the sky set softly on the end of the day. it was chilly on the patio, though still. any wind off the lake had eased up. it had been a day.
we attended the hands-off protest here in our town. i had some trepidation before we left to go. still too close in memory are the riots from 2020. still too close are the screaming-loud trucks-with-flags driving around our neighborhood before the election. still too close is the distorted reality that we witness from people who voted for all this destruction, chasms of morality difference. still too obvious is the hyped-up aggression we are witnessing every day. too much to bear is the annihilation of civil rights, impartial justice, checks and balances based on the rule of law. trepidation seems appropriate.
but the protest was inspiring. heartening. people – regular folks – rising up for the rights and freedoms of our constitution, speaking up for our democracy.
the footage around the country – big cities and small towns all – of people – neighbors and friends and strangers – all standing together to clutch onto every filament of this republic.
and i wondered, “what now?”
for fighting fascism from this side of the election seems much more onerous than from the other side – before the election – when people needed to completely grok the far-reaching impact of their very important vote.
we have an arduous journey in front of us. and i know so many of us are already exhausted.
if you don’t feel overwhelmed right now – and you are in the united states – than you are – clearly – an anomaly.
we pulled up behind this car at a stoplight. the “#notnormal” bumpersticker got my attention.
nothing seems normal. nothing IS normal.
we – in this country – are facing down the collapse of everything we have known, understood, loved.
it is utter madness. crazy-deranged. grotesquely-mean. sociopathic.
i am resisting. i am trying to resist. and i am failing.
i am resisting fear. i am resisting depression. i am resisting confusion. i am resisting horror. i am resisting rage. i am resisting the madness.
i am trying to resist fear. i am trying to resist depression. i am trying to resist confusion. i am trying to resist horror. i am trying to resist rage. i am trying to resist the madness.
i am failing at resisting fear. i am failing to resist depression. i am failing to resist confusion. i am failing to resist horror. i am failing to resist rage. i am failing to resist the madness.
all of it. a melting pot of fear, depression, confusion, horror, rage, madness and – yes – resistance.
because this is all so exponentially not normal.
we – all the rest of us mortals – are all trying to breathe one breath at a time. in and out. inhale. exhale.
and we – each in our own way – resist the madness.
in the most not-normal times, this quilt has seen us through. two broken wrists, the quilt. the covid pandemic, the quilt. getting fired, the quilt. our babycat dying, the quilt. losing three other positions between us, the quilt. a few other circumstances and initiatives that wouldn’t fall under any gollygee category, the quilt. it has been a mainstay.
and here we are.
and life is not normal.
it is an intense time. and it’s only been a week.
and, anytime i’ve forgotten for a moment or two – or maybe even an hour – it all comes roaring back. and i remember.
and then i remember that people chose this.
chose it.
and now they are acting as if it is all normal – as if they can’t see the band of cruelty that binds all the intention of this administration.
these are not golly-gee little-house-on-the-prairie times.
i viewed someone’s post on social media that stated we should all keep our political opinions to ourselves and post dog pictures instead.
i had…er…mixed feelings about this.
ok, so not really mixed.
this approach feels a tad bit pollyanna to me. a little sloughing-off of reality. perhaps a tiny bit delusional. not that I wouldn’t wish everything would be like that – all sweetness and everyone and everything light of spirit. but it isn’t. life is not normal now.
i would like to point out that lack of sharing honest information is how we got here. because of the lack of truthful information. because of the abundance of misinformation. because of the elitist-extremist-isolationist-bigoted blather that always seemed to be elevated on fox as powerful and all-knowing, the singular news source full of putrid propaganda…that is what brought us here.
so, i respectfully disagree with the post i viewed.
we are a country desperately in need of conversation and communication – and, whether you agree with someone or not, it’s pretty damn pretentious to think we all need to dumb it down – posting only fluff – to the exclusion of the tough stuff – that which is real.
social media is a place for us all to share life, what fun things we are doing, what work we are undertaking, what our children and their children are up to. a happy-go-lucky place to remember birthdays and anniversaries. a place to cheer on your sports team or ask for chiropractic recommendations. a place to brag. you might wish this to be merely a peaceful community with no fraught issues, no debatable topics, no what-the-hell-is-happening posts. but – just as important in this online world as positive chitchat – social media is an opportunity to reach out and ask questions, reach across divides and learn, reach compassionately to others, acknowledge struggle and pain, sort to ways we might all be life-giving. life is the current cruel chaos happening right here right now AND everyone’s dogs, my friend. social media is not a quilt.
