i am a fan of happy endings. i would guess that’s something on which we likely agree. i mean, who doesn’t love any sort of happy ending – quiet or gushy – any part of the happy spectrum.
and so, in the past couple of weeks – with people we love close-in struggling with serious issues – i want to linger in the happy ending. perspective has slapped us upside the head a few times over these weeks and, teetering a little on shaky ground, we are holding firmly to happy conclusions.
on days when hikes generate deep pondering or the dinner table yields questions about uncertainty, googling about things we know little, we tend to list to an evening of a little couch-sitting and a movie of choice that will – most definitely – have a happy ending.
this could be a hallmark movie. or it could be my big fat greek wedding, which makes us laugh every single time, dozens of times later. it could be about time or love actually or the proposal. it could be sweet home alabama or ps i love you or the family stone. the fuzzy purple zippy dvd holder is the keeper of our cherished movies and we can pick pretty much anything from it and sink into the couch cushions, sighing.
we don’t feel like we are sticking our heads into the sand. we don’t feel like we are fancying escapism (though who doesn’t?!). we don’t feel like we are pollyanna-ing our way into the lull of sleep. we are painfully aware of the precariousness of it all.
instead, we feel like we are reminding ourselves of the possibility. we are immersing in the potential of goodness. we are restoring that place inside from which we draw strength that we might pass on to others, the place from which we can hold others close, lift them up, ask the universe for grace and their healing.
we are taking a deep breath and seeking the happy ending. remembering that they do exist.
i grew fond of clotheslines when we were on washington island. four years ago – almost to this very day – we hung out our first freshly washed laundry. the machine at the littlehouse was one of those washer-dryer combos but it had a few issues with the drying part and we felt it was using too much energy. so we went to mann’s true value hardware and bought clothesline and clothespins and, using the metal poles already sunk in the ground, we strung up our dryer.
it seemed simpler. it was simpler. and time slowed down a little. you can’t rush laundry on a clothesline. the sun and the wind off the lake had to do their job. and we had no control over that. we just waited. every now and then we’d go check the clothes for dryness. and then we’d wait a little longer.
my sweet momma had a clothesline out back – the rotary kind. i wasn’t paying a lot of attention back then, but i did notice the fresh outdoor scent of the sheets when she hung them out.
so when the farm in iowa had a clothesline, both of us had a wistful moment. not to mention the rust made for a plethora of photographs. it’s chip and jojo at their best, or leanne ford, featuring vintage, repurposing the old, framing the rusty, the chipped, the peeling. it’s exquisite stuff. surely this very clothesline t-pole could make an appearance inside were it to be retired from clotheslining.
we have stepped away from washington island. it’s been three years now. covid did a job on performing arts centers everywhere and wiwi’s TPAC was no exception. our co-managing director positions were given to someone local, someone who lived on-island full-time, someone who was already part of the island’s very fabric, lowering overhead costs and fashioning it into what they needed post-pandemic.
to say i don’t miss it would be truly false. though it had some issues in growing, we were dedicated to symbiotically weaving together the organizations on-island and elevating the maturing pac for outsiders as well as insiders. we would initiate change slowly – and some change more quickly – and then wait – just like the clothesline.
and then, the sun and the wind off the lake would let us know how it was going. we’d shift a bit in the stiff breezes and seek shelter of shade in too much glare.
and we knew the clothes and ideas would eventually dry and all would be fresh and sparkling and we could take off the clothespins and bring them in, welcoming them – just like sheets fresh off the line.
it was a cacophony of sound in the restaurant. so.many.people. but it’s chicago and it’s summertime and it was a beautiful night and a trendy 7pm dinner hour, so it’s to be expected. we leaned in to hear our daughter speak and figured most eateries at that hour would be similar. i’d imagine that the frequency decibels would be all over the place and that any recording of the ambient sound would have to be compressed in mastering to accommodate the full spectrum, most especially the louds, the gain between quiet dinner and boisterous restaurant.
i’ve looked over the shoulder of my producer probably hundreds of times, watching the waveform of my music. reducing sound and hours of composing to crisp contrails, manipulating them, editing, mixing, ultimately mastering – it’s complexity, the telling of narrative, an artform in itself.
i would imagine that – somewhere – there is one colossal frequency wave. it started when all-time started and it keeps going. it builds and wanes and layers all manners of sound – the roaring ocean, a tiny peeper frog, a destructive tornado, a baby’s first cry. it mixes piano and the gentle ding of a triangle, cymbal washes and sweeping cello lines. it wraps in first graders singing in denver and the country artist on the flatbed in nashville and the happy guy in the shower in fort wayne. it expands with the din of the city and gets tiny under northern lights and the milky way. it soars over countries, soaking up rich sounds of tradition and ritual, vernacular music.
