all that time since high school) and – back then – it would have been hard to imagine the moment i was experiencing: standing on a trail in a completely different state five decades later while he shared the moment of his entry into grandparenthood. truly a remarkable gift.
there were other moments this week, moments when i felt more connected to the world: talking with the woman with the jeep in the parking lot at the market when we went to pick up more advil, the frog that suddenly showed up in our pond, the jalapeños we grew that were ready for picking, a note from a dear friend to “stay strong”. we virtual-tracked our daughter running an incredible half-marathon in the mountains and we listened to our son’s music online. friends checked in to ask if we needed anything. the other side of the spectrum from feeling appalled by the world.
soon it will be time to resume the cleaning out. i told our mechanic about the sentimental person’s guide to decluttering book i had purchased (hoping for osmosis to make it stick) and another title i had seen: “nobody wants your sh*t“, which we both found infinitely funny. and true. because it is. true, that is.
i remember when my sweet momma – in acts of generosity and kindness – began to give away possessions. she knew. she knew how little all that stuff really mattered. and, in these quieter moments of getting a bit older, i – we – can see that, even more than before. especially in these times.
it would seem that dropping the shopping bags and the trappings of the ladder are thresholds into the gains of one’s soul, into the real stuff of life – because, as my poppo used to say about the other stuff, “you can’t take it with you.“
and it would seem that – instead of the receipts of chasing and chasing – the buddhist prayer is that which to hold close:
“may you be happy. may you be at peace. may you be free of danger. may you be loved.”
every single day. the insanity, the chaos – it is all exhausting.
there is nothing beautiful about the goings-on in this america-the-beautiful as it is led by cruelty and bigotry beyond belief. we are inside their sickness, a violent extremism that is gutting the heart of this democracy.
it makes me lean on a card i have in my studio. i received it from a dear friend in 2012, shortly after my sweet poppo died. i’ve quoted it before, but it certainly bears repeating. it reads:
“life is slippery. here, take my hand.” (h. jackson browne, jr. )
now, it seems, is a good time to take one another’s hand.
there are plenty of trees where we hike. oaks, sycamores, birch, maples, pine, hickory, black walnut…there is quite a list. so it is no surprise that, as we are hiking, there are browned acorns, drying acorn shells and big black walnuts dropped on the trail, scattered everywhere, even dropping on us as we walk.
when i came across this branch, it was the brilliant green of the acorn that got my attention, the too-soon-ness of its place on our trail. i wondered – for a few moments – about what broke this branch that fell. it occurred to me that its natural aging, its natural place in the ecosystem of wildlife and forest had changed; this tree had somehow stress-shed this branch, this acorn.
there’s a lot of too-soon-ness…especially now, i think to myself.
and – a few moments later – i was back pondering the lists in my head…the to-dos, the worries, the problems to sort, the existential questions.
“lists engulf us – creating the illusion that our lives are full.” (plain and simple journal – sue bender)
the lists swirled and i organized them in the spaces of my brain as we walked in the early part of our hike.
but – in the way that being out in the forest, along the river, skirting meadows on a trail does – it all slowed down. and the joy of the trail took over. and, instead of the noise – internally or externally – the quiet serenity held my attention.
and this morning i find myself – once again – grateful for the sheer moment. even in this moment of the throes of a miserable cold, i am grateful for the simplicity of our givens.
“in that tiny space between all the givens is freedom.” (s.b.)
and it nudges me to simplify even more. the space of needing less, of making do, of knowing not a lot really matters.
the acorn is an ancient nordic symbol of life. my sweet momma kept a silver one in her purse and, now, so do i. maybe the acorn on our path was there to remind us.
