so we are in the habit of celebrating. not just the big stuff.
particularly in this time – when all the world is in chaos, when we all have no idea what horrific thing will happen next, when there is so much trepidation about losing this country’s very democracy, we – now – celebrate the little stuff as well. and, as you can tell by this photograph, we -big-time – know what we’re doing when it comes to celebrations.
we know that most people choose to, well, maybe go out to dinner as a celebration, or maybe go away on a trip or to an event of some sort, maybe go shopping and splurge on a purchase of something long-awaited for.
we tend to be a little lower-key than all that. but even our most modest celebrations are still celebrations.
it doesn’t take much. in our zeal, we hiked two loops of our river trail. though suddenly exhausted from the toll that anticipation takes on adrenaline, happy kept us going, step by step. breathing the fresh air and feeling the sun – warm enough to take off our jackets – was its own cause for joy.
yes…on this particular day – last week, i might point out – we were beyond excited. our celebration was actually quite thrilling and filled our hearts.
and so we splurged on a $2.79 bag of munchos (on sale at woodman’s) and poured two glasses of wine. we pulled two adirondack chairs from the garage and sat in the 50-plus-degree-sun out on the patio and clinked. when the clouds covered the sun and the wind picked up we went inside, to sit at the bistro table by the window in our sunroom. with dogga on the rug at our feet, we lit a new gift, a soy candle in beautiful cut glass.
and we settled into festivity.
“enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” (robert brault)
i tore out the page from the stio catalog because the words spoke to me: “chase bliss”.
a few days ago we spent some significant time in the emergency room. i told the youngish doctor there that i could count the number of times in my entire life that i had been to the emergency room, likely on two hands. i do not take going there lightly and i trust that the brilliant minds gathered there – in that tiny ecosystem – will help me…not only in my pain and confusion, but in my fear as well.
i told him this because he kept cutting me off mid-sentence as i was trying to explain my symptoms and as i was trying to ask him questions. he acted as if i was undermining his authority. i was simply being a patient. the more he stopped me from talking, the more i knew i needed to advocate for myself. i told him that the first step in empathy is listening, to which he defended himself by telling me he had spent more time with me than anyone else, including “the guy in the next room who died and came back.” wow. we are not talking equivalencies here. we are simply talking good bedside/doctor-patient communication.
the moments when i felt inordinate and unexplained constant pain that i hadn’t ever experienced before were frightening. all i wanted to do on that gurney was try to understand it, treat it, feel normal and go home.
it’s now the next day, friday, a bit before this blog posts. i am sipping coffee. i can hear the birds outside near the feeder, black-capped chickadees, cardinals. i am grateful for the quilt, the dogga at my feet, d next to me. i am cautiously checking in on how i am feeling and giving thanks for much less pain, and – hopefully – an end to the crisis.
though not ready to spring out from under the covers, i am ready to chase bliss.
no joke.
it doesn’t have to be grandiose. it doesn’t have to cost money or require dedication beyond what i am capable of giving right now.
but bliss nonetheless.
i just downloaded a new book for us to read together. this is bliss.
we will fill the bird feeder again today and put seed on barney and the potting stand. this is bliss.
we will watch the flurries fall. this is bliss.
we are making dinner tonight for 20, a day late. this is bliss.
i’ll have a phone call with a beloved old friend this weekend. this is bliss.
next week we will gather with our dear friends to start watching the entirety of the seinfeld show together. this is bliss.
we plan to make irish guinness stew for the up-north-gang in our stew-agogo early in the week. this is bliss.
we will wander about in our old house, cleaning and cleaning out. this is bliss.
we will bundle up and traipse out onto our favorite trail. this is bliss.
have a little text exchange with the girl and the boy. this is bliss.
lay on the floor and hug dogga. this is bliss.
listen to george, mike oldfield, john denver, james taylor, arvo. bliss.
watch the olympics. bliss.
dance in the kitchen with d. bliss.
dream aloud plans for a little bit later. bliss.
breathe. bliss.
it’s not decadent. it’s not complicated. it’s different for everyone, everywhere, i know.
but in a world that is fraught, a world that seems to be listing toward the ruthless, the uncaring, the oppressive, the tyrannical – a harsh world – it doesn’t seem to be overstating that bliss becomes even more imperative than it already was.
to recognize it, to seek it, to freaking – and whole-heartedly – chase it.
“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.”
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.)
in this moment, in this time, despite all the challenges it has faced, it is facing, it will face, despite all it does not know, it persists – growing in the top rail of the fence that spans the river.
this tiny plant is grabbing on to life. and living it.
