our sansevieria is called “a perfect houseplant“. it doesn’t require much tending, much light, much water. it is hardy and healthy and has grown immensely since we brought it home, filling the window nook.
it makes me think of my sweet momma, since she is the one who first introduced me to sansevieria – the snake plant. she had several and called them by their scientific name.
our sansevieria seems unconcerned that it is referred to as an “old school succulent“. and, according to the miraclegro website, they are “almost comically easy to grow, so chances are you’ll encounter few problems with them.”
the other day d and i were talking about trends. neither of us is particularly trendy nor aware of the trending trends. we reminisced about growing up with parents who also weren’t trendy and didn’t try to keep up with pop culture. we wondered about whether that was a detriment but decided that it was likely helpful since staying on trend requires a financial investment and real-life artists are generally not in that sort of position.
i’m thinking that we are both sansevieria.
perhaps we all need to be succulent sansevieria. easy to care for, ruthlessly growing despite all odds. we need to be hardy and healthy, comically easy. maybe that will give us the strength we need to prevail through all the chaos and uncertainty we are experiencing.
the one thing that we don’t have in common with our snake plant? the part that reads “chances are you’ll encounter few problems with them.”
it’s our job as artists – and, let’s face it, as humans – to push back on cruelty, on injustice, on betrayal, on marginalization, on stupidity. so…you may encounter a few problems.
yeah, we’re mostly sansevieria. but definitely watch for a few prickly cactus spines thrown in for self-preservation and for the protection of others.
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.
“we can disagree and still love each other unless your disagreement is rooted in my oppression and denial of my humanity and right to exist.” (james baldwin)
i would add – or unless your disagreement is rooted in the oppression and denial of the humanity and right to exist of people you purport to care about – people in your beloved family, in your cherished community.
growing up, there were straw placemats in a circle around the perimeter of our kitchen table. each one had inked initials in the bottom corner – to designate whose placemat it was. ba, ea, wa, ka, sha, they read. in some moment, a guest circled around the table, reading them aloud, in order. “sha-ba-ea-wa-ka,” he read. and then, more quickly, “shabaeawaka!”
shabaeawaka became our family’s shortcut of the combination of our names – my mom always lovingly referring to the moniker and telling the story of its origin.
shabaeawaka – in all the ups and downs of a regular family – became a synonym for invincible ties, for family-sticking-together.
my sweet momma, even in the last moments i saw her, believed with her whole heart in the devotion of this family to each other. she believed in kindness and generosity, in acceptance and goodness, in joy and positivity, in love no-matter-what.
my sweet poppo – a mostly quiet man – died three years before my momma. he wasn’t one of those dads who would sit you down and bestow wisdoms upon you. but i could feel his staunch support of me throughout my life…as a child, as a young adult, as i finally made my way into my artistry, as a parent.
my momma stayed in their house in florida on the little lake as long as she physically could. she surrounded herself with the familiar of their lives together, always missing the actual presence of my dad, lonely for him. the empty vase – the one my poppo kept filled with grocery store flowers – stood in the foyer, an acknowledgment of unwelcome change.
but my sweet momma – well – she kept on. and as it became obvious she would need to leave her home and move into assisted living she chose to give away things from her home. the dining room table went to a family of immigrants who didn’t have a table at which to eat. her blue leather sofa went to a family across the street. my momma was not discerning. people in need of something were precisely the people to whom she wanted to give those things. even in her grief of moving, her generosity and love of others prevailed.
i did not feel the need – nor did i have the logistical ability – to fill rooms with items of my parents after my momma’s move or even after she died. but i do have remembrances of them. and i have their dna.
mostly, i have the ideal they taught me – that no matter what, you stick by your family, you uphold each other, you protect each other, you love each other. in no uncertain terms, my mom and my dad would stand tall next to each of us, buoying us and believing in us – the lesson of acceptance – no matter what – of the right to exist, to sustain, to thrive.
i know – without a doubt – they have cheered on my life – in all its phases, in its ups and downs. i know – without a doubt – they have cheered on my daughter’s courageous and adventurous spirit finding home in the mountains, my son and his incredible and cherished LGBTQ community in the city, around the world. i know – without a doubt – they would support them to the mat, thwarting anything that might come between them and their freedoms as americans, as human beings. i know this not only because it was how i was raised, but this is what shabaeawaka is. it is the legacy of shabaeawaka.
and so i wonder what they are thinking now.
i suspect they are on board with james baldwin.
there were times of disagreement, yes. my quiet dad could get rather loud in moments. my sweet momma could push back on inequality, on the crushing of human rights, on evil.
but all was ok if the basics were still in place, if the disagreement – in the words of james baldwin – was not rooted in the oppression of them or their loved one, if it did not deny their humanity or the humanity of their loved one, if it did not undermine their right to exist or their loved one’s right to exist. those were the basics and the basics of any faith i ever learned from them.