“it’s time to celebrate the lives we do have.” (s.b.)
without the haze of humidity the sun seems brighter, the woods seem crisper, the sky seems bluer. it’s as if the soft-focus filter was lifted and clarity was restored.
tuesday we stopped by our much-loved-mechanic’s shop. littlebabyscion has had a mountain of emissions work done and we wanted to share that it passed the emissions test. (all – money and time and effort and good intention – ironically – in the middle of an administration that could care less about the danger of greenhouse gases while repealing clean air initiatives and gutting the environmental protection agency.)
while there, i noticed a copy of the local newspaper on top of a big toolbox.
i used to subscribe to the paper. i’d read it each day, catching up on local, domestic and international news. it’s been well over a decade now since i have had delivery. having shrunk by leaps and bounds in recent years, it’s about the thickness of my college newspaper these days.
there were several headlines on tuesday’s front page.
one of the minor – minor! – headlines was this: “court lifts immigration operation restrictions”.
i was aghast.
in a 6-3 conservative majority ruling, the supreme court of this united states – that is supposed to uphold the constitution of these united states – decided that racial profiling is a-ok with them – liberally putting a match to all-men-are-created-equal, gutting the 14th amendment’s equal protection clause and paying no heed to the 4th amendment’s probable cause necessity, subjecting the populace to the elimination of constitutional freedoms.
though an AP article reporting on the court’s appalling decision was copied and pasted, the weeny headline penned by the paper intimated – no, completely underplayed – with a light and positive spin for a hugely negative action by the highest judiciary in this land – the people charged with the protection of this democracy, its institutions, its law. a soft focus filter applied to a stark reality.
now, i am not a journalist, but i am a consumer of journalism. and a brief foray into definitions and descriptions of the use of headlines would lead one to believe that a headline will most definitely set the tone of the piece that follows, give the gist of the piece, signal its significance. in real application, however, we see that headlines expose the underlying slant of a journalistic institution. they give one insight to the stance of that institution reporting “the news”.
so…where is the headline “supreme court lifts restrictions on racial profiling“? the headline “court promotes indiscriminate roving immigration patrols and stops“? the headline that blasts out “court ceases constitutional freedoms“??
let us not forget that this decision by this highest court will impact every single person in this country. it is a decision that can be maliciously construed for any population of people.
the headline and article with the largest font and the biggest presence on the page was “hundreds turn out to ride“, an article featuring the town’s electric streetcars.
this may be the reason the paper is barely a paper. daily delivery for this is $60 a month.
this day – today – marks the 24th anniversary of the september 11 targeted terrorism attacks, a time when our country came together to push back against the atrocities of hate.
are not masked “roving immigration patrols” an atrocity of hate within our own country?
where is the paper’s clarity of this perilous moment we are now in? where is their screaming headline?
“bless the beasts and the children/for in this world they have no voice/they have no choice./bless the beasts and the children/for the world can never be/the world they see/light their way when the darkness surrounds them/give them love/let it shine all around them/bless the beasts and the children/give them shelter from the storm/keep them safe/keep them warm….” (bless the beasts and the children – the carpenters – barry devorzon/perry botkin, jr.)
we placed a dowel in the dirt of the old firepit tub to hold up the cardinal plant so that the flowers were upright and accessible to the tiny hummingbirds. we keep the hummingbird feeder freshened to give them sustenance in the days they cannot find the nectar they seek. we sit and watch them, marveling at their ability to survive, in wonder about the long pre-winter journey ahead of them.
they are tiny, tiny inhabitants of this earth and yet – as we share air and this space with them – we are worried these minuscule hummingbirds will be ok.
it makes me think about others who are likewise zealous about our winged friends and have bird and hummingbird feeders and bird baths…leading with their concern for these little creatures of the earth.
i would think we must all be on the same page…you know, compassionately caring for all the inhabitants of the earth…even the smallest among us…for surely, if their eyes are on the sparrow, then….
but no.
because at the same time, it makes me ponder their care-of-these-tiny-beasts while they concurrently wholeheartedly support the administration’s absolute demolition of care of its populace.
and it makes me linger on the hypocrisy of it all…for that support demonstrates their lack of concern for the rights of actual PEOPLE who are racially or ethnically different from them, their lack of concern for the safety and privileges of those PEOPLE whose gender identity is different from theirs, their lack of concern for the health and well-being, the homelessness and starvation of PEOPLE who are downtrodden, their lack of empathy for those PEOPLE – children, young women and men, adult women and men – who are surviving victims of sexual and violent crimes, domestic or otherwise, their support of an administration whose only care is not of THE PEOPLE but of itself and the shoring up of money and power and control.
