when we sit on the deck – which we so often do – we look out onto our backyard. it is serene most of the time, a sanctuary for us – like a cozy private courtyard.
breck is growing by leaps and bounds. once again, we are surprised by this aspen tree’s response to spring. it is the happiest little aspen, filling out and getting taller. it practices quaking every day in the breezes that come off the lake or come in from the south or west. but sometimes, there are winds that are coming out of the plains states with much more power. and this young resilient aspen bends in its path. it worries us as we watch, wondering if we need to somehow stake this sapling, to help support it. we will likely go ask the good people at schwartz nursery – because they know. in the meanwhile, breck bends to the east when the gales come. we sit on the deck and, from that vantage, see it point to the right, nodding its trunk – “ahead, ahead,” it seems to say.
the almost-monochromatic of this photo appeals to me. there is more than meets the eye – these tones, movement in the background. i stopped to take a picture off-trail. i found the small green meadow strikingly beautiful. and there it was again – the response to the wind – bending, listing. “ahead, ahead.”
the messages come whether or not we notice them. they are all around us, tiny universe sticky-notes that flutter and attempt to attract our attention. we can ignore them if we wish. we can be too busy, too distracted, too engrossed, too stubborn, too riddled with our own schtuff.
or we can look at all the ways we are offered wisdoms. we can listen carefully as the sun rises or sets. we can see the greens in the green, the movement in the steady. we can rustle around in the world – aware of the air we breathe, the sun on the top of our heads, the cottonwood as it passes on the draft.
we can nod our heads in response to the wind – whatever the wind is for us – and whisper, “yes. ahead, ahead.”
thousands upon thousands upon thousands of hearts gathered at PRIDE on milwaukee’s summerfest grounds over the weekend. it was a spectacular festival.
our son performed as a headlining EDM artist on the newly-renovated dance pavilion stage – the city skyline peeking out from the giant dome under which over five thousand people sardined to listen, their hearts invested in this event that freed them to be who they are.
we had backstage passes and that gave us access to be up-front and close to the action. not too far from our son on stage, not too far from dancing furries and acrobats and machines that spewed out fog and confetti, not too far from the fireworks display in the sky. it gave us a place for our hearts to watch our son in his bliss. it gave us a place from which to watch the crowd. they were energized and bouncing up and down and waving styrofoam rainbow light wands. they were alive and free to be.
we went to a street festival the next day. our son performed again. though this time he was on a smaller stage that was a bit rickety, he was no less committed to providing music that was celebratory and drove the beat home. we irresistibly moved to the music and danced in the street and laughed at antics of revelers all around us – till tears came from our eyes.
the two guys walking by looked over at us as we danced. “youngsters!!” one said, “i love it!! giddyup!!” we thanked him and giddied up, laughing, still convinced we were among the oldest people at the event. did i mention spectacular?
every heart at that PRIDE festival this weekend deserves the same thing. the opportunity to be who they are, to love, to express that love, to respect and be respected. everyone hugged everyone. there was no quota. there were no parameters. there was no resistance. there was love of living. there was joy.
“just kickin’ down the cobblestones. lookin’ for fun and feelin’ groovy…”(simon & garfunkel)
it would probably be easier to pick up the phone, call magical scraps in breckenridge, talk to jess and ask her to ship this sweet towel, but i’d much rather drive there, walk down main street, take a time in the oversized adirondack chairs on the sidewalk next to the coffeehouse, devour an ABCLT at breckfast, climb the steps to marigolds, hike up the mountain forest at the north end of town, watch the river go by and the bright sun floating.
then we could wander into magical scraps and admire the artisan handiwork there. and – ultimately – purchase this kitchen towel that we should have purchased when we first saw it. i mean, it’s just a towel. sigh.
i am not an impulse buyer so sometimes, well, things get lost in the shuffle of the decision. lots of times that is easy to correct – run back to the store, pull the website back up, click on purchase. but sometimes, it’s not as easy and the best solution – the most satisfying solution – is to get in the car and drive 1114 miles (and that’s not even our preferred route) to the door of the shop. yes, we are pretty dedicated to those mountains, that air. “life, i love you, all is groovy…”
breck doesn’t have cobblestones – that i have seen anyway – but it is our place to be kickin’ down the road, lookin’ for fun and feelin’ groovy. there are places you feel like you fit and places you feel like you don’t fit. sometimes, places you feel like you don’t fit at all – or even at all-all. those mountains and breck – well – we fit there.
