yes, yes. we are the height of fashion, the apex of vogue, the pinnacle of couture, trend-setters and latest-style-forward leaders. uh-huh.
in this new world – where i’m applying for medicare (what?!!!) – we are quite possibly – maybe probably – an eensy-weensy bit definitely – lagging behind. we are jeans-wearing, boots-flaunting, blackshirt-donning … and not so much … ok, not at all … runway-following.
were we sooo consumed with the intimate-wear choices of the riche, we would only consider silk or satin, rayon or charmeuse in nightwear lingerie. but, ohmygosh, give me a break!
we are over that.
truthfully – if people were truthful – most are over that.
and so, we are here to reassure you.
at least about pjs.
now that it is cold out it is completely apropos to pull out the flannel. because flannel – a style unto itself – is cozy and warm, snuggly and forgiving. a classic. it is love in a fabric.
and the buffalo plaid?? THE most popular.
yes. yes. we will rest easier now. we are most definitely the cat’s meow.
“all i can do is be me. whoever that is.”” (bob dylan)
it’s an imperative. composing, songwriting, producing, performing – they aren’t really choices. they are inherent – something inside that begs you to feel it. it is an ancient call for an answer that tugs and prods and taunts until you comply, baring your soul. it makes you vulnerable and demands courage and fortitude, sacrifice and a stalwart sense of purpose. it is not a straight path. It is fluid. it is failure and a phenom. it is devastation and ecstasy. it is necessary.
standing backstage – our son and the board clearly in view – i am whisked away to the place parents are taken when they see their children doing something they wildly love to do.
i have stood on a giant mountain – one of the highest skiable terrains in the united states – and felt this feeling as our daughter flew past on a snowboard, everything in her aligned in the freedom of expression that single piece of wood opened in her.
and now i have stood on a wood floor in a crowded nightclub – way past my bedtime – and felt the exhilaration of my son’s music – truly moving him, bringing forth who he is from a place deep in his heart.
and in both circumstances, i have been in awe. and in both circumstances, i have celebrated.
because though they have both been scrappy and deliberate, non-traditional, intentionally creating the ability to have the room to express – with any combination of full-time work, layered jobs, skimping and saving, lack of resources – in an ever-changing river, they have led with who they are. what is important to them – deep down – is their truth. their heartbeat. figuring it out as they go.
our son is an EDM artist – electronic dance music. his music is powerful and pulsing, driving you to dance. it is layered and complex and technical and, as a composer – even understanding a slice of the process – i stand back in wonder. we are both creating music and, even in its difference, it has the same goal.
“some people feel the rain. others just get wet.” (bob dylan)
he is feeling the rain. and his music invites everyone else to feel it as well. that’s the imperative. it’s what has compelled me to compose. it’s what compels me to write. it’s what compels david to paint. it’s what compels the potter to sculpt, the dancer to dance, the climber to climb, the actor to act, the skier to ski, the athlete to push, the chef to craft, the aerobatic pilot to soar on bluesky days, the creator to create. it takes some guts. but it’s necessary. for the world.
“dear artists. don’t hold back. that’s it…” (okuntakinte)
he loves his theme song. it has a specific melody, but can be sung to many different tunes, in many different styles. what he knows is that it is his.
i suppose that theme songs go beyond the scope of exaggerated prosody – those patterns of rhythm, intonation and stress of the voice you use – most like that of talking to infants – with which dogs so easily identify. i’m not sure how it’s so easy to revert to this higher-pitched baby-talk but it gets his attention and seems to maintain it. there have been studies…whether dogs’ neural sensitivity is attuned more to this higher modulated speech pattern – a pattern that is directed to a listener with limited linguistic competence. as the more longer-vowel-sound-higher-pitched-sing-song speaker in the house, i’d say it’s true.
dogga responds to sooo many words and it does seem obvious: he is more sensitive to dog and/or infant type directed speech than if we were to just speak to him in adult-directed voices. his wagawag starts up as soon as he hears our “e.p.”, er, babytalk. i would guess he might roll his eyes and yawn were we to start holding adult conversation with him, particularly on topics of conversation during which he has retreated to the bathroom for escape. though i have had many a chat with him – he’s a good listener – he has not had the same level of response as he does with the prosody of adoring dogmom. “sleepyniiightniiight”, “loooooveyou”, “withmahhhhmma”….
