looking back on the 25th anniversary of september 11 i am struck at how viscerally profound it remains – in my heart, my mind, my body. not that i am surprised. it was an absolute day of terror – and none of us alive during it will ever forget.
scrolling anytime before, on or after the-day-25-years-later of these brutal attacks on our democracy, there are memes after memes on social media. person after person writing the words, “never forget!”
and that – i agree with.
but, many of the persons posting this are of a different political persuasion than me – many of them are carrying zealous pompoms for the current administration and for its undermining of this nation’s constitution.
so what – exactly – is it that those people are asking us not to forget about september 11, 2001?
is it how the country – and all its occupants – came together on that day – reaching out to each other, to help in the crisis, to comfort, to give aid, to stand with – regardless of any – ANY – differences?
is it how this country was helped by – and was grateful for – its allies in the time, the days, the months, the years after these hideous events?
is it how this nation’s people embraced each other, grateful to be alive, deeply grieving those whose lives were taken by this evil?
is it how there were adults in charge, who spoke eloquently and thoughtfully about the course of events, who made intelligent, well-advised decisions not based on impulsivity or gluttonous greed or narcissistic aggrandizing?
is it how the administration encouraged unity on the very day of these attacks: “this is a day when all americans from every walk of life unite in our resolve for justice and peace.“? (president bush)
is it how that president called for solidarity- instead of divisiveness – asking the country to put aside differences, support first responders, and stand together with resolve and shared purpose?
are these the things that the supporters of the current administration are talking about when they implore us to “never forget”?
because as i see it – their support of the heinousness of this administration means that they have already forgotten.
and in looking at what they are instead aligning themselves with, i say – with a heart, mind and body that remembers 9/11 – i dissent.
i was glad to see it wasn’t just a tiny puddle. the next time we passed the rocks along the shoreline i looked for the heart again. and there it was. sans rain. which means it is an inherent part of that boulder and that it will be there each and every time we pass by. there is something reassuring about that.
we are living very much in the middle of the decisions you make when you love something unconditionally and you are loved back unconditionally: our dogga.
in these days our everyday decisions are based upon his needs. we have found that dividing up his meals into small meals every few hours has aided his belly, has made him less apt to feel yucky. and so, every few hours we need be here in order to give him breakfast, lunch, dinner or one of the snicky-snacks in-between.
now, being at home at those times cuts down on our ability to come and go, but this is for a beloved dog who dedicated his whole life to us. it is not too much of a commitment to – best as we can – make sure he is feeling well in these later-aging days. and so, we stick around home.
our walks these days are not on our river trail or out in the woods or in the meadows and trails of the state or county parks, nor are they in distant mountains or canyonlands or forests. instead, we stay in the ‘hood and walk our own streets and the sidewalks along the lake and the harbor. our standard walk is 3.5 miles, but we often add to that, walking further. there is a lot to see and no end to the kind of mileage we can add to our exercise regimen, all nearby. driving a half hour each way – or more – adds more time to our time away from dogga, so we choose right local most of the time and are grateful we have such amazing views steps away from our house.
now, every time we pass the heart i will think about our very-conscious decision to stay close to home…close to tripper.
every time i pass the heart i will nod and know that we have chosen love – and time together – for our old dogga.
every time i pass the heart i will remember that dogga – who is soaking up all the belly-bellies he can get – is right there with us, appreciating our staying close – just as he has all these years.
every time i pass the heart now, i know that it will be there the next time too. constant. unassuming. unconditional. inherent.
there are large groups of seagulls here – and they congregate in all the normal places – like on the boulders on the shoreline, on the beach, around the trash bins by the beach, out riding lake waves or soaring above the water and scouring for morsels of food. they also congregate in abnormal places – particularly like the kohls parking lot. i used to joke that they were having a conference – all together for the invocation and then splitting off into groups for brief in-service sessions that are, i suppose, for the purpose of whetting their appetites for more knowledge about a topic – 45 minutes or so before they move on to the next mini-topic breakout session.
perhaps today these seagulls are gathered because they are NOT at the conference. instead, they are having a sit-in…just off the shoreline…noisy and stubbornly not moving. it’s their labor day too, they point out.
my first “job” was to go door to door in my neighborhood, dragging a red wagon behind me that was filled with baby cacti in tiny pots. a little later i diversified and added homemade candles. door to door, selling cacti and candles for $1 and keeping a log in my ledger.
at some point i added washerwoman to my paid-job list, as my grown-up sister hired me to do her laundry at the laundromat. my ledger shows that i earned $5 for this domestic task.