when life is relatively normal it may be all well and good to not stir the pot, to post the quintessentially charming things. quite lovely, actually.
but when life – in these united states – is completely out of kilter, and nothing you have posted even nods to the chaos that is ensuing, nothing you have posted even makes mention of your horror at the demolition of this country, nothing you have posted even touches on the cruelty that is happening in our country – which is also your country – it makes me wonder what cave it is into which you have stuck your head.
and then i am rapidly brought back to reality.
there are those of you who wanted this. and so the reason you haven’t said anything about being horrified is because you aren’t.
you wanted all this.
agenda and project intentions about which people are afraid and hurting, clinging to the last of their freedom and rights.
and you wanted this.
people in your families will soon feel the impact of all this, the impact of unconscionable authoritarian, extremist rule.
and you wanted this.
so just know that when you post the gollygee things you are posting as if life is normal and everything is totally ok – i am here knowing you wanted all this and that you are not sorry and that you weren’t willing to be factually informed and you can’t be bothered to even pretend to be compassionate.
when you post on social media as if life is normal, it doesn’t make it normal.
when you post on social media as if life is normal, know that my heart is broken.
“starlight. starbright. first star i see tonight. i wish i may, i wish i might, have this wish i wish tonight.”
he said, “you’re not normal. you two are not normal.”
he didn’t mean it in a mean way. in fact, he quickly explained it was a compliment. he elaborated that it was his way of saying that we lead with creativity and artistry and that just isn’t a normal thing, that we don’t necessarily give credence to how naturally that is a part of who we are, how we move in the world, what we do with our time.
because our success is not measured like the success of others, it’s a little hard to take in this compliment. the success of our imperative is measured in resonance with others, in touching hearts, in poking thoughts, in giving space. the success of others is measured in salaries and annuities and perks and material goods. there is a vast disparity between the payroll of the artist and the payroll of the white-collar-ed.
at the queen tribute band concert we attended there was a woman in the next row who held an intense conversation during intermission. she spoke about their son who had chosen a different route – not to go to college – and who was succeeding mightily nonetheless. she spoke about how others looked disparagingly upon him, but how she supported his choices. the most telling thing she said was, “at least in life he isn’t doing a job he hates.” i did a double-take. the tone of her voice, the look on her face showed she was underplaying her own feelings. she is clearly doing a job she hates. for the long haul.
we’ve all had jobs we hated. it’s a fact of life. bills need to be paid, obligations need to be met and we are responsible people.
we talked about this on the way home from the concert. eh…who am i kidding? we talk about this all the time.
our life is different than most anyone else’s we know. our dreams are maybe a little different too.
we immerse in moments that remind us of the good fortune of merely breathing. we flail in moments that remind us we are not “that kind” of normal. but seeing stars in dried flowers and hearts in verdant underbrush and angel wings in clouds and appreciating the sunshine on the quilt, the old birdhouse on the mantel, the tiny cairns on our shelves, the harmonic overtones in the air all remind us.
i wish i may, i wish i might, have the wish i wish tonight…
to not worry. to know that this work that we do in the world is valued. to feel some of the same ‘normal’ as most of the people around us.
but if i have to worry and wonder and feel ‘not normal’ to be the artist i am, to maybe have something i do resonate with someone else, touch them, make them think, change them a tiny bit, give them a little space of peace, then i’ll take it. because i don’t hate what i do.
and the marvel continues. this very-large-branch-turned-christmas-tree, really like anything that is nurtured, has opened in the world. it is as if it has actually-self-actualized. though it would seem that remaining a limb on the maple out front might have been its endgoal, in its experience of being cut down it suddenly has new life, new possibility, new importance. the oh-the-places-you’ll-go story of its existence has undergone transformation. the you’re-supposed-to-be-a-branch-on-a-tree has been shattered and the old story of small-pine is re-created in an unassuming maple limb. because we paid attention.
in this time of hyped seasonal holiday glee, it would seem that honoring the tiniest of tiny might yield the glee-est glee. it would seem that the slightest bit of paying attention to others might pay forward the goodness and generosity that have been showered upon us. it would seem that looking beyond the obvious – to something unexpected, something out of the ordinary – might bring unexpected, extraordinary joy.
