somewhere – in the infinite infinite – i suppose that my sweet momma and poppo might be with my big brother, nibbling on crumbcake and coffee ice cream. maybe they are having a chat about christmas eve norwegian fish pudding and rum cake. or maybe about burning your fingertips making krumkake. maybe they are reminiscing about singing carols in the living room – gathered around the organ or the piano, my brother with his guitar, my uncle with his beautiful tenor.
i suppose that the party might be bigger…with their baby daughter i never met, with my grandparents, with their siblings, with friends they treasured. they may pop open the martini & rossi asti or blend some eggnog, assuming there is electricity. maybe they are swinging on stars and peering through the clouds at us here; maybe they are missing us.
in the way that things are in this place right now, i am glad that my sweetest mom and dad are not physical witnesses to what is happening, for their hearts would be broken by the ugliness of these times. i am grateful – in an odd way – that they do not have to experience what will be in the next for this country, for our world. even with everything they saw and endured in their lives – which is plenty considering they were born in 1921 and 1920 – i know that what’s happening and what’s coming would challenge and disappoint their beliefs and values to the core.
and so, in the meanwhile – between now and the infinite infinite – i will miss them. the axis has never returned to balance since they’ve been gone and this time of year brings that home even more.
i do believe, though, that if my momma – ever the letterwriter – could write in the sky – out there by the moon – she would. she’d likely draw words with the help of clouds and contrails. and she’d spell out something like, “daddy says ‘hello brat!‘” and “don’t forget to live life, my sweet potato!”.
when i look up – or inside – i can hear them both.
it did my heart good to wander slowly through milaegers garden center. like the line “it’s much more than a box” from the department store gift-wrapping scene in love actually, milaegers is much more than a garden center. and day before yesterday it was a holiday wonderland.
it was just what i needed. we strolled slowly, each of us raying out to what invited our eye. everything was decorated and the displays were glowing. we were searching for just the right thing and lingered around each tree – perfectly laden with ornaments and gleaming tchotchkes.
we finished our holiday shopping for the day and happily used a gift card we had held onto for well over a year – a local bistro where we loved sitting at the bar sipping a glass of wine and sharing a most-delicious burger. it was truly a day that put spirit into our spirits.
last night we sat in our living room under a furry white throw and looked around at our decorations, satisfied that we not only paid homage to a festive season but were true to our own sensibilities, a mashup of organic and glimmer. there is a shimmery incandescence in there we can both feel – particularly full of grace at a time of seasonal and out-in-the-world darkness.
the tiny trees we’ve collected are scattered about, both happy-lit and simply green. even the very plainest of these have their place.
the big branch in our living room – from the old tree out front – has now stood there for four holiday seasons. though it is wrapped in year-round white lights, each christmastime we have added something. two years ago it was silver bulbs. last year it was vintage shiny brites of my mom and dad’s. this year we added crystal prism ornaments. there is a lone metal star. it is – to us – really beautiful.
eileen’s tree – “e.e.” as it will always be known – has the place of honor, standing sweetly in the doorway from the living room to the dining room. a nod to the traditional, it has become, now, one of our own traditions. it all feels peaceful, which is our intention.
in the day the crystals on the branches in the living room throw beams of sunlight across the floor. with the room lights off, the happy lights of the trees on, the crystals on the branches in the living room glitter, anticipating the season of the return of light.
it is not milaegers but it is home and, in a world of frenetic and fraught, this luminous place is truly our sanctuary.
it was while i was waiting for the person to arrive to pick up the desk that i started. it wasn’t really on purpose. it was simply a way to keep an eye out the window at the front of the house. i opened the small chifforobe cabinet and began to pull things out and stack them on the floor of the studio. then i went over to the small desk and did the same thing. before i knew it, it was chaos on the floor of the studio, piles on the padded artist bench, even small piles on top of my piano.
in the unearthing of space, i am finding notebooks of lyrics, slices of songs, chord progressions jotted on scraps of paper. there are piles of process cds – from demos of songs to recording studio takes, edits, production in all its phases, final products of albums released into the world. there are radio charts and encouraging cards, pencils and erasers and staff paper.