according to my meticulous recordkeeping, babysitting rates way-back-in-the-day were anywhere from $2 – $4 an hour, accompanying soloists for solo-ensemble was merely $2.50 or $3, tutoring math was $3.50 an hour. clearly, i was zealous.
i started teaching piano lessons to beginning beginners at age 16 and my mom drove me to the houses where i taught lessons. $3 (and later $4) covered the cost of a piano lesson, which lasted about 30 minutes or maybe a bit more. i have had countless private students through the years, in my own studio or their homes or at the music studio.
i felt productive doing any of my early “self-employed” jobs. that feeling of pride continued when i started working retail at the outdoor recreation/dive center or the music store or the photography shop. i was happy to earn money that i could save or spend on necessities or, maybe, things i was pining over. i liked being a worker bee.
as an adult, i began working for non-profits and government entities – which ranged from educational to religious to legal settings. it became quickly evident that better pay and perks were not necessarily going to be part of the equation. but, when one chooses to work for a non-profit (or an institution that functions under a not-for-profit basis) – though one hopes for ever-improving pay-and-perks – one knows there are limitations, and rewards for your work come in different packages of appreciation and in knowing you are making a difference in the life of an organization, an institution or a community. most of the time i liked being a worker bee in these settings, though there are definitely exceptions.
when i started my independent recording label, responsible for all the ins and outs of the business, my relationship with work took on different parameters. suddenly, everysinglething was within my scope to dream about, decide upon, to initiate, to represent, to carry out. everything that was related – even in small ways – was important to me and respectful relationships mattered: relationships with those i worked with, those who worked for me, those who were in concentric circles with significant adjacent impact on my company and those who were more removed but still had a role to play. i have loved being a worker bee with my own company, despite all the angst, the napkin math and the middle-of-the-night ruminating.
each of us makes choices about how we wish to fit in – what metaphoric spoke-in-the-wheel we wish – or feel comfortable enough – to be. each of those spokes matter in the big picture, no matter how seemingly minuscule or peripheral or menial. we all do this together; recognizing interdependency is paramount to any success.
in these times – fraught with the elimination of jobs, the dismantling of agencies and regulation, the bigoted prevention or stalling of women and people of color to advance, the trad-wife perversion, the mob-like corruption to stoke up money, the xenophobic erasure of immigrants and their very important work, the pronounced caste system of less and more-more-more – we are looking at an administration that does not seem to care about good old-fashioned work and how it should be rewarded.
ahhh. the importance of labor day.
there are some basics, after all, for us worker bees.
where have those gone??
the seagulls – at their sit-in – are clearly pissed.
though i recognize how very impactful graffiti may be, i am not necessarily a blanket-fan of graffiti on public property.
these words, however, caught my attention: “be happy”“be kind”
such a simplicity – the imperative of life – in two short sentences.
someone – or someones – thought it important enough to place these thoughts in blue spraypaint onto the lake’s shoreline rocks. they didn’t sign their name or names, but i can understand that…that would be risky. nevertheless, they felt the risk of defacing the boulders was worth it – especially in light of the message they were leaving for others to see.
in these recent days, we lost an icon in the music world. dolly parton lived the imperative of art and of tenacity and of life and demonstrated a generosity that leaves a legacy stamped all over the world, forever. her example is profound. happy and kind were her companions.
completely the opposite is the deplorable example of the leader of this country. his feverish need for his name to be everywhere is distorted, narcissistically outsized. his pugnacious and gluttonous attitude prevailing over utterly everything he does, it is difficult to even utter his name without shuddering. this is not something we want graffiti-ed all over our precious country. enough already.
there is a tiny card that sits in my studio. it reads: “if you asked me what i came into this world to do, i will tell you: i came to live out loud.”
to live out loud – happy and kind.
seems pretty simple.
and it is easy to discern the difference – between those who live happy, who live kind and those who do not.
why would we elevate, entrust, enable, elect or endure anyone who does not?
as sunflowers age, their woody stems lose the ability to turn back and forth – east and west – in their track of the sun. instead, their older, more mature stalks keep them more planted, most often facing east – to capture the rising sun and warmth from early morning’s rays, to stoke up.
now, i’m guessing that it would be easier for the sunflower if it were able to continually use their magical heliotropism superpower their whole life, but – much like humans – some of their flexibility fades as they get older and they deal with life differently as an aged sunflower.
in the storylines of our own lives, it would be much easier if we were able to constantly pivot to goodness – the sun, easy answers, fixes, healing solutions, the fair solving of problems, any evil affecting us succumbing to accountability.
to think that all might go our way – the first time – or, heck, any time at all – sounds mighty fine.
but life as a sunflower isn’t like that. and neither is life as a human.
instead, lots of times we must set down our expectations and take a breath. a deep breath.
we allow a bit of time to readjust: to maybe grieve, to pine for a different result, to rail over outcomes dashed.
we reassess. we sort. we brainstorm.
we strategize. we plan.
we gear up.
and then – we rise up – with strong and straight spine – and face the next day, ready for what comes next. whatever it is.