our small-pine-maple-branch is most definitely smiling, its branches reaching out and up and, each day, feeling more a presence. a reminder that life is not normal. instead, it is a chance to pay attention, really-really pay attention. it is a chance to nurture each other. it is exceptional. i can hear our christmas tree 2021 breathing in and out, “don’t forget that.”
the sun passes its solar noon and starts inching down toward the horizon, the light spilling from it rapturous. golden rays bathe everything in their path and we marvel as we drive past the fields, talking about the trees catching the light.
toward the end of daylight, as the sun is almost down, the grasses, feathery plumes waiting to soak it in, stand in the spotlight and we marvel looking out the front window, walking out into the back yard.
we walked through the gallery, admiring the work on fresh white walls, framed by white woodwork, windows looking out onto the lake, old wood floors warm and well-trod. the spiral staircase, the built-in cabinetry, the spotlights and architectural elements caught our eyes. we marveled at the play of light through the chandeliers.
the tree we have deemed THE tree this year looks nothing like a typical christmas tree. it is one of the limbs from the big old maple tree out front, a beloved sentry whose large, low-hanging branches were chopped to allow room for the supersized utility equipment a couple weeks ago. i had saved this branch from the pile that was set for the dump truck, pulled it aside up close to the house. the guys looked at me funny when i asked them not to take this branch, to leave it there. sunday we brought it in – which is much harder than it sounds as its branches stretch out far, embracing air and light and our doorway is not oversized. we felt somewhat like stars in the movie “christmas vacation” as we attempted to stand the tree up in our living room. though the ceiling is quite high (–) it was higher. a saw here and a saw there and we placed it in a big clay flower pot with rocks we brought home from dory lake and aspen and a brick from the old patio. we stood back after futzing with the angle of the pot and drew in our breath.
sculpturally stunning, it is bark against white, stark and proud. i wound lights around its trunk and i could feel this big old tree branch smile. i wrapped a piece of black glittery mesh-fabric around its base and thought about how much our babycat loved chasing the sparkles each year around the base of our trees. i hung one tin star off a branch. i futzed a little more and stood back, again.
the sun streamed in the windows the next morning and the tree stretched in its light, yawning from the night. i believe its branches have opened even more than they were – embracing its new place, no longer sadly tossed aside. a new purpose.
we might have missed it. the opportunity to have this year’s tree be an actual piece of what-was-happening-in-our-lives, to honor a well-loved and well-known companion. to have a gorgeously simple harbinger of the festivities of the season. we might have gone to a tree lot. or costco. or target.
we might have missed it. the marvel. but we didn’t.
if you are wondering where mini marshmallows come from, wonder no more. clearly they grow on white baneberry bushes in dr. seuss-land. passing it on the trail i could not get over how oh-the-places-you’ll-go this bush was. a standout in a green forest floor, confidently colorful and nicknamed “doll’s eyes” for obvious vintage-china-doll reasons, it got my attention and it piqued my curiosity.
we watched a silly movie a couple nights ago. my sweet momma loved sandra bullock so every time i watch a sandra bullock movie i feel like my mom is right there with us, giggling or cheering her on. the movie was “all above steve” co-starring bradley cooper. its silliness is comedic fun, particularly on an evening we were not looking to be intellectually challenged. but there was an unexpectedly sweet message in this movie. mary (sandra bullock), a brilliant young woman who is a crossword puzzle constructor and has a brain full of random knowledge and would kick anyone’s patootie playing trivial pursuit, is trying to be “normal” to fit into the world. in the end she discovers the power of standing in her own shoes, which were, in her case, red gogo boots.
artists are often looked at as misfits, a little outside the box, not quite fitting in. perhaps more colorful, perhaps louder, perhaps more questioning, the job of an artist is to elicit movement in thought, in action, in emotion, in sensitivity. we are hot-pink-stemmed mini-marshmallow plants in a world of green underbrush, ever being told that exposure will grant us the ability to live in this world, to pay our bills, to get ahead. artists everywhere under the sun shudder upon hearing those words, “think about the exposure.” we don our courageous metaphoric gogo boots, go to town trying to be ‘normal’ and realize that we were really ok all along, in our own skin.
often i have heard others comment on the re-purposed stuff in our house. empty window frames, screen doors, travel-worn suitcases, branches wrapped in lights, old coffeepots doubling as canisters. we’ve been asked, “how did you think of that?” i don’t know how to answer that other than “how couldn’t i?”