i think of my son – at the other end of the journey – the closer-to-beginning part of his artistry. though he is waaay past just-beginning, his heartbeat is quickened by his own growth in his music and by the outer reaction to and support of his EDM. i remember those days and i celebrate for him and with him. they are the days that feed artists when we are depleted, when we are in the midst of hunger, when we are pondering our place in our art form, when – if we are feeling disoriented – we are trying to see where it was – discern how it was – we got lost so that we might find our way, when it’s a little bit agonizing, when we are a lot a bit tender, when we are wondering.
later on – much after the computer desk was gone – after the frenzied muse had left the building – i groaned looking at the mess.
but there is no going back now. it’s time to keep going, to keep going through, eliminating, filing, re-designing the spaces and space in my studio. time to bring in new light, time to give it a chance.
in more than a bit of vulnerability, i must say that i don’t really know if that will change anything. i know that the studio will look more spacious, it will be slightly less muddled in there, more austere, more piano-focused. i feel like that could definitely be a good thing…a tiny step toward actually playing, actually composing. cleaning out will remove some of the tangible tokens of feeling remote, or of hurtful, harmful things that have undermined my artistry, that have waylaid me. it might remove some of the visible and invisible layers between me and my music. i guess that’s all to be seen. as overwhelmed as i am – thinking about all the work in front of me – i do see some magical bits of light in the dark, even amid the squall of chaos.
when my grand first arrived – over 25 years ago – it was the only thing in the room. just a big C5 on bare wood floors with high ceilings and freshly painted white walls of plaster and beadboard. it was pure and glorious.
since then – for various reasons – i added a chifforobe, a writing/reading chair, a desk, music stands and mic stands, other instruments.
maybe sorting through, reorganizing, removing the desk, minimalizing stuff, clearing the space will surface the essential reason for this studio, will distill the paralyzing fog that has settled over the space and in my heart, give light to a dimmed imperative. maybe a tiny bit of balance will return. maybe it’s all still relevant.
i stand in the doorway and acknowledge that i don’t know.
the big chalkboard wall was in the basement for decades. and for decades it was signed and scribbled on by my children and their friends-through-the-years. there have been moments – in more recent years – the empty nest years – when i would hit the cement floor at the bottom of the steps, flip on the spotlights and stare at the colored-chalk names scrawled on the wall. lots of history there.
before i took the eraser to this wall, before i washed it off, before i realized the colored chalk didn’t really erase or wash off nomatterwhat, before i prepped it for paint, i took many photographs. once again, my thready heart is challenged – but photographs help.
my girl chalked this design in one of the corners – during the skateboard/dickies/vans era. the memory flood is fast and furious and i stood – touching the chalkboard and its names and illustrations – for some time before wiping it and readying it for a fresh coat. in the end, we put together new shelving for that spot adjacent to david’s studio and now it houses inspiring books of artists and musings…easy access for him, for both of us.
as i’ve written, there are many more of these woven threads in our home to unravel, to gently place aside, to memorize. but – inasmuch as it is a challenge, it is also a gift. because so many things are things we no longer notice, things to which we pay little attention. and right now…right now, we are paying rapt attention to each detail.
we are each telling stories of thethingsinthebox or ontheshelf or tuckedaway or rightthereinfrontofus. some of it makes me a little bit sad – no, i guess it’s more wistful than sad. some of it makes me try to think backbackback to the days backbackback. some of it makes me wish i could revisit those days, live them again, relish them in real time, or maybe live them a little slower or a little differently. and some of it just gives me a little standstill, like a tiny caesura – all part of the diapause, i suppose – one caesura after another.
we keep going. my curiosity is piqued as we open closets and bins, page through children’s books finding scraps of crayoned notes or pictures. i store it all inside, knowing that – even though i will likely forget some of it – it is all there – layers of memories and moments.
and the chalked diamonds will forever remain on the wall of the basement. because they were there, they are there. and they are part of it.