“babycat. you are the cutest little babycat. you are the cutest little babycat, babycat, wah wah wah wah wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah…” (babycat)
“i’m a chopper-whopper-dinkus-baby and you are not; chopper-whopper, dinkus-bayyybee…” (chopper)
yes, yes. the theme songs go way back – decades. and i suppose so does the tone of voice. in a world that can be pretty harsh, there can’t be much wrong with a little exaggerated prosody here and there.
certainly, there is no limit to it when it comes to our beloved pets. so much unconditional love.
it’s hard to contain the excitement of returning to a favorite haunt for dinner out. we rarely go out for dinner so any time we find ourselves being a littlebit indulgent it’s cause for celebration.
but – just as it isn’t smart to go to the grocery store hungry, it also isn’t smart to go out for dinner the day after your metabolic and lipid panel bloodwork results are posted on your mychart.
and so you read – wondering why anything marked “high” or “low” hasn’t made your solicitous physician call you at home, concern and suggestions – with an appropriate amount of reassurance – in her voice. but this is 2023 and there is no time for that and you need be happy enough with the office staff call. my recent physical with a brand new doctor-to-me – which took seven months from the time i called to book it – wasn’t even completed (thus i have to go back for the girly stuff) because i dared give a little context history and asked a few questions about things that were concerning me – and we ran out of my “allotted time”. she did inform me – on her way out the door while telling me to make a follow-up appointment to finish the (might i say – important?) girly stuff – that physicals are merely bloodwork and cancer screenings. they are not meant for body, mind and spirit check-ins to be sure you are – uhhh – “physically” ok. to say that i don’t understand would be an understatement. (let me just mention here that our healthcare totals in excess of $28,000 and that i haven’t once used it this year prior to this “physical” which makes me very fortunate – in addition to mathematically making this “physical” mighty expensive.)
but i digress.
so, on our own, we study the new results, compare them to former test results, look for trends, research what creatinine and various other tests really mean, note any “high” and “low” indicators, look up dietary choices to aid in lowering or raising these, discover (again) that proper hydration is of extreme import, seek answers to lower stress levels (which contribute to many of these results). we power through the mayo clinic, the cleveland clinic, the nih, webmd, medline, healthline, even wikipedia – trying to find information we can digest and the answers to what we can order off the menu.
today i read the doctor’s comments. with one exception – even though i had concerns with any red and green markings on my results – she wrote that it was all “wnl”. i looked that up. “within normal limits” in med-talk.
we are still going to make some changes. we want to do the best we can as we “gracefully” age – between diet and exercise and maintaining a zen-like existence. uh-huh. it’s always good to evaluate and re-evaluate our health choices.
but for now, i’m gonna skip the chia seeds this time.
“… the road is long with many a winding turn that leads us to who knows where, who knows where but i’m strong strong enough to carry him he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother
… so on we go his welfare is of my concern no burden is he to bear we’ll get there
… for i know we would not encumber me we ain’t heavy, he’s my brother
… if I’m laden at all i’m laden with sadness that everyone’s heart isn’t filled with the gladness of love for one another
… it’s a long, long road from which there is no return while we’re on the way to there why not share?