i’m guess i’m not ‘normal’. in the world of christian louboutin and jimmy choo footwear desires, i’m wearing old navy flipflops and hundreds-of-miles hiking boots. in a world of oscar de la renta and ralph lauren aficionados, i’m wearing my dad’s old flannel shirt and jeans. in a world of cle de peau beaute and guerlain and creme de la mer, my face is lucky to see an oil of olay original and coppertone 30spf combo.
and i, just like artists everywhere, love to be reminded, time to time, that we were all born to stand out. each and every one of us. artist or not. no matter the road we walk. no matter the red gogo boots or hot-pink stems. stand out. in our own skin.
the catalogs accumulate in the rack in the bathroom. every so often i go through them and ferret out the ones i want to keep, the ones to hold onto for just a bit longer. it isn’t likely that i will purchase anything from them right now, but perusing them is like shopping, even a bit like buying in an odd way. i have found that if i look at something in a catalog often enough, long enough, the desire to have that item is somehow satisfied and will eventually go away. of course, this isn’t always true and some things have cut through the noise of all-those-pages, risen to the top and, after much internal debate, have been ordered. just not so much in recent days.
some catalogs pay close attention to the beauty of the whole. catalogs like patagonia, stio, sundance. pieces written by brand ambassadors, stunning photography, they are like picture-books and beg your attention. some catalogs stress a narrative, the story that makes you want an item; j.peterman rules at this, but soft surroundings creates story as well. some catalogs tell the back-story, personalizing the company, like karen kane. many are aware of their social impact, like LL bean. some catalogs just stuff asmuchinformationastheycan into their pages. those don’t make the magazine-rack-cut and are promptly recycled when they arrive.
i took photographs of many stormy skies, wet grasses, and drips dripping this past week, grumbling a bit about the weather. i would have rathered that the sun of the earlier part of that week had stuck around, the 70 degrees had lingered, the i-am-about-to-put-on-flip-flops temptation. instead, it rained and stormed and drizzled and fogged and rained again.
then i flipped open the january stio catalog on the rack, on the cover a long line down a powder slope created by a skier, always making me think of my daughter. every other page had a gorgeous photo; this company, birthed in 2012 and stewarding responsible outdoor lifestyle, is based in jackson hole, wyoming, so there is much appreciation for high mountain vistas. i perused the photos and the text, glancing at the gear. and i stumbled across the words, “the long view…think for the future.” it was an ad for recycled fleece clothing and their ethical stance, much like the powerhouse patagonia, to “reduce impact and waste and consume less energy – which is all better for this closed loop system we call earth.”
the long view. think for the future.
like the slow and steady turtle. like the fallow of the winter. like the tiny five degrees a month i hope to regain in my wrist. like the first words on a page, the first strokes on a canvas, the first notes in the air. like the extended-term wearing of masks to mitigate a mutating pandemic. like the temporary suspension of dinners in restaurants, live concerts, large gatherings in respect for each other. like the absence of normal, of security in a time of rebuilding. like time-without to remind you to appreciate time-with. like the incessant rain on an april day.
i played “this land is your land, this land is my land” on the ukulele the other day. were woody guthrie to be alive, he may have added another verse to this song, this one depicting the russian roulette game that people in this country are playing with the coronavirus.
it’s astounding.
these are NOT normal times, no matter how much you might want to ignore that little fact. and since these are NOT normal times, you should be mindfully considering at-great-length anything you want to do that IS normal.
“from california to the new york island. from the redwood forest to the gulf stream waters, this land was made for you and me.” when was the last time that it occurred to you that what you do affects others? was it today? was it last week? was it ever? what amount of sacrifice are you willing to take in order to protect others and yourself and put this country on a healing trend so that things MIGHT be able to be normal again SOME day?
are you out at the bars? are you at a restaurant, maskless, ordering from your masked server without a care in the world except whether you would rather the sparkling water or the tap? are you having dinner parties, group gatherings, barbecues in your backyard? are you on vacation? are you talking out of one side of your mouth and acting out of the other? are you duplicitous; do you want people to believe you are being careful and mindful, but on the other hand, it is your life after all…… are you putting anyone in harm’s way? are you renting cabins in small remote towns that have hospital/medical systems that would be stricken by a surge in numbers, something that you might bring there, even inadvertently? are you at the beach? the club? the public pool? are you making plans to go to disney as soon as it opens? are you wearing a mask when you are outside your home? are you social distancing? do you really care? or are you like so many people – irked by any degree of self-sacrifice, believing you are an entity unto yourself? are you buying into conspiracy theories and falsehoods? do you think this global pandemic is overblown? do you feel inconvenienced? do you think we should just throw caution to the wind and take-our-chances? are you upholding ignorance? are you mimicking the repulsive behavior of a president who doesn’t care about anything but his re-election and will spout off lies to your face, your actual face?