and then, the frequency wave – giant, unending, inclusive of all sound – is distilled by the wind. it becomes a bit less distinct, its edges are less rigid. particles break off and float, and, though they remain in the atmosphere a long while, they begin to fade, eventually fading as if to zero.
but just as the wave feathers on one end, it grows on the other, pushing forward. and all things continue. all sounds have a place in the wave.
and we listen to live music and the birds at 4am. and we listen to the voices of beloveds and mournful foghorns. and we listen to laughter and sighs. and we listen to the rain and the silence of sunrise. and we listen to harmony and dissonance and cacophony.
there is a scene in “sweet home alabama” when – as a little girl and a little boy on a beach – he tells her he wants to marry her so he can kiss her any time he wants. later – after the whole circle of the story plays out, the camera returns to the two of them, grown, on the beach in a pouring-rain-lightning-storm. he asks her why she would want to be married to him and she responds, “so i can kiss you anytime i want.”
it is a classic moment.
were we all able to stay in that simplicity, relationships between two people – any two people – who love each other might have a better chance in this complex world. so much work goes into our love relationships, and sometimes we all forget they are about just that – love.
yesterday a friend told us that – during covid – after her husband had a heart attack – along with many other serious difficulties – she was unable to see him for weeks. and then. now, she is grateful to be able to touch his skin. simply that. touch his skin. it doesn’t take away the tough moments or the potential arguments or slights or angsts, but she tells us – eyes glistening – that, for her, it is about touching his skin.
sometimes it is simply a kiss. sometimes it is touching skin. sometimes it is a dance.
in the great pause we are experiencing, things have risen to the top.
they are the cardinals on the fence, the house finch sipping from the dogdish, the hummingbird at the feeder, dogga sleeping on the deck, the smell of sauteing onions and garlic, ice water in a glass, the sun rising out the sunroom window, the play of first light on our quilt, the sound of the trail under our feet, the mayapple flowers tucked in and peeking out from the canopy, the piney scent through the stand, the repeating arvo pärt on the cd player, photographs, the gurgling pond out back, bunbun and the chippies, glass doorknobs, the basil plant on the potting stand, the first coffee, a hot shower, lavender soap, open windows, butterflies, five-year-aged cheddar and sips of wine, writing next to each other, repeated ritual touchstones in our week, unrushed hugs, the squirrel highway, the sound of a text on the phone, anticipation, generosities, idiosyncrasies, the peonies, sunny days of little humidity, the feel of old wood floors under bare feet, hagstones, smooth worry rocks tucked in our pockets.
and with these things of absolute greatness, we slow down and – in the way of centripetal forces spinning, spinning, around, around – we center. and wait.
we went back to the beach. it was only our third time there but it’s beginning to feel familiar. we know the driftwood to lean back against, the curve in the shoreline where the waves break. the sand is warm, the breeze off the lake is cool; it’s a perfect combination and we’ve brought sandwiches along. we walk with our heads down, searching for hagstones and beach glass. it’s a sanctuary minus the trappings – physical and emotional – one often finds in buildings with sanctuaries.
each rock is intriguing. there are infinite shapes and sizes, rocks of all imagination. i pick up more than i tuck away, but i appreciate the spectrum of diversity and i wonder where they have been before they arrived on this lake michigan shoreline. what’s the story behind each stone, behind the tiny bits of glass, behind the wave-beaten-smooth pieces of brick. each narrative counts.
we brought a book but we didn’t read it. we hadn’t started it yet. we do that later in the day. rebecca makkai’s “the great believers” – a good read for pride month, a profound novel highlighting the aids crisis starting early to mid 1980s. there are places familiar to us in this book – chicago, boystown, door county – we find it easy to immerse as we read aloud. we are transported in time – back to those days of early recognition of this dreadful viral infection. human immunodeficiency virus has not ceased and there are still millions of people with life-threatening and chronic symptoms. there are stories familiar to us in this book – for we are both artists and we both finished our undergrad work in the early 80s. there are people familiar to us in this book – though these are characters, in life they have been our friends and, now, they are the friends of our son, the tight-knit unconditionally-loving LGBTQ community. they are all treasured and unique hagstones and beachglass – gorgeous in human form.