we will be there as long as the sun is at our backs. and then we won’t.
and the we-there – on that bridge – will first get longer and longer and we will appear taller and taller – more long-legged and spindly – and then we will flatten and distort and eventually disappear into the lack of distinction of color and shadow and water.
it will be over the course of a short time – not a long time. and if we stand there, we can watch the whole process, intrigued by the morphing of presence to absence.
i suppose – in an over-simplified way – life is like that. here as long as the sun is at our backs.
which means we have some stuff to do.
as daylight wanes – for it is none too obvious now that we are more waning than waxing – we each peel back layers of comparison, false imperatives, losses – and we expose the vulnerable – and exquisite – more-of-who-we-are. we pay attention to the tenderest of touches – literal and figurative, to the tiniest of blessings, to the most evanescent moments. we look back – with more forgiveness than we could ever muster before. we look ahead – with more optimism than we allowed before.
we begin to sort and see more clearly – even in our shadows in the water.
the sun is at our back. and we have some stuff to do.
i just heard about darn tough hiking socks. they are known for their comfort, durability and fit. they wick moisture and are anti-blister. these are all important features in a hiking sock. heck, they are important features in living life.
the river rises and falls. we have seen it spilling way across the trail, with trees looking like they are standing in a bayou, water so stretched out it looks less like a river than a lake. we have seen it pulled way back, the level low, the riverbed exposed, turtles with no place to hide. it surprises us to arrive and see it so different from the last time. and it doesn’t surprise us.
everything is in flux. everything. and i suppose i am surprised and i am not surprised.
it all rises and falls. it spills over and recedes. life gives and takes. successes are jubilant, disappointments are despairing. relationships flourish and barely hold on…connection replaced by disconnect replaced by connection. well-being is momentary. we are secure, we are imperiled. we are flush with excitement and trembling with dread. such a dichotomy, this living thing.
it reminds me – once again – of an interview i heard with an elderly woman of 95. she was asked how she managed to stay vital and engaged for so long, to stay robustly healthy and remarkably positive. she just gracefully rode the ebbs and flows, surfing the river-bayou-trickle and its continual changes. she answered, “i take nothing personally.”
they must have modeled the socks after her. comfort, durability, fit, moisture-wicking and anti-blister.
i am writing this on the next day. the day after spring. it is now winter again. the seasons are getting shorter and shorter these days. i’m wondering if that is a product of age and stage, as 20 says.
mostly, it convinces us that we need to have a sense of humor. about all things. even the weather.
we sit writing this – snow outside – windows closed – heat on (though not much because i am a curmudgeon about the heat). yesterday we sat writing – birds and sunshine outside – windows open – heat off. it is off again, on again. the tease of time.
tomorrow it is march. and suddenly, i am in the month of my 65th birthday. i am in the month of medicare. i am in the month of the supplement vs the advantage plan. i am in the month of part d. i am in the month of whoa!!
and i wonder – where did the time go? wasn’t it spring yesterday? wasn’t it summer and delicious fall? how is it that i glance in the mirror and an almost-65 stares back?
it truly is the tease of time. the seasons are getting shorter and shorter. and – more and more – my investment in them is getting bigger and bigger – each individual day in each individual week in each individual month in each individual year.
the next day is all well and good. but it’s today that matters right now.
last night i decided that our version of contentment is different than others’ versions of contentment. our bar is lower. definitely lower.
and i’m content with that.
it doesn’t really take much to amuse us. we aren’t big retail shoppers or cruise people or fine dining connoisseurs. we don’t belong to “the club” or drive fancy cars or reserve lodging at all-inclusives. a bit of frenetic goes a long way. but everyone has their thing and everyone has their bar – set at where they feel like they have “reached it” or – at the very least – the “there” to which they are headed. for some, that bar is really meaningful.
we, on the other hand, are moseying around, meandering, checking in on the horizon from time to time. there is no artificial or competitive bar to beat ourselves up over. and tonight, i suddenly realized that i’m ok with that.
