the snake lazily laid across the trail. a big beautiful garter snake, i saw it first and pointed it out to d. it didn’t move as we approached. i wanted to make sure it was ok. i went to it, trying not to frighten it. it seemed fine. so, camera in hand, i started snapping photos. it stayed put. after a moment it started to curl and bend, coiling into a posture of defense, but it still didn’t slither away. it held its ground, later begging research. we left it, curled back-forth-back-forth on the trail, enjoying the sun.
i’m not particularly a fan of snakes. i wouldn’t be likely to attempt to pick one up or let it slither too near me. but this one seemed dedicated to staying put, like it had something to say.
i wondered what it was trying to tell me. was it encouraging, “stand your ground!”? was it reminding me, “go slow and be deliberate!”? was it conveying, “change is imminent; be aware, be open!”? was it hissing, “beware of those who are maleficent!”? was it declaring, “allow for higher forces!”? was it reassuring, “renewal, healing!”?
i don’t know.
at the moment we saw it, it simply was stretched out in the sun – a snake relishing life. it may or may not have a message, an underlying meaning.
mostly, it was just there. and so were we. and we were glad to share the trail with it.
in 1971 he came up with it: “rural folk piano”. uncluttered, melodic, uncomplicated, “inspired by the seasons and the topographies and regions, and, occasionally, by sociological elements” – a reflection of where he was at. we – solo pianists and composers – owe george winston a debt of gratitude. he has just died, in the last days, but the impact of his work will continue to reverberate through speakers and earbuds and, significantly, through the works of those of us who have followed him.
i chatted briefly with george once. it was after one of his concerts early in my recording career and i can’t remember if he had put his shoes back on. he doesn’t speak much in concert; he lets his melodies do that for him. they are profuse and intelligent and articulate, always evocative. but just like some might think that they know everything i am thinking or feeling because of this blog or my music, a listener might think they know everything george was thinking or feeling because of his music. i’m guessing for george, but think neither is truly the case, entirely. blogs and music compositions, words and notes can certainly disclose some of the soul, but i suspect that, just as is true for me, the complete autobiography is not found in completion there – it is also found in the reflections all around us.
there are few people – instrumental aficionados, especially – who have not listened to george winston’s 1982 release “december”. it is exquisite. it went triple platinum and was on the billboard 200 for 136 weeks. his work – a plethora of gorgeous albums – gave serious credence to melodic solo piano and set the stage for a next set of composers – those of us writing emotional piano pieces, some solo, some with orchestration – and the subsequent contemporary radio airplay that ensued. by the time i wrote my fourth album, a/c airplay was possible and – for that purpose – pieces were kept under 4 minutes, and, even, closer to 3:30.
the reflections in the building across the river are entrancing. black on cobalt, it’s all a curiosity.
the reflection of those-who-have-come-before-us reveals in our own zeal to create, to speak, to have voice. artistry.
it is with gratitude and a deep appreciation for his wizardry that i thank george winston. his star will always shine with brilliance and his legacy will resonate throughout the ages.
it doesn’t seem quite possible – this time has flown by.
but 10.
our cherished dogga is beginning to show signs of age…slowing down a bit, sleeping more, not always waiting at the door, but meeting us there as soon as he hears us walk in.
i guess aussies are typically with us for about twelve years, with some maybe as long as somewhere between 13 and 15. if we could vote, we’d vote for one of those, so long as he felt well in those years. because, like you, we know that the next two years will fly by as well. and that just makes us cringe.
the wander-women-thru-hiking-superstars-in-our-book once spoke about their plans for the future. they had downsized and sold off homes, sold off stuff, bought an rv named “biggie mama”, planted it in colorado springs and now travel all over thru-hiking, exploring and adventuring. they talked about their summers, the time of their biggest adventures. last year they were going to bike across the united states, but their plan got waylaid and they decided to set it aside when they felt unsafe on the roads which had no provisions for long-distance bicyclists. they said – not verbatim – that they wanted to use their summers wisely. if they – at around 60 and 65 – had another 20 good summers or so, then they wanted to use them in the happiest of ways, feeling centered and grounded in their plans.