the stash of rocks ended up on the dining room table, all fanned out on its worn surface. they are glorious bits of a stunning day. the stone that looked like a guitar pick with a feather beret cap stayed on the beach. i took it home in my camera instead.
we have plans for the next time. more snacks. maybe swimwear.
we have plans for pride in chicago. more compassion. maybe tie-dye.
we are merely two people walking on a vast beach, among zillions of beautiful rocks of all sorts, zillions of people of all sorts. it’s all familiar. it’s all unfamiliar. but it’s all a sanctuary under one sun.
there are days that the clouds form lower elevation mountains along the horizon and you are certain that land is not far away.
there are days that clouds – skybluepink, puffy white, ominous grey – float by, high in the sky or dipping down into the camera lens, and land – on the other side of lake michigan – is nowhere to be seen.
it depends on the day. it depends on conditions. it depends on tiny atmospheric changes. “air can reach saturation point [forming clouds] in a number of ways.” (noaa.gov)
we are reading john denver’s autobiography. it is a perfect example of all the conditions aligning for clouds to form, a perfect example of the fragility of saturation point. in a series of miniscule decisions, moments, meetings blessed by timing, john denver is catapulted into success. we are almost halfway through, reading aloud and relishing it. john’s music, his messages, his work in the world – most definitely crystals in the atmosphere.
we returned the measure to the library. we didn’t finish it. i look at the stack of books next to my side of the bed and realize that it is not necessarily a light-fiction-time for me, though i am quite sure there might be exceptions and i know that there are profound novels, deeply rich. this bedside stack is non-fiction, informative, questioning. it wasn’t that the measure didn’t seem a good read. it was more that it didn’t hold me, my attention. after the first couple days of blanketed-both-ends-of-the-couch reading snippets as there was time, the book sat atop the throw and just waited and – then – became overdue. the quarters accumulated for a few days and i thought we’d sit down to finish it, but we never did. eventually, we mutually decided to bring it back. and then we talked about it on the trail…why it didn’t seem to appeal to us right now.
i suppose there are times in life when all you need is a giant stack of romance novels or mysteries. maybe those times are periods of comfort – skybluepink times – when you are freer to languish, freer to relax into life. these are the times when you don’t see any horizon – the lake is endless and there are no looming summits to climb.
and then, there are other times in life – when escape would seeeem like a good idea – when, instead, the books you choose are steeped in reality, steeped in others’ challenges and successes, telling stories of grit and fortitude and good luck and the help and support of others, the stories of getting-there. the books ask questions you might ponder in sorting out next or the books outline ways to approach that which you are facing down. non-fiction is more of a unpredictable day out there over the lake, getting unexpectedly sopped by rain, seeing mountains to climb on the other side, wondering if the sun will ever shine.
john denver wrote, “i’d learned that powerful songs are powerful not because they’re pretty or bouncy or funny, but because they’re about the human condition and what we all aspire to; i’d learned those were the songs i loved.”
a pretty sky – or song or book – doesn’t hurt – in fact, it can fill one with much contentment. but only pretty skies could be suffocating. we need the rest – all the atmospheric conditions to really feel the yin-yang spectrum, to know we are truly living, to be reminded of how crystals in the sky are formed and to know the sun is shining – regardless.
with gordon lightfoot crooning in my ear, i stroked the pussywillows on the trail. i can’t remember seeing these on trail before. i know i would have noticed – their softness begs touch.
“pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses rain pools in the woodland, water to my knees shivering, quivering, the warm breath of spring pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses”
smooth silvery-grey under our fingertips, we each took time to touch, to marvel at the beauty. and gordon lightfoot sang on in my mind.
as a writer, composer, lyricist, there are decisions one must make along the way. we place ourselves in a vulnerable spot, not for our own purpose or indulgence, but, instead, in the hope of resonating with someone who needs the words or music or lyrics we write, in the hope of reaching someone else walking in similar shoes, in the hope of assuring someone out there who needs to know they are not alone. and so, at the risk of thus vulnerably over-sharing, i offer this:
but some things are triggers. and, as the verses and guitar continued, this particular gordon lightfoot song is one of them. my #metoo was at the hands of a musician, a serial predator who walks freely even today. he played guitar and charmed his way into the never-to-forget-lives of many susceptible young women. a man who softly sang gordon lightfoot and james taylor, who wrote love songs, new lyrics for gorgeous SATB hymns, and taught guitar surely was to be trusted, right? wrong.
i can appreciate these beautiful pussywillows, another harbinger of spring and new life. but i stop a moment and give nod to my much earlier self. in a watershed, i recognize the parallel of this earliest time working in the church and my latest work. bookends.