“if you remain generous, time will come good; and you will find your feet again on fresh pastures of promise, where the air will be kind and blushed with beginning.” (john o’donohue – to bless the space between us)
the licorice plant, in a pot on top of the little chest on the deck, was clearly stressed. actually, beyond stressed. something had invaded it; webs were forming inbetween its branches and most of the leaves were turning yellow.
after having no luck combating this invader and worrying that whatever it was would spread to the herbs and vegetables we had planted right nearby, we made the decision to empty the pot and put the licorice plant into the sort-of compost pile next to the garage. we felt bad but thought it was best for the rest – eliminate that which is harmful, minimize the potential of further harm. we decided to go back to milaegers at some point and purchase another licorice plant. we just love the muted, soft shade of green of this plant with its somewhat wild, trailing branches.
when we brought home the new licorice plant, we ended up bringing it inside – placing it on an old stool in front of the living room window, enjoying it inside this time. in its place on top of the chest outside is now a new mint plant, which seems to love the spot in the limelight.
the other day, d was bringing a handful of weeds over to the “compost pile” and spotted our licorice plant. there it was, glory restored, its branches clear of webs, all silvery green leafing, its root ball firm and seemingly undamaged. without a word, he replanted it into a bigger pot and placed it on our babycat chair next to the driveway. the next time we went out to go for a walk, he drew it to my attention.
i was shocked to see this stunning licorice plant – revitalized. it seemed perfect in our now-outdoor wicker, next to the old fence that sports a beautiful green vine wall every summer. a new beginning for this plant – nourished, i guess, by the tumble of compost, the rain and fresh air, the shedding of a pot that might have been too small for its roots.
to say we are thrilled at the rejuvenation of our licorice is an understatement. every single time we are out back or we pass by it is a reminder of the chance of a second chance.
and in these times – so fraught – when we get lost: in the travails of discord in daily life and relationships, in the failure of making headway in our work, in any ability to let go of wounds – when we wonder if we dare hope for a new start – when we fight to give voice: to move from stagnation or a past that needs air, that needs releasing – when we recognize and eliminate that which harms us – when we work to actually create that new start – in these times, we need that reminder.
time will come goodand you will find your feet again…where the air will be kind and blushed with beginning.
after my album as sure as the sun was released, the song slow dance was promoted to adult contemporary radio. listeners seemed to really like the song and it did fairly well on radio – eventually charting at #13 on the secondary market. i traveled to a lot of cities to be featured on radio shows – it was the early 2000s – and radio was still where it was at.
a very big radio personality in new york city – the program director of a big fm station there – invited me to dinner after our meeting. i met him – carrying the backpack full of music and clothes i needed for those recording/radio days in the city.
the bistro was veritas and it was way above my pay scale. the wine list was 3000 selections long – a full binder of choices with a wine cellar that had about 75,000 bottles of wine. it had earned a michelin star and three stars from the ny times. it was late 2002 and i sat down at what-i-remember-as a stainless steel bar, out of my league.
that evening the chef had a special offering – french truffles, just flown in – and my host – who was apparently a regular – ordered for both of us. i had never had a meal with courses that had their own wine offering before; it is not likely i will have such a lavish meal again. when the bill came – and its total announced itself off the check – i couldn’t help but think how many hungry people that amount of money might have fed right in that very city.
but the truth of it was that this was the core of things, how things worked, how things work.
and though i believe that people nationwide did indeed like my song, the inordinately steep price tag of radio promotion – for which i – as the owner of my recording label – was paying – was merely machination for the game. and my charting song was choreographed by a group of men who enjoyed eating at michelin star restaurants – on their radio tabs – around the country.
now, this enlightenment didn’t come to me sitting on that barstool that evening, having careful conversation and eating divine foods, sipping wine. that was all part of the design – to create a tapestry of reality around me – and every independent artist – so that we might continue to over-invest further and further into a system that was, at best, rigged and not real.
it seems more than ironic to me that the place of this learning – in retrospect – was at an establishment called veritas. veritas – the latin word for truth or reality, representing honesty, moral integrity and the alignment of one’s actions and words with facts or core values.
the restaurant was – in and of itself – lovely, though i stand firm on my thoughts about how better to use that kind of money.