“your hand opens and closes, opens and closes…your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding.” (rumi)
brave thistle plant – even in the bitter cold – open. this star in the meadow reminds me to stay open…fluid in breath…in and out.
i sometimes wonder about my music. my grand sits in my studio, waiting. it is patient, although i can sometimes hear it in hushed tones, calling me. there has been much between the last time and now, much that has left me closed to it.
i’ve touched it a few times in a few years. i don’t want it – or anyone, including me – to overreact to that. it is beautiful and full-stick and keys-open and – like the thistle – it bravely stays starlit even in the fallow times. and so, it is – every now and then – inviting. but it is complex – complicated – and it’s obvious I haven’t sorted through all the layers yet.
it is an artist’s imperative to create. but there are no rules that state the medium must remain the same. and so…in these inbetween times…i write. to be open to something different is to dance with that imperative.
the heavy old mic stand tucks right outside the doorway to the studio. it’s holding a vessel for candlelight right now but – at the end of our hallway – it reminds me of microphones and wood stages, simple lighting and boom stands. and then i wonder again – about all that.
the real answer is that i don’t know. i don’t know what will happen in these nexts. i don’t know if i’ll compose more, record more, perform more. there are a lot of ifs between here and there, a lot of details, a lot of stars that must align.
but the little thistle plant in the meadow reminded me that even with all that – all in the galaxy that must cluster – constellations in the cold are possible.
the leaves have not all fallen yet. looking out back, they are still clinging to the oaks, the maples. i gathered a few that had made it onto the deck…just bits of green, yellow, a little orange, red. they went on the dining room table under the gourd that had spent long sunshiny hours on the potting stand, wicking away its outer layer, stripped down to its mustard shell. we celebrated the simplicity and lit candles to showcase these small trinkets of fall.
our stock pot of irish guiness stew simmered for hours. we shared it with our son and his sweet boyfriend, sipping wine and dipping chunks of baguette into our bowls. it was a joy to be there – at that table together – on thanksgiving – and i was grateful in each moment.
i’m more and more aware of the tiniest showcases of miracles. from our quiet hikes on trail to listening to the wind resonate the tenor chimes in the dawn hours to walking about inside post some clearing-out and rearranging in our old house to times spent with others. in silence and in boisterous noise. an abundance.
the light shines. it radiates through. noticing it is not only our task, but it is our gift.
i pledge allegiance to the flag of the united states of america. and to the republic for which it stands – one nation, under god, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. (pledge of allegiance)
…and justice for all…
uh-huh. yup. fer sure.
(snarky – though truthful – alert for what follows…and…if you are running low on snark tolerance, I understand. these times are difficult and it is overwhelming to be surrounded by so much hypocrisy, so much that is truly unthinkable. i am merely one more voice out here, expressing outrage, hoping against hope that the voterswhovotedforthis might be capable of hearing and – more importantly, though clearly belated – of listening. and that the voterswhovotedagainstthis might feel less alone in their own outrage.)
in case you hadn’t already read this – in numerous other posts i have written – i was raped. i am a survivor. i have been a survivor for over four decades. i have carried it with me throughout my adult life. though i spent most of that time in silence, it has affected me physically and emotionally, psychologically, professionally, and financially. it has touched every corner of my life. it is both profound and a profound change agent in one’s life.
my rapist was a predator who expertly groomed and preyed on young women, older women, underage women, virgins, innocent targets. my rapist also “successfully” raped other women. my rapist was not charged. my rapist walks in the world – free – even today.
and – clearly – my rapist could be president.
because – fact of the matter is – here we are…poised to have an adjudicated rapist as the president – a man also convicted of 34 felonies among numerous other indictments and allegations, but golly gee, why would we even mention or consider those petty little details?
and so, i have some questions for you, ye who have voted for this, er, person.
where is the justice?
did you know when you voted? did you not care when you voted?
did it feel ok to vote in a rapist, a convicted felon?
is this the person you wish your father, your husband, your son, your grandson, your brother look up to, emulate? is this the person you wish your mother, your wife, your daughter, your granddaughter, your sister look up to?
would you leave your daughter alone with him? your granddaughter? your mom? your sister? your auntie, your niece? would you leave your tiny child alone with him? would you trust him to keep his hands to himself and his pants zipped?
what is the deal?
or – and this possibility sickens me beyond the disgust i am already feeling – did you have some sort of sadistic vicarious fantasy voting him in – a man laden with cruelty, revenge, evil intentions – some arsonist lurking in you wishing to watch the fire?
i saw this meme:
“we could have shown our daughters that they could do anything.
instead, we showed our sons that they can rape, cheat, and lie and still become the most powerful man in the country.”