“riding on the roadside the dust gets in your eyes”
it’s not the dust that brings tears to my eyes, it’s not the spring air laden with newness of pollen, the turning of season. it’s the raw bookended time in places i trusted as safe. i cannot help now but examine it all up close, process it, grieve the loss of innocence, the devaluing of women, abhor the loss of respectful truth and the reign of agenda. the bookends hold upright the time in-between, all the books of life, times and experiences and mistakes and successes, the laying down of any attempt to process, to make right, of any ramifications for the wrongdoer. the bookend of late was a stunning surprise. i am astonished at its destruction, now, no longer a teenager. i find it all shockingly galling.
“slanted rays and colored days, stark blue horizons”
the horizon is much like the horizon all those decades ago. it’s surprising to return to that feeling. i want to leave, to run, just like that other time, that other bookend. my physical life, however, is not at stake this time. it is me, my loss of community, my loss of position, stolen integrity. i cannot wrap my head around the slanted rays, the starkness.
“treasuring, remembering, the promise of spring pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses”
treasuring, remembering. promises. but roses…the flower of love…it is hard to hear lyric of roses…my hope is to only hear gordon lightfoot in my mind’s eye and to forget the echoing bookends.
“shivering, quivering, the warm breath of spring”
to remember – spring is beginning to spring. the catkins of the willows are soft, cattails seed in the wind, warm circles us on the trail.
and today – despite the dirt and the dried stems, vestiges of life-gone-past – despite the cold and the snow and the ice and the rain and all the elements that have torn into this plant and the critters that have refuged under its branches – despite the sun and the drought and no added nutrients and almost no attention whatsoever – small clusters of brassica-like buds have sprouted out of the ground.
they have persevered, they have sought rebirth, they have wiped away their tears of disappearance and their underground fallow and they have risen up, one tiny millimeter at a time, unnoticed until now, shoots of green in all the brown.
they have not been considered marvelous. they are not rare. they are not exquisite blooms, fragile petals, filmy tendrils connecting them to their lifesource. instead, they are curled cabbages, tightly wound and unwinding.
they are a little bit haughty at the spring and its sweet-time-taking. they are persistent, resilience at their core, hardy, paying no mind to the rules of march or april or, really, any season. they wait for no one to move the leaves and debris of winter. they are independent.
this new year of growth, this new season of their sedum-lives is pushing out of the good earth – despite all odds. they keep on keeping on, mustering up next and next, pushing aside all doubt, surely panting in their phoenix.
time continues to peel back the layers. barney is vulnerable and is, thus, exposed.
artistry is like that. we share our vulnerabilities. we write, we paint, we compose, we lyricize – we peel back the outer shroud of mystery to reveal that which is inside. we take chances at judgement, at others’ opinions, at evaluation. we are exposed. and time goes on. winter turns to spring which turns to summer and then fall. the seasons take their toll; the seasons enrich us. both.
the first album i released felt earth-shaking. the notes – white and black keys tumbling from deep within – flew out into the world on a piece of polycarbonate, aluminum and acrylic plastic. what could be a coaster contained fifteen deeply-excavated emotions, musings each released into the light. exposed. the scraps of paper that gave birth to these were soon filed in a binder with invoices and order forms, designs and ups tracking numbers. one season. one album. done.
each original album since is no less an exposé. each still holds pieces of me, permission by me to be peeled back. a little less scary than the first but still risk-taking. vulnerability does not recede from the sandy beach as the big waves come and go. but it stands a little more stoic, with a little more sisu. the albums, like seasons, arrive when it is time. and they, in some way that albums might, tremble with anticipation and that tiny bit of fear that remains, even after many layers have been peeled. soon there will be no more black and white at all.
now i wonder if i will need shrink-wrap again. i wonder about recording. and i don’t know. yet. i do find that i am thinking of wooden stages and boom mics. i also find that i am thinking that all this writing – these written words on the page – have been feeding me and that hunger for polycarbonate, aluminum and acrylic plastic.
each day, barney and i age. the veneer blisters and the shell reveals our hearts. we are both emotional, barney and i. we are conscious of our craggier look, the wrinkles and the age spots. though we wonder about how we resonate with the rest of the universe-out-there, we take the dusty road together anyway and we hold hands, vulnerable together. though laminate no longer hides our souls, we are standing in the sun this season, new growth springing up.
reverse threading 