another 20 good summers or so.
that made me stop.
and think.
it made me wonder about my sweet momma and whether she, in the last twenty years of her life, thought about the potential of those last twenty years. she moved on to the air around us at almost-94, so those last twenty years or so started in her 70s.
in her last years i saw momma often. and david met her on nine trips we made in her last eighteen months. they became fast friends. but what about before that? what about in all that time i lived in wisconsin and she lived in florida? i wonder now.
did she think about this tiny fact: because of distance and travel expense and busy schedules and all that life places in our actual and emotional way, that if i had only been able to see her once a year in her last twenty years, she would have only seen me twenty more times.
it’s a sobering thought.
very.
and it applies to all of us. even more so because we don’t have any guarantee about the number of years – or summers – we actually have.
and so, i’m thinking that living like our beloved dogdog: exuberantly happy to see us each time we re-enter the room, full of love and not-even-one grudge for anything we may have done, missing us when we are apart, a curiosity perspective willing to learn any new trick, anxious to be around us simply to be around us – without expectation, eager to go along anywhere we are going, truly unconditional – may be the best way to live ANY amount of time between now and the wind.
gracie – like babycat – followed the sun. gracie – like babycat – sought snuggles…on her terms. gracie – like babycat – adored food time. gracie – like babycat – spent long periods of time curled up or stretched out sleeping. gracie – unlike babycat – is a farmcat.
she lives outside on the iowa farm, a heated waterbowl on the south side of the house. her food is by the front door and is moved inside at night, so other critters aren’t attracted. you can watch her hunting out in the fields and i shudder to think of what her successes have been. she is free to come and go. i nicknamed her “sweetie” last time we stayed on the airbnb farm and it stuck; she came to any singsong call.
we’d find her – in early morningtime – curled up in the pillows on the porch bench swing on the east side of the house, sunrise warming her. out the dining room windows or the old door to the porch we could see her, eyes closed or maybe just waking, yawning her way into the day. the moment she sensed you were watching, she’d jump down and make a beeline to the door as if to remind you of your veryimportantwork of putting out her food dish.
as the family gathered, everyone adored gracie-cat. she was the belle of the ball, wandering from person to person, collecting sweet nothings. a darling of the farm, this cat was a generous hostess.
there wasn’t much about this farmhouse that wasn’t charming. there wasn’t much about this farm that wasn’t charming. the old silos and barns and sheds – a photographer’s dream. simplicity and tradition, passed-down.
we watched the comings and goings of big farm equipment, witnessed the field on the east side cut down, watched multiple pick-up trucks in and out of the long driveway. it’s a working farm and it’s spring, so it’s busy. we cannot understate how much work it all must be and, though we were unable to see activity from where we stood by the stand of trees with the hammock, we knew all the farms in the distance – close-up and far – were ever as busy.
we went outside in the night. looking in the direction of my favorite two trees, a line of lights on the far horizon…likely farm lights down another country road.
we looked up. the big dipper greeted us and other constellations vied for our attention. we felt tiny. the sky stretched further than we could see.
somewhere out there gracie was likely hunting. she didn’t come around as we stood in the grass. cats are independent creatures, after all.
and babycat – in the plane of the universe that beloved cats go – gave her a high five. “do what you want,” he telepathed to her, knowing full well that first thing in the morning – as the sun rose over the fields and tickled the porch swing – she’d be there waiting, just as he always was. different but the same.