if you don’t find that inordinately disturbing as a parent (you know, the whole i want the best for my child; i want to protect my child thing), as a woman (you know, the women supporting women’s rights thing), as a human being (you know, the whole moral compass thing) – if that bit of injustice doesn’t get your goat – if the utter lack of and-justice-for-all doesn’t take your liberty-breath away – i don’t know what will.
i told him the other day I wasn’t sure if i had anything left to say. in the lostness following this horrific election, i still feel all the things i have already written about – truly gutted.
i would imagine that there are many of ‘me’ out there. heart-broken, infuriated, exhausted, confused, feeling betrayed.
and in that wanderland of grief sit the questions of “what is real?” and “who is real?”. they nag at me – wherever i am. we escaped to the trail and they followed me – sitting heavy on my heart, ponderous.
real (adjective): 1. actually existing as a thing or occurring in fact: not imagined or supposed.2. (of a substance or thing) not imitation or artificial; genuine.
and
real: behaving or presented in a way that feels true, honest, or familiar and without pretension or affectation.
and so i look at life now and think about what is real and who is real.
the “real” i knew would have stood by me, by my family, by values i assumed we shared, by the lifting up of humanity.
the “real” i knew would have been morally aghast by the cruel, devastating intentions of the new maga-regime.
the “real” i knew would have pushed back against all of it – leading with goodness and kindness.
but i guess the “real” you wanted me – and everyone else – to see wasn’t really real. and i will now admit, you fooled me.
i suppose – like many others will – that i could pretend it doesn’t matter. i could act like it doesn’t matter. i could interact like it doesn’t matter. i could just go on as if it doesn’t matter. but it does. it matters. it’s real.
mary oliver wrote, “you can fool a lot of yourself, but you can’t fool the soul.”
so even as i fight the internal fight – trying – irrationally – to hold onto what or who is really not real – my soul knows.
and, like many of you trying to process this soul-knowing, i am deeply sad.
it was this morning – while i was nibbling on gluten-free cinnamon toast. it was while i was dishing out dogga’s dinner. it was while we sat at the kitchen table, darkness quickly falling outside. it was while i was sending a picture-of-the-day to my children, while i was texting with my dear friend. it was while i listened to george winston’s thanksgiving. it was on the trail. it was at the matinee of the movie here. it was leaving the theatre, tears in our eyes, grateful it was still a little light out.
it is right now. and this is where we are.
there are boundaries to be drawn, plans to be made, worries to be worried, griefs to be grieved.
there is shock and outrage. there is absolute horror.
there is no humor in what will come – and there is disgust at those who laugh with the sadistic glee of getting their way.
there is knowing and not-knowing. there is lostness.
there is uncertainty in the insanity of these moments.
but it is right now. and this is where we are. still.
so i will take stock wherever i find goodness, wherever i find community, wherever i find even a bit of joy, wherever i find love.
and i will dance in the kitchen, make homemade tomato soup, grow parsley in the winter. i will hold tighter to his hand and hug on our dogga. i will be frugal and i will be frivolous.
and i will sit on the wire with the other birds, watching the sky turn from night to day and night again. grateful for the tiniest things – that sky, the birds who love me and who i love, the wire and the still of still being here.
if i were to write a children’s book about clouds, this cloud would have an arrogant name – something aggressive, threatening. this is the cloud that covers the sun, dark, assailing. this cloud would be the cloud that rides the bumper of the others, that drives on the shoulder, that flips you off as it passes. it would be the screaming banshee of clouds with its hulk of stone cold water droplets. it is the cloud that makes a mockery of the other clouds, dominating their practiced and important jobs of precipitation, reflection, insulation. it is ominous and likely indicative of a storm coming. this cloud is emboldened.
we are in the earliest days of fallout from the election. the emboldened are obvious. they are the arrogant ones, the aggressive, threatening ones. they are dark; they are assailing. they are the ones riding your bumper, driving on the shoulder, flipping you off. they are screaming banshees of propaganda, hulking masses of disturbingly evil what-we-are-going-to-do-to-this-country-what-we-are-going-to-do-to-people. they are mocking and they are stone cold, gleefully ominous, dominating, militant. there is a storm coming.
the animals in the forest watch this cloud intently, intuitively knowing that their forest could be destroyed in its wake.
we watch the emboldened insanity intently, intuitively knowing that that our country could be destroyed in its wake.
reverse threading 