104. in the moments i am writing this post – a couple days ahead of today – my sweet momma would have turned 104.
i wasn’t sure about using this photograph. it isn’t something we stumbled across when we were out and about; instead it is a photograph i took in my studio. but, it is an effort to continue an effort we are making – which, i might add, is a big effort considering the here and now – to list over to presence and gratitude for the other parts of the here and now…the real…the stuff that i simply cannot imagine that the rabid purveyors of cruelty ever notice. for, if one can see the stunning in the falling dusk or feel the heart-stopping of a simple james taylor song or taste the fresh basil in the stockpot of sauce, one cannot also relish the sheer and abject depravity of current events.
my sweet momma – always – her message to me, “live life, my sweet potato.”
and to that i would add – as i stood in the kitchen – his arms wrapped around me, with our birthday dog at our feet – “never, never, never give up.”
there is a visceral response – breathing – i have to seeing the wild horses in the documentary, the dueting voices in the music video. there is a fascination of the munching-munching caterpillars on our dill plant, the finch drinking from our birdbath, the tomato plant’s explosive growth, the jalapeños becoming peppers from tiny blooms. there is an appreciation of the eye-to-eye contact of our amber-eyed aussie, the feel of flipflops on a hot summer day, the wafting scent of basil on the air.
we didn’t go to any celebrations on the fourth. we did not feel that this very moment in time was aligned with commemorating the democracy and freedoms as written into the declaration of independence for these united states. this moment – instead – feels like the antithesis of all of that – the un-uniting of this country, the dismantling of freedoms, the fall of democracy. so we stayed home, away from the carnivals and the parties and the bands and the fireworks (though our neighbor set off fireworks right above our backyard for hours late into the night).
and this morning, while d was picking up the vestiges of those fireworks which, thankfully, did no harm to our home, i watched the caterpillars on the dill. while he brushed away the chalk marks of firecrackers landing on our patio, i watered the herbs. while he made doubly sure there was nothing pyrotechnic-like left that dogga could ingest or could cause him harm, i watched and listened as the birds returned on a refreshingly quiet morning.
we have a list. i mentioned it the other day. it’s simply a list – not far away – of places for us to go, to visit, things to immerse in. to do the best we can, right now.
to the top of the list i am going to add “never, never, never give up.”
because momma was right. live life. it is not unlimited.
when you hike a trail a lot, it becomes a member of the family. like when you recognize something has changed – someone had a haircut, someone has new glasses, someone has lost weight, someone looks tired – it is no different. the trees have leafed, the underbrush has been knocked over, the game trail is tamped down, the may apple has flowered, the wild geranium is prolific, the river is high, the river is low, the turtles have come out, the beaver dam is bigger.
we talk about our river trail a lot because we hike it a lot. though we’d prefer it to be different, we see it more than we see any member of our family.
this particular day – when the sky was a perfect sky-blue, when the river was high enough to cover the logs where the turtles sun, when purple fleabane budded next to its white-daisy-bloom predecessor, when the great blue heron joined the cranes flying the river, when the color green had more hues than any person might imagine – this day was a reminder of how well we knew this trail, its turns, the gifts of the familiar and the magic of the unexpected.
and there is this high spot on the trail where we stand and look out over the meadow, over the marsh, over the river. and i stood – still – looking at where the trees met the sky, all glorious, listening to the sounds on the breeze, feeling the sun on my face and my feet on the ground – standing still – and felt the insanity of being alive.
“sometimes it can feel like you’re never doing enough. but to touch the life of even just one animal or one person can help heal the world.” (hellen rescue centre)
the golden rule is a relatively simple concept. basic moral compass stuff. “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” universal. ethical. compassionate. conscious.
it would seem that we each – in this world – would feel an imperative to strive for the best we can do, with these words as a north star. it would seem that we would wish to lead with goodness.
and we are surrounded by real people who do just that. people who reach to others, sharing abundance with those in need, caring for those in despair, giving a hand to those who feel forgotten. we have been the recipients of this sort of care and we are grateful – not only for the aid of wisdom or resources we have received, but for the reminder of what it means to be human in a world of humans.
in turn, we try – best as we can – to be helpers. to lift spirits and, as we can, to lift the circumstances of people who have been less fortunate. we try to live thinking about others, treating others, as we would want them thinking about or treating us.
as artists we are entrusted with the creating of work that might somehow touch the world – change it – if even only the tiniest morsel of a bit. we write many words a day, never knowing if anyone will read these words, never knowing if any of the words make any kind of difference. we do it anyway. we paint, we compose, we take photographs. we just never know where any of it – all of it – might reach. and every now and then – out of the blue – someone we do not know, someone we will likely never meet will let us know that something has touched them, something has moved them, something has made them think or question or linger. and we know that the concentric circle has widened, the ripple has rippled. even a little bit.
as humans we are entrusted with short lives of being humane. we have every opportunity to show care and concern, to reach across differences, to offer kindness and love to others – people or animals. every single time we do even one small act we know that it impacts the world, that there are cells out there vibrating with the frequency of grace.
our presence in and with life – life itself – grants us the ability to appreciate it, to live into living. we know that – in the very end – all will fall away. and what will be left are the heart impressions we have made on others and they on us.
even if we have touched one person or one animal – in our tiny time here – we have healed a morsel of hurt in the world.
it doesn’t seem like that hard of a concept. it doesn’t seem that hard of a job.
in the end of ends, isn’t it the only thing that matters?
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.
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.
reverse threading 