“when the sun came shining and i was strolling, and the wheat fields waving, and the dust clouds rolling, as the fog was lifting, a voice was chanting: this land was made for you and me.”
for you and me. there’s a responsibility there.
today my daughter told me that someone called her an asshole when she asked them to as-per-the-law-where-she-is put on a mask to enter the shop. and SHE’S the asshole??? this person could not put a small piece of cloth over their nose and mouth to protect others and my daughter is the asshole???
because of this person and their apathetic incomprehension and their unconscionable extraordinarily selfish behavior – repeated ad nauseam across the land that’s made for you and me – i cannot see my beloved daughter. “it’s a pandemic,” she wrote. “all the respectful tourists stayed at home.” she is at risk. the numbers are rising where she is and the people who should stay in their states-with-exponential-growth and wait-to-travel are populating her area in droves. without a care in the world. without giving a flying flip. and with no shame. and so it’s not safe there. how dare they.
“this land was made for you and me.” act like you belong in a community, like you belong in a country, like what happens to people across the land affects you too, like you care even an ounce for others. it’s actually pretty simple: don’t be an asshole.
in the middle of my meltdown yesterday, i’m sure i uttered, “i just want normal.”
but normal is subjective now.
there is a deep schism between the normal of the of-course-i’ll-wear-a-mask-maskers and the it’s-against-my-constitutional-rights-to-make-me-wear-a-mask-non-maskers. a deep schism between the sides of the aisle. a deep schism over this global pandemic, the economy, healthcare, equality, blatant racism. a deep schism over confederate monuments. a deep schism over basic respect. a deep schism over truth.
a chasm of difference. it makes me wonder what, if anything, can bridge it, what can create a common story, what can make us a populace that cares about each other?
scrolling through facebook is depressing. there are people ‘out there’ in our pandemic-riddled country doing normal stuff: eating at restaurants, having drinks at bars, gathering with friends, going on trips, boating, fishing, at the beach or the pool, all without masks and without social distancing and without, seemingly, a care in the world.
driving downtown is depressing. there are people ‘out there’ in our pandemic-riddled country just-down-the-road doing normal stuff: eating inside and outside at captain mike’s, gathering at eichelmann beach, hanging out at the lakefront, all without masks and without social distancing and without, seemingly, a care in the world.
trying to plan anything is depressing. we need to go to see david’s parents. i desperately need to see My Girl and My Boy. there are so many details to keep each other safe. there’s nothing normal. it’s freaking confusing. we plot the trip west, a roadtrip, thinking about 19 hours across the middle of the country, thinking about arriving at my at-risk-in-laws’ house, having not picked up any additional possibility of passing covid-19 to them. where do we stop safely? where do we get gas? where do we use restrooms? how can we be sure they will not be recipients of anything we bring along? we care.
and yet, there is the rest of the country – the ones screaming at city hall meetings, the ones seeking judgement against requiring masks-for-safety, the ones who throw pointed word-daggers arguing against the danger of this pandemic, the ones arguing for other causes of death, the ones voting out all precautions for the state of wisconsin, the ones who stand in front of the entire country and arrogantly (and without a grain of truth) state, “we’ve flattened the curve!” how is it that the leadership of this country gets away with this? no wonder half of the country wears no mask, states and does whatever they damn well please. WHAT pandemic?
it’s depressing. missing the moments that make up life – chances to easily be with family, friends. chances to have a bite out without worrying about aerosols. chances to sing with others, to sing for others. chances to go to concerts and plays. chances to gather around a kitchen table or the island at your best friends’. chances to stop and hug your decades-long neighbor. chances to hold your grown-up children and kiss them and make them roll their eyes. happy hour with friends crowded onto a deck. parties in the backyard. normal stuff.
it was on a marquee outside a store, “a little normal would be nice.”
i couldn’t agree more.
i told tom i had a really hard day yesterday. he said, “you have to grieve.”
reverse threading 