“squeaking with joy, ” cousin kate wrote – all in caps – “the turtles are back!”.
at the exact time she sent that, we were on our trail, on the bridge over the river, gazing down at the turtles. we had seen a couple earlier in the spring, but then it got cold and they disappeared. now, they are back – seemingly for good – and we, too, are squeaking with joy.
earlier in the winter, i had written:
“i think about the turtles. they are there in the warmer months, sunning on logs and rocks that jut out of the river. but, when it dips below fifty degrees or so – and stays there – they disappear. apparently, they dive down to the muddy bottom, their metabolism slows down, they require less oxygen. their mucky homes keep them safe as they bide time, these wise, long-lived creatures of the water and the land.
we know they are there – somewhere – in hidden spots, places they feel sheltered and secure. i think about what they might be doing. they are silent and the fallow is long. i trust they are sorting what is next, kind of like us.
time keeps moving, though, and i keep hope that when it warms up and the turtles have a more secure sense of themselves in the world they will reappear, out of the suspension of presence. i’m hoping for an early spring.
and waiting. and the river freezes. and then it thaws.“
and then i had this idea walking down the hall the other day. it was a the-turtles-are-back idea.
in my mind i named it “out of fallow” or “out of the mud” or even “the relevant challenge” or “on the fly” but the name is fluid. the idea floated around and landed tiny feet on my brain, so i eventually told david about it.
it’s relatively simple. we choose ten destinations – in wisconsin, in the midwest, on the northeast coast, in the high mountains, on quiet southern beaches, in the canyonlands, in the grand national parks – all different projects. taking a yamaha portable battery-operated keyboard (with recording/disc drive capability), ten canvases and paint, both laptops, and a couple spiral notebooks – we go to each destination for a pre-determined amount of time (say, three hours). while there, i compose on the fly – what that place feels like – and he paints on the fly – what that place feels like. on the fly – spontaneous creation – is not for the meek at heart. it requires focus, has a terminal product necessary at the end – a short time after beginning – and necessitates a degree of letting go. it pushes us back into the active-art-place and pushes us past edges. it gets us out of the muddy bottom. it produces the raw pieces of an album to be orchestrated and a collection of paintings to be framed. it needs some support to get off the ground. it has me pondering, swimming to the surface with the turtles.
our snouts will pop out of the river and we’ll look around some, trying to figure it out. we would definitely need some encouragement, some warm sun, some help.
and, if we move forward, out of the suspension, we – turtles, too – will definitely be squeaking.
every day of this mysteriously unknown-unrevealed-unmapped extended journey of life we have been granted – we are seeking to make sense.
and – in the moment of moments – the ones when the abyss is evident or the peak is present, the ones when confusion reigns supreme, the ones when you cannot imagine any more bliss or any more dread or any more ardor or any more devastation, the ones when complexity is the starting gate, the ones on the roller coaster you wish someone would stretch out flat – in those moments none of this – any form of art – any medium, any life-giving expression of creativity – is a luxury. it surely does sustain, heal, breathe life into the motionless heart of fear or sadness. it is the music, the paintings, the photographs, the lyrics, the poetry, the clay pot in your hand, the dance. it is what the pads of your fingers touch just simply by seeing, hearing, reading, smelling, tasting, watching. necessary. of the essence. crucial. fundamental.
“give your heart to everybody you meet. the rest is pretense.” (e.h.)
and – the creators – each of us – stand by, fools all of us. humankind. finding who we are, what we love, expressing, connecting.
“showcasing a piece is allowing it to come to full bloom, to let it breathe in the world, to share it. but showcasing a piece is not for the meek at heart.
in the way you would likely feel standing in your underwear in a town square, introducing the world to some new piece of your heart is raw. on old wooden stages with a piano and a mic, centered on a wall with a tiny price tag placed nearby, during poetry-reading night in the corner of the general store, sharing with the novel-writing club every first thursday, skating the first performance on ice, tapping “publish” on a blog each day … pieces of your heart float shakily about as you try to hold onto sisu and stay grounded. it matters not how many times you have done this. your heart has been unbridled and you are allowing others in. each and every time.” (the underwear moments* – kerri sherwood)
“but then i thought about beauty. i thought about how artists dive below the surface, try to find the depth of meaning, try to hear and see that which others might pass by, not noticing. i thought about stages and boom mics and connection and standing in front of a diebenkorn – or a robinson – deep inside, marveling. i thought about arvo pärt and his absolute tug on my heart. i thought about john denver and simplicity. i thought about recording studios and soaring string sections, cello lines that make clouds rearrange to allow in light. the weaving of intricate relationship between people and nature, between people and art in any form.