I wonder what they are thinking now as they – from a plane of existence far away – watch this election, as they watch the unthinkable, as they watch oppression and the denial of humanity and right to exist on the up-close-and-personal do-we-love-each-other line, as they witness the undermining – the throwing away – of the tenets of their precious shabaeawaka.
i don’t know where the placemats went.
i just know i don’t need the actual placemats to remember what they meant.
“the optimist sees the donut. the pessimist sees the hole.” (oscar wilde)
i suppose this could easily be applied to aging. somehow, in some rush of years, i am 65. it’s still a wonder to me and it has now become clear why my sweet momma was so astounded when she was almost-94 and thought she looked like “an old lady” when she looked in the mirror.
like my sweet momma, we are choosing to see the donut. which, i suppose, means one day we will be astounded as well. (truth be told, we are a tiny bit astounded by some tiny body-change each and every day, but we are holding off on the big-time astonishment as long as we can.)
so instead of seeing – and ruminating on – what’s missing in the here and now, instead of trying to clarify the blurry of what’s out there ahead of us, we – as an ever-aging couple – yikes – are zeroing in on the gifts of the present, the sweet phase – as we are calling it, and tapping the rich potential of the future. there is so much we don’t know but we are excited about exploring what’s next.
artists don’t really have solid retirements. it’s risky business, this being-an-artist thing. we keep on keeping-on because it’s an imperative, a driving force. we write, we paint, we compose, we mold thoughts and questions and experiences and impressions into tapestries that we – vulnerably – put out there for others to read, see, listen to, touch, feel.
we work for the donut-lovers and the donut-holers. we are not selective. we believe art is fundamental. art provides access and awareness. we are simply part of the delivery mechanism.
and so, even as we get older, that doesn’t change. we look to times of new projects, artist residencies, experiments outside our usual mediums. we aren’t simply done. and, maybe, in the words of grace hopper, “we’re just getting started.”
regardless, every day we walk toward astonishment we have decided to do it with as much grace, joy, anticipation and gratitude we can possibly muster. we will be (gluten-free) donut-lovers in the sweet phase and we will reach for each star past the donut hole.
“we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” (oscar wilde)
technology – stuff – is like that. and we are surrounded by old technology and old stuff. now, don’t get me wrong. i’m not complaining. it’s just a fact. besides, i heard kamala loud and clear when she said, “don’t complain. dooo something about it!!”
and so, i do the workaround. it’s a bit like the electric shuffle, a mix-up of the hustle and the bump, maybe a little macarena-ish. it’s not a pretty mash, but it moves and shakes and gets it done.
a little over a week ago my laptop died. there is a grey folder with a question mark flashing when i turn it on. this is not good news for a macbook from 2008 – the year my girl graduated high school – and i immediately shut it down, in the hope that the next time i turn it on all will be well and it – personifying it, of course – will have forgotten its troubles and will simply get back to work.
in truth, i haven’t tried that yet.
i’m not anxious or excited about the outcome. well, to be fair, i am anxious, just not excited. i – listing heavily to optimistic – am hoping against hope that it will turn on and remember everything that would otherwise be lost. anxious. yes.
and so, in the meanwhile, i am typing on a mini ipad and trying to find creative ways to do what it is we do. so a little redundancy will have to work.
we have classic stuff.
our three vehicles (littlebabyscion, big red and my vw superbeetle) add up to 97 years old. my iphone is a 6, from the dark ages of 2016. this ipad is a mini2, only five years old but way past retiring. our tv is a non-smart late teen. it is as it is. and we totally make the best of it. not complaining, nope, nope.
i just know – in the middle of these workarounds – that there are those of you out there who get it. i wonder what it would be like to never have to figure things out, to never have to make it work, to never have to stand where you are and just be grateful and not wanting of more.
when i wash my hair today and tip the bottle, slapping the bottom of it over and over to get the last vestiges of shampoo out, i will think of my sweet momma and – apparently – kamala’s as well.
i’m thinking beaky and shyamala are visiting together on some other plane, maybe having sweet tea and, though they know we have plenty to complain about, watching us all dooo something – the best we can. and that, my dear friends, is classic.