my sweet momma taught me long ago how to make something out of nothing – how to make adventures out of the mundane, how to make special that which is ordinary. it wasn’t like she – with chalk and a chalkboard and books of exercises on gratitude – taught lessons. instead, it was just simply watching her. she didn’t require a lot. i don’t remember her having shopping sprees or demanding anything spectacular for vacation. even her cooking was simple: she was a frozen-veggie person, having converted from canned veggies. i don’t remember red peppers from growing up. i don’t remember real garlic cloves or avocado. i do remember her roast beef and i can still picture the index sized recipe card titled “a decidedly delicious way to roast beef” – a simple recipe for which she was well-known. and i remember her lemon pudding cake. we didn’t go to restaurants but for very special times in those growing-up years. she didn’t try to entertain me or over-schedule me.
and so i feel like i learned early that life is what you make it and dreams can be any size you wish.
for out that window – in the big ole world – there are many rungs in that great big ladder of life. neither of my parents seemed to really concern themselves with those rungs, that ever-rising bar. they just were who they were and they made the most of that.
in the days and weeks and months and years that have gone by since both my momma and poppo transitioned to the next plane over, there haven’t been times that i – one of the few people who would truly – really-truly – care about them and the details of their lives – have wondered about their work, their jobs, their salary, their retirement plans, their investments, their titles or certificates of merit, accolades of their careers or even the stuff they owned. i haven’t given thought to their bar or whether or not they achieved “it”.
what i have thought about is the contentment i saw on my momma’s face when her family walked in the door, the sparkle in my dad’s eyes. what i have thought about is the smell of coffee first thing in the morning and sitting at their kitchen table, just talking about whatever. what i have thought about is their generosity of spirit – giving to others in need whatever they had. what i have thought about is their loving support of their children. i’ve thought about the stink-eye of my mom and the grin of my dad. i’ve thought about hearing the words “my sweet potato” and “brat” from their lips. i’ve thought about stories and chocolate ganache cake, egg mcarnsons and cold homemade french fries. nothing too complicated, nothing striding up and over the bar.
and so i guess i come to it honestly, this contentment. keeping expectations in check and appreciating the tiniest things make every single thing that happens count. i am ticking these off on fingers and toes, not in mutual funds and bonds and annual passes and the latest models – for those are someone else’s contentment.
i won’t say no to goodness as it shows up. i will tuck it in with us. and i will keep my eyes on the horizon, even as we wander, lingering and moving on.
and in the moments that follow this great big life i know that none of this will matter: my gpa, the degrees on my wall or stashed in a bin, the bank account or the vault with jewelry, the car in the driveway or even the cds – with my name on them – in stacks of boxes in the basement. what i hope will matter is the look of contentment on my face – standing in a warm old house gazing out the ice-flaked window knowing – simply – what it feels like to love and to be loved. what i hope to leave is that it really doesn’t take much to be content and to make the most of it.
it’s like having bob marley on our refrigerator. every single time i glance at this bookmark, i can hear mr. marley and the wailers singing. it’s not a bad thing. i mean, what could be bad about hearing reggae in your head? it’s a reminder: don’t get mired in all the blankety-blank of life. in the end, it will all be ok.
i was gifted the book “don’t sweat the small stuff” decades ago. the book spent 101 weeks on the ny times bestseller list. clearly, the stress consultant/psychotherapist richard carlson had some idea what he was talking about. the rest of the title of his book is “and it’s all small stuff” and the tagline subtitle is “simple ways to keep the little things from taking over your life”. yes. it’s THAT stuff.
we humans tend to immerse in worst-case scenarios – i suppose it’s our nature. and i suppose it depends on all the baggage you have carried with you. it predisposes us and we are burdened by all of it, weighed down by magnifying the things we worry about, convinced every little thing is worthy of our angst.
but then, there are those moments we are reminded – yet again – of the very preciousness of all this – this life.
we have a stack in the basement. there are spare suitcases, backpacks, small carryons, small totes with zippers. baggage that holds baggage. they are in line to go. next to all the other things that don’t spark joy, next to all the other things that are extraneous, next to all the other things that other people might need more than us.
with that stack – little by little – i am placing the baggage i have carried internally. as space is created in the basement, in the main part of our house, in the attic, i am lifting the darkness off other spaces that need air. i have no idea what that will mean, how that will change me in any way, what light i will feel.
but the postcard bookmark at the antique shoppe spoke to me. and we purchased it, brought it home and put it on the refrigerator.