there have been moments – and i can actually remember them – when i have been driving and listening to a song and i weep or hiking and seeing something so stunning i stop and cannot move. these moments when i know, without a doubt, that it was right to turn down the business-school-accounting-program acceptance. these moments when i know, without a doubt, that i will not have the same security as the person-i-would-have-been following that route. moments when i feel a sense of pride to be a tiny part of the tapestry of what people turn to in time of rejuvenation, of rest, of crisis, of pure bliss. these moments when i know, without a doubt, that somewhere along the way what i have done with my time has touched someone, has opened them, has taken them diving with me. below the surface of this great big world – to beauty.” (the gig economy tapestry – kerri sherwood)
“…boldness. the uninhibited freedom of expression – artistry come to fruition in the moment of utter sharing. terrifying and liberating. raw and real. the underwear moments.”(*)
this great big planet earth. sedimentary layers of beauty. we are all in our underwear.
she was out on the deck, momentarily. stopping by to give me words of wisdom and courage, former u.s. supreme court justice ruth bader ginsburg stood in the sunshine. she leaned over, in emphasis, and the sun streamed through her collar, reflecting through the window onto our dresser. i held her words close to me. she reminded me, “but when i talked about sex-based discrimination, i got the response, ‘what are you talking about? women are treated ever so much better than men!’” then we both laughed, her eyes gleaming with the intelligent fight of a strong woman.
ruth continued, her sage words a repetition of something she had said, quoted back in 2020, “it’s an unconscious bias. it’s the expectation. you have a lowered expectation when you hear a woman speaking; i think that still goes on. that instinctively when a man speaks, he will be listened to, where people will not expect the woman to say anything of value. but all of the women in my generation have had, time and again, that experience where you say something at a meeting, and nobody makes anything of it. and maybe half an hour later, a man makes the identical point, and people react to it and say, ‘good idea.’ that, i think, is a problem that persists.”
her parting words, before she vanished from our deck, before her tatted collar no longer formed a sunlit shadow on our dresser, “whatever you choose to do, leave tracks. that means don’t do it just for yourself. you will want to leave the world a little better for your having lived.” i nodded. it’s our responsibility as women (and yes, as men) to make sure that we leave to those behind us a place that is better for those who follow, a place that is transparent and that rebels against agenda, a place that treats all fairly, a place that is dedicated to the resolution of conflict, a place of compassion and truth. her gaze was steady before she disappeared, encouraging me to stay grounded, to “breathe free,” to “speak your mind, even if your voice shakes.”
“i would like to be remembered as someone who used whatever talent she had to do her work to the very best of her ability.”
and today – despite the dirt and the dried stems, vestiges of life-gone-past – despite the cold and the snow and the ice and the rain and all the elements that have torn into this plant and the critters that have refuged under its branches – despite the sun and the drought and no added nutrients and almost no attention whatsoever – small clusters of brassica-like buds have sprouted out of the ground.
they have persevered, they have sought rebirth, they have wiped away their tears of disappearance and their underground fallow and they have risen up, one tiny millimeter at a time, unnoticed until now, shoots of green in all the brown.
they have not been considered marvelous. they are not rare. they are not exquisite blooms, fragile petals, filmy tendrils connecting them to their lifesource. instead, they are curled cabbages, tightly wound and unwinding.
they are a little bit haughty at the spring and its sweet-time-taking. they are persistent, resilience at their core, hardy, paying no mind to the rules of march or april or, really, any season. they wait for no one to move the leaves and debris of winter. they are independent.
this new year of growth, this new season of their sedum-lives is pushing out of the good earth – despite all odds. they keep on keeping on, mustering up next and next, pushing aside all doubt, surely panting in their phoenix.
it needs to be below 32 degrees fahrenheit for icicles to form. this is wisconsin, so that’s not really a problem here. it’s winter. there are stalactites of ice everywhere. when they form on gutters is when i start worrying. ice-damming is a cruelly-lurking by-product of our winter storms. but ice forming elongated frozen crystal teardrops on ivy? that’s another thing.