when she knew i was coming to visit, she’d be sure to make a big decanter of her iced tea and a whole bunch of her own salty deep-fried french fries. she’d put it all in the fridge to wait for me, because she knew i’d head for that yellow chex cup in the cabinet, pour the iced tea and pull the container of cold fries out to munch on. i was predictable. and she was ever-so-reassuring. to be known.
we arrived in minnesota for our mini-vacay and took a little tour of our cousins’ beautiful home. when we got to our bedroom, i laughed aloud. there on the dresser, in a basket, was a whole bunch of bananas. just waiting for the wide-awake-in-the-middle-of-the-night moment when nothing is better or helps more than a banana. to be known.
we were at the tapas bistro, laughing over amazing tapas and sangria, when our chef’s table paella showed up. my son turned to me – clearly remembering my allergic sensitivity to crabmeat – and asked, “think there’s crab in there?”. my heart swelled. to be known.
we have every opportunity under the sun to notice others, to pay attention, do little things, reassure them, to be sure they know what it feels like to be known. from the tiniest things to the biggest things – listening to stories, zeroing in on words they use, the tilt of their head, the inflection in their voice, the look on their face when they feel comforted, remembering important dates, their history, favorite things, their ongoing challenges – we can do the best we can, to walk alongside, keep others company, be reassuringly there, let them be known.
tyler waited on our table at ikes. he was a wonderful server, personable and attentive. before the evening was out, we knew his boyfriend lived out of state, that he was working on moving there, that it would put him further away from his family a state even further to the west, that they wanted to buy a house together. we encouraged him and listened to his stories, the four of us getting ready to adopt this lovely young man. even though his spirit seemed happy the whole time, it was clear that in his telling of his story, our questions and encouragement, he was lifted. he felt just a little bit known.
i stood on a chair and dug the suntea jug out of the top shelf of the pantry. i carefully counted out eight lipton teabags. my momma used seven, but this jug was bigger than her decanter. i pulled the tags and their tiny staples off and put the whole thing out back on the deck in the sun. hours later, we brought it in, added many slices of lemon and a lot of mint from the garden next to the daylilies.
we waited a day before trying it. my momma’s iced tea was brewed in a pot on the stove and she used realemon juice and some sugar, so i knew it wouldn’t taste exactly the same as hers. but having real iced tea was like having momma around.
we took out a couple bonne maman preserves jars we use as glassware and spouted some iced tea into them. clinking a toast, we tasted it – this homebrew that was refreshingly lemony and minty. i raised a glass to my momma and looked at david.
“now all we need are some cold french fries,” i said.
“i know,” he said.
and even though there were no fries, it felt the same.
“and you wonder where we’re going where’s the rhyme and where’s the reason and it’s you cannot accept it is here we must begin to seek the wisdom of the children and the graceful way of flowers in the wind“
when i was little my family took vacations at upstate new york state parks. we stayed in rough-hewn cabins where, at night, my sweet momma would warn us all to pull up the covers and she’d run around the cabin spraying raid everywhere. the mosquitos were ruthless but the fun was grand.
one summer both my brother and sister and their spouses and children vacationed as well. we all had cabins next to each other and explored the lake and the woods and surrounding towns. one of these towns had a county fair. so we went.
naturally, those traveling carnival rides were a part of the fair – the ones where they tear them down and put them back up, trailer them to the next venue day after day. as an adult i feel somewhat leery of those – always wondering if they had leftover reassembling bolts or when the last time was that they checked belts and such – but as a child, i don’t think i gave any of that a thought. i just believed in goodness and that all was well.
because i simply cannot do anything spinny, we went on the merry-go-round and then my dad convinced me to go on the ferris wheel. it seemed inordinately large and went high into the sky. we stood in line and then took our seats in the little cabin.
i was excited until we went around once. then they stopped the wheel at the top, loading other riders down at the bottom. i must have felt imperiled. i began to freak out.
my dad had this loud whistle – he could whistle perry como tunes as well, but this was a really loud whistle. he whistled his whistle and the attendant looked up. my poppo yelled down to stop the ride when we got there – we needed to get off. and so the attendant stopped the wheel and we disembarked.
i wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about wanting to stop and get off. not back then.
and i’m not the least bit embarrassed now about every now and again wanting to stop the world and get off. i feel like we all need some time off. quiet time. time out. time outta this world that has gone off the deep end. time away from feeling imperiled. a breather.
the last weeks – months, years, really – have been over the top. though you don’t know my whole list, we all know our whole list. it is not an exaggeration to say that we are imperiled. we are on the top of the ferris wheel and the attendants are not quite sure they installed all the bolts.