and as this current administration and its sycophants are – right now – doubling down on protecting the sexual predators of children and young women, the silencing of vital facts to hold those people responsible, the hoaxifying of actual, horrific sex trafficking and dismissal of accountability – and right now – doubling down on racial profiling and the terrorizing of the PEOPLE of this country – and right now – doubling down on stripping people of healthcare and food assistance – these same people – the ones with the hummingbird feeders and all manner of wild bird paraphernalia – the ones who voted for this horrendous treatment of children, of women, of immigrants, of the diverse PEOPLE of our populace – these people pick up their pompoms and gleefully wave them. are they even aware of their righteous hypocrisy?
for – clearly – their actual care and concern for the beasts and the children is limited to the welfare of a xenophobic-racist-homophobic-chosen few. and their hummingbird feeders and wild bird paraphernalia? surely just props intended to make you think they care about this world.
mid 80s, late 80s, the 90s – it was a thing. posies of dried flowers everywhere you could find a spot. on indoor trellises, tucked into cornices, hooked onto doors, gathered in bowls, in wreaths and vases and garlands, in frames and potpourri vessels. so many dried flowers.
and it wasn’t that they weren’t beautiful. next to the quilts on quilt racks and the doilies on the side tables, old silverware windchimes, painted wooden tchotchkes and cross-stitch anything, the dried flowers complimented the style of the times – this nod to nostalgic country-ish.
there was a day – years ago – when, having been surrounded by dried flowers for decades, i literally walked around my home with a big garbage bag and tossed all the dried flowers i had managed to hang, tuck, hook, trellis, gather, weave, drape, frame or potpourri-mix. it – this decorating obsession with things-dried – was suddenly done.
(now, to be fair, currently, there’s a posy of lavender from our garden in a small glass milk pitcher and a couple reeds from a hike. oh, and a few hydrangea from out front. of course, there are two big branches in our house now, not to mention driftwood from long island and an aspen log from the forest in breckenridge, but, in essence…for the most part…in theory and almost-all-application, the dried-flower-dust-accumulator period is over.)
instead, as we hike along the river and in the woods and walk in the ‘hood, we watch the flowers of the meadows and the gardens changing. their waning beauty draws me in – even more than their mid-summer blossom. there is something about the fading flower, something about the button left after the petals fall, something about the curve of the wilting coneflower or a tired black-eyed susan, the almost-fluffless dandelion, the loves-me-loves-me-not petal-less daisy. i stop and linger with them, always curious how graceful it is they go into fallow, this period of rest, how they so readily give over to this change in appearance when humans seem to resist so vehemently any visible aging.
the 1980s/1990s dried-flower-hanger/tucker/gatherer in me rises as i admire these beautiful nods to autumn’s arrival. but i leave the flowers in the meadow, in the garden, in the marsh next to the river, in the woods.
and, instead, i carry their beauty – and the moments i was witness to it – with me, knowing that diminished beauty is – nonetheless – beautiful.
“we have a choice: to spend a lot of time fighting for what we know is right, or to just accept what we know is wrong. we must stand up for our rights and the rights of others, even if most people say we can’t win.” (susan polis schutz)
the time is now. we have a choice.
one of the things i didn’t mention from my view of the IG post of the mom speaking to her little five year old son – about listening to his teacher during a school emergency – also hit home for me.
addressing the context of that post was a comment from another young mom. she wrote about her reluctance to let her little boy wear light-up shoes to school. this should stop you in your tracks – like every other single thing in talk-talk about school shootings.
think about this.
she decided not to let her little boy – her five year old – wear light-up shoes to school.
light-up shoes.
and why not, you ask?
so that – in the event that a mass shooter is in the room – her tiny little boy does not light up in a dark classroom by moving his feet ever so slightly.
it is a despicable and horrifying thought and a stunning picture of where this country has come in zero effort of protecting its children.
but, hey, don’t forget all those thoughts and prayers – pathetic, passive excuses for inaction.
my little boy – now all grown up – wore light-up sneakers for a vast part of his little childhood. he loved them and we loved that he loved them. it never once occurred to me that his tiny shoes could be a death sentence for him. it never once occurred to me that he might light up in a dark classroom or a dark closet or a dark stairwell. it is a grossly vapid conscience this country has adopted – that has parents owning defense for their children against guns to the point of picking out footwear that doesn’t more easily enable a person with a weapon of mass destruction to kill their child.
what the absolute hell????