… and the load doesn’t weigh me down at all he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother
… he’s my brother he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother
(bob russell / bobby scott – he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother)
queen anne’s lace does not bow down under the weight of the snow. it stands – upright – proudly holding what looks like a single-scoop of snowfall. despite the wind, despite the force of gravity – queen anne’s lace bears the burden, singing along with the hollies “and the load doesn’t weigh me down at all…..”
we have a thing or two to learn from nature. long roads, winding turns, shared concern for welfare, love for one another.
we are witness to miracle after miracle out here. they are tiny; they are vast. we stand at the wayside of nature’s rest area – in the fallow that is late autumn and early winter – and we watch as the journey of the woods marches on. working side by side, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, the forest and its inhabitants are thrust onto the long cold road ahead, eventually seeking spring. the ecosystem is symbiotic and nothing is encumbered more than the next. even in any not-knowing, critters and plants and trees alike trudge on, sans complaint. they carry with them the exchange of energy and the work of the fallow. they are strong. and it ain’t heavy. they are brothers-sisters together.
and they are waiting for us – the humans – to catch up to their simple wisdom.
puddletrees. they were right there, waiting. trees out a window. trees in a snowstorm. trees in front of us. illusion. reminding me – in the taking of the photograph – that things are not always what they seem.
it’s like story. things are not always what they seem.
“but in this song there are only two sides to things… there’s reality and i guess what you might call fantasy. there’s enchantment and dis-enchantment, what we’re taught to believe things are and what they really are.” (joni mitchell – at a performance 1967)
two sides. we’ve been taught to remember that there are two sides to every story. we learn though – somewhere along the way – that there are often many more sides than two. story is a multi-faceted creature, amorphous enough – and pliable enough – to take on the shape of whatever the storyteller – or the listener – wishes. this is not just dependent on details or fact; this is not simply dependent on reality. this is dependent on intention. even with the truth-telling of true story – with ample substantiation – there are others who will warp story into their agenda. reality and the flipside. brutal.
but there are puddletree moments. pared down. and these are not win or lose, up or down moments. they are simply suspensions of time – when we marvel at the reflection of trees in puddles or a single snowflake on a leaf or the survivors in scorched earth of a controlled burn, when we linger in the harmonic of a ninth or the color of the peony, when we pause in the middle of mayhem to look around us, when we know that just a little beyond reality is dream. and we can see it from here.
life’s illusions in an asphalt puddle. we really don’t know life. what it really is. at all.
it was as we were hiking that the snow started again. it had already laid down a couple inches and the wind was a bit blustery. and then…
they drifted down around us – as if we were in the middle of a snowglobe and someone had given it a gentle shake. we watched them – individually falling – cold enough to see them land without melting.
most of the time, in landing, they are more en masse – like toddlers playing soccer – a beehive of tinies running after a ball – snowflakes swirling together landing, tumbling, piles of tiny colliding flakes sticking together.
but as i watched, cellphone in hand, this one snowflake – all by itself – landed on this leaf. and the leaf, cold enough to keep the flake intact, held the magic so that i could see it. exquisite doesn’t begin to capture it. sometimes adjectives are so incomplete – superlatives even anemic.
this time, the tiny snowflake held its ground, its unsung miracle-ness distinct against the leaf. i was startled to see it as we stood in the falling snow. i was – also – ridiculously thrilled.
its oneness – this singular the-only-one-there-is snowflake – quiet individuality. its presence – without trumpets blaring or the dinging of any notification – silently suddenly here. its tiny-ness – in this vast world – the same as us. a gift.
we are snowflakes falling. it is up to us to choose how. with or without fanfare, conforming or not, with or without humility, a gift or not.
the des plaines river trail is in several sections. there’s a section that circles round a lake. there’s a section that loops through the forest. and there are sections that run next to the river. in order to control invasive species and to maintain resources, the state of illinois has controlled burns each spring and fall. oaks and hickories have thick bark to shield them and native plant species have deep taproot systems to survive the intense heat. in fact, this carefully maintained ecosystem often contributes to more robust plants after the burn.