the howe caverns guide was a handsome young guy. susan and i were mid-teens and, thus, instantly in love with his chiseled face as he led us through the stalactites and stalagmites of the caves. fred prendergast was his name. now – ask me what we did last weekend and i may not remember. but fred? yup. how on earth does that work?
i hadn’t seen these beautiful tiny icicles before. they were a product of the neighbor’s garage eaves overflow dripping onto the ivy on top of the fence during a period of time that the temperature dipped below freezing. clearly, a number of things had to align in order for us to see this chandelier of baby icicles.
they didn’t last and, very soon, they were gone. but in the meantime, i captured many photos of them teetering between existence and not-there. looking closely, you can see the layers – one drop of water freezing at a time – vertical layers upon layers. like snowflakes piled inside long lucite columns, each one different, suspended from fragile ivy branches. they were fascinating and prompted me to research icicles just a bit more.
when we left howe caverns, we were – ok, i was – convinced that fred would be my future…that somehow this summertime-employed-cave-guide would search the world – or at least the state of new york – and i would one day be mrs. prendergast. we would give cave tours together and study stalagmites and stalactites. our children would be the children of two studied scientists and our home in upstate new york would be a place of knowledge-seeking.
fred never found me. somehow – in the way of the teenage crush – i was able to process that he never looked.
but his lessons about the stal-ites stayed with me. and i couldn’t help but remember when i stood in front of these tiny icicles on display.
i wonder what fred and the missus (or the mister) are doing.
the fine line between snow and water. it curved along the shore, made more obvious by the mudline separating the two. the edge between frozen and watery marsh appeared like a crayon thickly outlining the coloring book image, colored in with either whitish snow or blueish water.
standing on the shore – away from the edge – it’s pretty easy to see it…the place where, if you step, you will fall in. undoubtedly, there is also an area close to that place – but not as obvious – where you are also likely to fall in, where your boots will get all wet and perhaps you might lose your balance. you will be – maybe – covered in snow and mud, but you will be laughing there, because you will not have been in danger and it is not likely that you will be hurt. cold and wet, yes. but in real danger – no.
in a time of reorganization of our life together, we are trying to step closer to the edges…the ones we can see and the ones we can’t see. there are places and things that are oh-so-familiar to us, comfortable smushy places into which we sink, easy places to live in. there are places that push the envelope, places that push back and question and, even in that less-smushy-but-necessary zone, we steadily take steps. then there are those places that are a little frightening, a little less solid, a crossing-over place. these are the places we are finding we need to go now. we carry with us all the tools of our lives – education, experience, work, learnings along the way. as artists, as people working in the world, we toss our work over the open water so that it might float around and land – sometimes inside the edge, sometimes out past the buoy and the ropes that designate safe swimming.
and so, in the edge-approach, we glance down and see that our boots are getting wet. the leather – quite worn and no longer waterproof – is taking on marshwater. our socks are getting damp. but, we remind ourselves, we are not in danger. we are simply at the edge. there is much room for growth here, with our feet all wet. there is time to breathe and slow down our fast-beating hearts as we keep going. there is no worry about having to swim or tread water, for it is shallow. and the shallow water offers plenty of nutrients to feed us, teach us, keep us going. the edge looks scary and unfamiliar, risky, but we can see the horizon and the sky meets the land and we can recognize that.
every time we release an album, hang a painting, publish our words, stand in public with our art, openly protest unfairness – whatever it might be – we stand with feet on either side of the edge. we vulnerable ourselves to the world and we are in open water for the moments in which we allow ourselves to consider how our work – our standing there – is being received. but the foot that remains on solid ground – the one on the other side of the edge – holds us to terra firma. and, each time, i suspect, we have found it to be less scary to take the leap, not knowing.
i suppose right now should be no different.
“life is a travelling to the edge of knowledge, then a leap taken.” (d. h. lawrence)
reverse threading 