and now, that same little boy of mine – who is all grown up – who is gay – who is a recording and performing artist – lives in a city upon which the administration of this country has just declared war. announced in the most blatantly depraved meme, this administration is invading, looking for the light-up shoes.
the rights of the people of the city of chicago are being annihilated with this invasion. it is a constitutional failure of epic proportion.
and yet, i know that we have family members cheering on the sidelines, which, frankly, makes me want to vomit. even the silent – those who refuse to speak about what is happening – accepting what is wrong – they, too, are complicit. how.do.they.sleep?
this is my son – our son. these are his friends, his colleagues. this is his community. this is a city just down the road full of neighborhoods and people, diverse and vibrant, doing their best at a time the leadership is doing their worst.
just like every other place upon which they are siccing their thugs.
it is unconscionable.
and the time is now.
and everything inside me wants to write to our son and implore him not to wear light-up shoes.
we’d get on our bikes early in the day and just take off. susan and i would bike hike anywhere – we’d plan our journeys and make sure there was a carvel or a mcdonald’s somewhere on the way. as long as we were home by dinner no one worried about us. and we had the freedom to roam around our neighborhoods or anywhere we could reach on the island.
it should be this way.
back in school, in the fall – after the ultimate freedom of our summer – we practiced getting under our desks at school but the likelihood of any bombing actually happening to our school was a mere mention on a fire-drill-bomb-scare just-in-case checklist.
every year d and i talk to each other about “the wistfuls”. it hasn’t happened yet this year – neither of us has felt it descend on us. but we know it will.
there’s fall – the changing of the guard moving toward fallow. my favorite season of jeans and boots and flannel shirts. and there’s fall – a recognition of summer ending, of the sun and long, hot days and freedom and a lightness of spirit coming to a close.
and i wonder – in these gorgeous fall days, the lower sun intense, the breeze cooler, the colors more vibrant with the humidity pushed aside – what that wistful is about.
is it about those days growing up? is it about a yen to have little to no responsibility, no concerns, a time of fiercely following curiosity, of grasping the tiny adventures of childhood with both hands, believing they were huge explorations? is it about painfully remembering a time when my whole extended family seemed to be on the same page, supporting each other, caring for the world and its inhabitants?
is it about a yearning for when my own children were little? when their backyard playing was the everyday joy of looking out the kitchen window? when the dining room table was the gathering place for school supplies and backpacks? when the summer freedom slipped back into a schedule of school and homework and lessons and sports practices? when, after dropping them off or seeing them onto the bus, hoping that they ate their packed lunch, remembered their spelling words, weren’t bullied by anyone were my worries?
although there were occasional bomb threats issued at the schools and 9/11 was a profoundly terrifying day, there was never an actual shooter on the premises (that i knew of).
but there had been moments in our town. and the moment i heard a loud inner voice direct me – vehemently – to NOT stop at the mcdonald’s i was about to pull into on my way home from the mall with my two tiny children – the day that minutes later a shooter entered that very mcdonald’s through the back door, killing the people at the table where we always sat – the one at the very back opposite the door, where the smoking-allowed-smoke didn’t reach our happy meals – that moment reached inside me and raised up the fear i had carried with me since my own earlier life, the time after bike hikes and carvel and fireflies in the neighborhood.
it shouldn’t be like that.
i just watched an instagram reel during which a mom instructs her little boy – who is five years old – about following his teacher’s directions during an emergency at school. between reading the circumstances about her little boy, his physical challenges, and the thought that his tiny – tiny! – self following directions could mean the difference between life and death made my head want to explode.
it should not be this way.
and is it any wonder that i wonder what the wistful is about???
oh, i imagine that when the wistful hits, it will be with some degree of force. for everything is changing – not just the leaves. and we are suddenly thrust into a world – a country – where freedom and rights are being usurped, where the administration is upholding the secrecy of sexual predators, where school shootings – with children and adults dying – dying! – elicit merely passive thoughts and prayers, where xenophobic, racist, homophobic, misogynistic leaders wish to eliminate – eliminate! – actual people they consider superfluous, unwelcomed, expendable, where the premise of warmongering seems to be a sport and the propensity to further lethality and offensive actions on those they perceive as disposables runs rampant, where healthcare and the ability to have enough food is considered elite, where having more gets more and having less doesn’t matter.
reverse threading 