on sunday we parked littlebabyscion in front of big red – closer to the garage on our one-car driveway. it was making a funny noise, so, access to big red instead. then on monday, big red refused to start. tuesday morning the browser on my old laptop stopped letting me into my blogsite. last night my crown fell off my tooth. the bathroom sink doesn’t drain quite right. the fridge is still tinkling on the floor every so often. and then, there’s much bigger stuff…things that have impacted me or us dramatically…things that we are dealing with…things on which we spend great deals of emotional and intellectual energy. big stuff. or so we think. at least right now.
but there’s also this: we snuggled under the comforter and the quilt with the window cracked and fell asleep last night. we ate leftovers from a meal we had shared with 20, listening to music our son created and the piano music of kostia – both feeding us. our dog is laying on the bed with us, even as i write this. i can hear the tenor windchimes out back. i have a hydroflask from my daughter that is filled with bold coffee at my side. my dentist is making room for me in his schedule. and we are cleaning out. things that center us.
you just never really know. anything.
on page 185 of “don’t sweat…”, chapter 76 is titled “get comfortable not knowing”. richard must have heard bob marley in his head too.
“we got the chance to be young and the chance to grow old.” (kate)
in her next breath, her voice huskier with emotion, she added, “not everyone has had that chance.”
in the arc of the art of living, we hold gratitude for this very life.
and, hopefully, somewhere in there we have gained some wisdom. hopefully, somewhere in there we have held love and relationships before material gain. hopefully, somewhere in there we have chosen truth over institution or divisive politics or agenda. hopefully, somewhere in there we have helped someone else and we have tried to grasp what it might be like walking in their shoes. hopefully, somewhere in there we have stood in a sunrise or sunset, incredulous. hopefully, somewhere in there we have seen extraordinary color and shape in art, heard exquisite frequencies of pitch and timbre in music, moved in a dance, read words we store away to never forget. hopefully, somewhere in there we have granted and been given grace. hopefully, somewhere in there we have felt the flimsy threads of a floating dandelion seed, the solid rough granite, the dirt, beneath our feet, the breaking wave on a shore or a stream as it flows through our fingers, rain and sun on our faces, the embrace of a beloved, the wind carrying the love and wisdom of the arcs of all before us.
hopefully, we hold life itself – breathing – tenderly.
it was the last night. we stood out on the porch and then out in the east field, the farmhouse behind us. the dark of iowa-night rained down on us as we peered into the sky to see the constellations. we could feel the “last” of the last night. but out there, on the horizon – in the way an ellipsis works – the ellipses had a reminder: it’s never really over. the horizon lights suggested the story would be trailing on and on – up till now and then dot-dot-dot…
the story dot-dot-dot – without definition, without a distinct end, unrestrained – keeps on…
last week’s time in iowa and return home gave us grounding…reminders…learnings. feet firmly planted…spine tall…solid and trusting, we intentionally rearranged our thoughts – trying (because it’s not easy and it always takes the work of trying) to put aside worry and angst, instead centering on being steady and calm. the decision to not panic. the ellipsis of keeping on…
the impermanence sticks with us.
and we know it doesn’t matter that there is rust on our hubcaps or that our countertops are chalkboard/food-safe-wax-painted-wood. we know it has no bearing on real life that we don’t wear trendy name-brand clothing or that we actually like $2.50 old navy flipflops. we know that leftovers nourish us just like restaurant fare and we are not worried if we never get to sit at the table of a three-star-michelin. we know that there are wines of great robust but we continue to sip apothic and splurge on the new broadside (paso robles) we found. the ellipsis of keeping on…
the transitory taps us on the shoulder.
gathered, we listened to stories of the past, suddenly way long ago. we went to the pioneer cemetery high on a hill overlooking planted cropfields. the 1800s were just a moment ago there. and, just as the years fly by, we know that the incandescent kite we each fly has fragile filmy threads. our hands – holding the moment – age before our eyes. the ellipsis of keeping on…
the ephemeral sounds harmonic overtones we can hear.
we gaze at the peony buds in the backyard. they will soon bloom – in their sweet time – and they will stun all who walk by. their beauty will not be forgotten. each one has opened to the sun and told its own story. each one. and then dot-dot-dot…
reverse threading 