we came upon the remains. we hadn’t been on the loop in days and were surprised to see the blackened earth, stalks of char. when the snow fell, it became a landscape – seemingly – of black and white. yet the squirrels ran rampant and we couldn’t feel any stress from the underbrush – like when there is an unexpected fire and the land is scorched.
i knelt down in front of the charred cattails and started to photograph them.
and suddenly there were tears in my eyes. i could feel the fire and the scorched-ness, the cooling snow blanketing it all, the energy still there – underground. i could feel the tenacity of these stalks and twigs, having survived the storm of the planned fire, ready for rejuvenation, resurgence. scrappy and resilient, potent, sturdy – the light past the dark. the recovery post-fire, post-exploration, a renewal. i could feel their passage through it.
i held hands with the cattails as i knelt on the snowy ground. braced, the taproot within – infinite – held fast, reassured me.
and with them i peered into the dark and saw that the light was right there, just beyond the charred edges.
it is reassuring to believe that they whisper. i think they have begun to know us well. our passings-by have informed them – the times in our life together when we are laughing, the times we are upset, the times we are angsting, the times we are tired, the times we are quiet. i’m pretty sure they notice, despite all that is going on in their own world.
it’s been years now that we have a relationship with these trees. just as we watch for them – around the bend in the trail – across the pond – on the other side of the meadow – on the riverbed….they watch for us. they know our stride, our arm-in-arm, the sound of our footfall. they wonder before we arrive and they ponder after we depart.
we photograph them, voice concern about their fallen boughs, marvel at the kaleidoscope of their leaf color, view the sky through their canopy. we are grateful for the way they block the wind and the way they allow sun to filter through to our faces. they watch as we move snakes and caterpillars and turtles off the trail. they stare as we stop and gaze, still with momentary awe that strikes without warning. we see them stalwart. they see us fragile.
and so as we come around another bend – another day – another hike – they shush each other, to hear our voices, our booted feet on the dirt. to watch.
they whisper.
i wonder if they know how much we love when we are there.
lake michigan – and its looming presence – it’s always there, though sometimes we don’t notice.
i’ve been around water my whole life: long island and florida and here. i’m not sure if i have thought about what that means to me. i’ve lived most of life at or around sea level. i have always been able to – via a short walk, short bike hike, short drive – get to a large body of water. and, regardless of whether or not i am on the shore of that immensity, i can feel it.
the last few days have pulled me out of center – whatever center i have mustered in recent times. in the middle of the middle i can’t feel the grounding gravity that usually helps – perspective that keeps the rest at bay. i know the flailing time is limited and that we are not trapped there. adrift in the onslaught of emotion, i tune in to the things that balance me. i listen for the windchimes outside, i stand in the living room and look at the lit trees, i sit at the kitchen table opposite d, we take hikes in cold air, we light a candle.
i fend off the pining for the high mountains, knowing i can’t get there right now. in guided imagery i sit at the side of the brook – on a log – in the lodgepole pine forest – high on the mountain. i – curiously – am never on the shore – of rock or of sand.
have i always taken the water for granted? do i take this presence – merely a block away – for granted? is it human to pine for the things we don’t have, things that are harder to access?
yet, if i imagine being away from the water – any water – i have a visceral reaction. for it’s always been there and i hardly know what it would feel like without it.
the days i have sat on the coast – sandy beach beneath me – i can feel the deep breath that powerful surf affords.
the days we have hiked streamside up the mountain, the days we have sat on its bank or on rocks in the middle of rushing water – i can feel the the deep breath that the flow affords.
the days we hike along our favorite local trail – river at our side – i can feel the deep breath that its familiarity in all seasons affords.
the days we choose to walk by the lake – on its bouldered shoreline or on its beaches – i can feel the deep breath that an unbroken horizon affords.
and the water – the innate healer – is always there. grounding.
“take a course in good water and air; and in the eternal youth of nature you may renew your own. go quietly, alone; no harm will befall you.” (john muir)
reverse threading 