on these days – of too-much – we – d and i – do stop the world. we go for a hike in beautiful places. we sit on our deck with our dogga. we read together. we prepare and cook food. we appreciate the sun streaming in the windows, spilling onto our quilt. we find rhyme. we seek reason.
and, before you screech me to a halt – stopping the world and getting off is not the same as sticking your head in the sand. it’s simply a way to reassess. it’s a way to think and plan. it’s a way to evaluate what can be done about the ferris wheel. it’s a way to be able to come back to the trenches and get back to work. it’s a way to resupply the energy drain that reading the news exacerbates every single day.
i wonder where we’re going. i wonder what the rhyme and what the reason of the bigotry and division and marginalization and diminishing of rights and the barreling toward extremism and authoritarianism and downright meanness. i’m astounded and not astounded. remember, we don’t know each other’s stories.
i do know that if stopping it were as easy as having my poppo whistle from the top of the ferris wheel, he would do it. in a second. for he and my sweet momma would have nothing to do with the direction of all this. no. my dad was not missing-in-action and a POW in world war II to watch his beloved country heading toward the possibility of turning into THIS. THIS is what he fought *against*.
i’d imagine that as my mom and dad are watching from that other plane, they are also astounded. and not. for they are just as aware as you and me that there are just really evil people with inordinately evil ideas ready to pounce in unconscionably evil ways.
and i’d imagine that – yes, in the same way he looked after me on that day at the county fair – he wishes he really could just whistle and make the ferris wheel stop. he likely wishes that the world stop in suspended animation for a moment and then come back to its senses – to the place where the children and the flowers are actually from where we draw wisdom. to a place of goodness. to a place of rhyme and a place of reason.
“do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can.”(my sweet momma, but originally, john wesley)
my sweet momma would have loved his friends. like i mentioned in blogs last week, they – and strangers – surrounded us at PRIDE with hugs and conversation, bottles of water and gatorade. they laughed and danced and applauded and volleyed the beach ball. solicitous, they paid attention to those around them, even us. they made us feel like it mattered to them that we were there. it was fitting that one of our son’s friends wore this hat. doing good – being kind – choosing kindness without hesitation – seemed the theme.
it is surprising – with all the touting of goodness that is preached in various places on our globe, the pontificating about generosity that permeates, the statements of mission written and proclaimed in mighty boardrooms – that it is in the simplest of places that you find goodness. it is in the humblest of people you find generosity. it is in the groups – marginalized and demeaned – you find mission. it is sometimes just absolutely missing in those other places – the places where you would expect all of that. irony is alive and well. or would that be hypocrisy?
they weren’t tryyying to do good. they just were.
it takes just seconds to decide how to respond to someone else’s question, comment, action, behavior. in that moment – just before responding – i would hope – if at all possible – to choose to be kind, to do good.
my sweet momma loved to whoop it up at parades and concerts and sporting games. any chance to be boisterous and she’d take it. i can just imagine her at PRIDE – putting on a rainbow lei and a “do good” hat, waving her arms in the air yelling, “wowee!! wowee!!”
i inherited two pairs of big binoculars from my sweet poppo. at the time i probably never-woulda-thought that i’d be studying birds with them. but…you know what they say!
and here we are – with these powerful binoculars always at the ready, on the table in the sunroom, so that we can grab them and watch the crows in the nest or the finches at the grape jelly or the hummers at the feeder or search for the origin of the beautiful birdcall. we have a tiny pair as well, to take with us on trails, though we would be waaay better served with the good ones. it’s amazing how up-close-and-personal they get us.
and then there’s the merlin app. what an extraordinary tool that is! you record birdcalls and it instantly identifies the bird for you! utterly amazing, we are grateful to cornell lab of ornithology for this. we have used this app innumerable times, always relishing the quick id it gives us. because we don’t always commit it all to memory – ahem! – we rely on the (non-judgmental) app to tell us again and again. so cool!
i think about what my momma and poppo would have done with the merlin app on their iphone. they would have had a field day! they spent hours watching the birds back home, on long island, and in florida – where they looked out on a lake. i wish they could have played with it. they missed its development by just a smidge.
but every time we grab the binoculars or open the app to record a birdsong, clean the birdbath or fill the feeders, i know. they – momma, poppo, columbus – are aware and are nodding at each other, smiles on their faces, maybe even laughing a little or rolling their eyes at our earlier-in-life bird-watch-disregard.
reverse threading 