but that word – veritas – has been coming up for me a lot lately, sort of stuck in my head, like gestures of songs get stuck on repeat, time and again.
as i look around – in the challenges we have faced and face – it would seem imperative that truth should be the basis upon which decisions are made, that truth and integrity should actually dictate actions and words, that facts should matter, should set the stage for accountability.
it would seem that all manipulation of the facts, warping of narrative, revising of the truth – to escape culpability – should fail in the end. ahh…perhaps we must be patient.
i sat on the barstool at that high-brow bistro – trusting a process that was not to be trusted, wined and dined, my very cautiously spent independently-owned-label’s marketing and promoting budget exploited by a system. i was one of the little people, taken advantage of.
and just as we look around in our current country and its circumstances, just as i – or you – deal with other personal matters of trauma – we can see the grooming systems – the skewed-to-one-side systems – out there – not to be trusted.
all too often, these words speak the truth: it happened. it was wrong. it matters.
and then what?
from my place off the barstool i’d add this: vincit omnia veritas – truth conquers all things.
the clouds parted for a tiny bit of sun, the tiniest bit.
it seemed well-deserved after a week punctuated with heavy. it seemed well-deserved after the torrential rains that were the bookends of the last six days.
and there, in the middle of grey skies and uncertainty, was the smidgiest smidge of blue – a bit of an inhale, a few moments to catch our breath, to recover – before setting off to continue on the route.
there. there was the chance to stoke up, to firmly plant our feet, to focus our attention on what we need, to rest – before we look onward, before we discern what is ahead, before we take another step.
sometimes it feels as if you are at a starting gate, a jumping-off point, the very membrane between what is now and what is next.
sometimes it feels as if everything is hinging on that moment, that all you have been, all you have done, all the ways in which you have prepared are coming together – the confluence of it all.
sometimes it feels as if you are no longer in total control – as if you were at any time – and you are facing down something most giant, most pivotal, reaching this pinnacle from wherever you came, this place you have arrived.
sometimes – when you arrive at this place – the weight of which is enormous – you know you must take a deep breath, you must give over, you must trust all the dots that have connected you from before and through next and next and next to now, and, though you know not how it will all turn out, you must lay down every everything and somehow trust that the universe is rigged in your favor.
sometimes this place comes and the only thing to do is to get after it.
“living your life in a bubble will give you the illusion that everything is ok.”
i know this is true. i know that – even though we are not members of the fiscally-elite, the upwardly-mobile, the investment-heavy, on the supposedly-can’t-be-touched rung of the caste ladder – we still live in a bubble. because we are white. because we were born to citizens of this nation and are – clearly – citizens ourselves. because we – even in the mediocre middle-ish of middle-class where we plop our pins of existence – are privileged. we – even with the challenges we face – in terms of income, healthcare and living expenses, loans of whatever sort we all need, the ability to get and consume food and water and a safe place to live – we are fortunate.
we are aware. and we are grateful. there is not a day that goes by that we don’t look at each other and – truly – say how very lucky we are.
and, yet, in that awareness we know that everything is not ok.
the membrane of whatever bubble in which we might reside is permeable. we participate in the gleaning of information, the parsing out of truth, the speaking-up against bigotry and extremism, the knowledge that these are dangerous times. we cannot linger within a bubble that allows us to flit from one day to another sans worry.
to walk in a world where you won’t talk about what is actually happening, where you won’t discuss corruption or the decimation of our nation, where you won’t “go there” as we have heard from those unwilling to, well, go there – feels as if there is an illusion that everything is just fine, that one feels untouchable, that someone else’s pain is not yours, that empathy is no longer in vogue.
it is disturbing that in order to reclaim our country we need all talk and join together and yet there are so many who just choose to linger in their bubbles, flitting about doing “normal” life – at a time when nothing is actually “normal” or, worse yet, floating in an echo chamber of propaganda – like a pod unto itself.
the bubble wand is one of those instantly recognizable things. it immediately conjures up images of iridescent bubbles floating mid-air, powered by nearby breezes. it is a visceral memory of childhood – ours, our children’s. a happy thought.
bubbles go hand in hand with unicorns and magical sunrises, joyous icons of life.
but bubbles pop. and unicorns don’t exist. and the sun draping the sky with the colors of rising doesn’t last beyond dawn. and reality is reality.
we are all in this…this world. everything is not ok.
lest we get lost in the illusion – and are therefore surprised at the cruelty, the destruction, the demolition of things good and natural and constitutional and humane – we need to be open to the truth of it all, to not be deluded, to not place stake in a mirage or a floating effervescent air globule.
everything is not ok. can we please address this honestly?
