we have two pinecones on the mantel. because, well, in these times, under these circumstances, in the middle of this middle, one pinecone doesn’t seem like enough.
we enter the new year.
and we draw on the pinecone – its symbolism is hopeful with descriptors of meaning like resilience, regeneration, connection to higher consciousness, abundance, good fortune and protection. right now, there is not much i wouldn’t put on the mantel to ward off negative influences.
pinecones on the trail always get my attention. there’s something about the starkness against the snow that is simply beautiful. and, on this day when everything was so vivid, this pinecone invited me to kneel down and capture it.
if there was anything i would like to remember – every single day – this new year, it would be just that – that everything is vivid, everything is inviting our notice. i would hope to remember to pay heed to all that is around me – even the simplest of it all, the seemingly inconsequential. i would hope to remember to kneel in the snow.
for as each day ends i feel that i will find – as i sort through the hours and minutes – that it was the least of it all that made me feel most alive, the least of it all that made me know that my one, wild life includes pinecones and deer tracks, cold fog over the lake, dogga’s sighs, the holding glance from d, the suspended ninth. it includes the belly laughs, sous-cheffing next to each other, the first sip of coffee, our favorite trail. it includes new gutters and rube goldberg fixes, fuel pumps and matching flannel pjs. it includes the birds at our feeder, the squirrels on the wires, the last hugs we had from our kids, the sun lingering in a pink-peach-fire dusk sky.
sometimes the most important stuff is the least important stuff. the things that carry us from one day to the next in troubled times, the things that sustain our will and buoy our faith, the things that give us courage and let us exhale.
we are back door people. we haven’t always been back door people, but years ago the handle on the front door refused to unlock properly, so the only sensible thing to do was become back door people. and so, ever since then, i could count the number of times we have used the front door as our entry – even since the locksmith came and fixed the front door lock.
but lately – with the significant amount of ice on our driveway from the ice-damming of which you are weary of reading about – we have been parking in the driveway a bit further down and – drumroll – going in the front door.
this confuses the dog. he has gotten used to our entry through the backdoor – it’s been the norm for most of his life. when we come in the front door, he arrives in the living room looking a bit befuddled. but dogga comes around quickly – acknowledging our arrival home – and his aussie wigglebutt starts wagging.
i have to say – though it’s been quite a while now since the locksmith smithed the lock – having two options as doors feels rather decadent. and gives one a different perspective on one’s home.
i haven’t been an attached-garage person for three and a half decades – though that was fun while it lasted. the never-get-wet, never-get-cold, never-get-hot, never-get-misted on – all of that – is rather nice. but that ended in florida and I wouldn’t trade the non-attached-garage personhood identity for florida residency.
so. the front door.
because we used to exit LBS or big red and walk down the driveway toward the garage and through the ever-popular metal accordion-folding ghetto fence, up the deck steps and across the deck to the back door, we would see back yard things on our way in. we’d gaze and stop and comment – on breck-our-aspen, on the flowers, on the deck seating areas, on the birdfeeder or birdbath birds, on the squirrels – whatever caught our interest, struck our fancy.
now – at least in these last two weeks – we have been – really – noticing the front door stuff. it is impossible to not appreciate the grasses as you walk to the front door. and in these last snowfalls, these grasses are utterly gorgeous. bent under the weight of the heavy sticky snow, they gracefully give to the season, knowing that their return in the spring and summer will be mighty. each blade, each frond – yellowed with autumn – now covered with pristine white fluff.
when you allow things to take your breath away – even simple things – it is amazing how many things will do just that.
one of these days we will go back to primarily using the back door. there’s always lots to see, despite how well we know these bitty routes in daily life.
pretty much each year – for years – we have had a frog in our pond out back.
but this year there was simply nothing.
to say we were disappointed would understate how much these frogs have meant to us. we were pretty sad and wondered if we had done something that had inhibited a frog from choosing our tiny pond as a summer home.
until a few days ago.
d had seen a glimpse of green hopping in the water a few days prior, but we could not tiptoe up to the pond quietly enough to see it sunning on a rock or watching the world go by, tucked into a nook or cranny. we thought it was simply a momentary visit.
on thursday, though, we had a lucky day. and, as we stood quietly at the side of our pond, scouring the edges for a sighting of a frog, there he was.
little.
we named him “little” not at all having to do with his import to us, but because he seemed one of the smallest frogs to have lived in our pond.
you would have thought we had found gold coins hidden in the rocks of our water feature – our excitement was off the charts.
and – because every frog needs a theme song – i could instantly hear his in my head (sung to the tune of sugar, sugarby the archies): little – ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba/ oh, little little ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba/ you are our tiny frog/ and you got us hop-hoppin. (etc etc etc)
each year has brought a different reason to look for the meaning of a frog’s visit in our personal world. each year the resilience and transformation, renewal and abundance messages have been positive bits of symbolism for us and have made us feel that grace has dropped in for a visit.
this year is no different. little’s appearance has been like a single candle lit in a dark night – a warm glow, a talisman for reflection and hope.
we never know how long the frog will stay. but we do know that just making an appearance is a gift. for our small pond – in the middle of other suburban yards of grass and gardens – is maybe 18 square feet – and it seems fortuitous that a tiny frog would even find it.
but maybe somewhere in frogland there is a list…and frogs can check it – like airbnb – to see where they might find a little pond they can call their own. or maybe where it is they may be named and doted upon. or maybe where it is they might get their own theme song.
mid 80s, late 80s, the 90s – it was a thing. posies of dried flowers everywhere you could find a spot. on indoor trellises, tucked into cornices, hooked onto doors, gathered in bowls, in wreaths and vases and garlands, in frames and potpourri vessels. so many dried flowers.
and it wasn’t that they weren’t beautiful. next to the quilts on quilt racks and the doilies on the side tables, old silverware windchimes, painted wooden tchotchkes and cross-stitch anything, the dried flowers complimented the style of the times – this nod to nostalgic country-ish.
there was a day – years ago – when, having been surrounded by dried flowers for decades, i literally walked around my home with a big garbage bag and tossed all the dried flowers i had managed to hang, tuck, hook, trellis, gather, weave, drape, frame or potpourri-mix. it – this decorating obsession with things-dried – was suddenly done.
(now, to be fair, currently, there’s a posy of lavender from our garden in a small glass milk pitcher and a couple reeds from a hike. oh, and a few hydrangea from out front. of course, there are two big branches in our house now, not to mention driftwood from long island and an aspen log from the forest in breckenridge, but, in essence…for the most part…in theory and almost-all-application, the dried-flower-dust-accumulator period is over.)
instead, as we hike along the river and in the woods and walk in the ‘hood, we watch the flowers of the meadows and the gardens changing. their waning beauty draws me in – even more than their mid-summer blossom. there is something about the fading flower, something about the button left after the petals fall, something about the curve of the wilting coneflower or a tired black-eyed susan, the almost-fluffless dandelion, the loves-me-loves-me-not petal-less daisy. i stop and linger with them, always curious how graceful it is they go into fallow, this period of rest, how they so readily give over to this change in appearance when humans seem to resist so vehemently any visible aging.
the 1980s/1990s dried-flower-hanger/tucker/gatherer in me rises as i admire these beautiful nods to autumn’s arrival. but i leave the flowers in the meadow, in the garden, in the marsh next to the river, in the woods.
and, instead, i carry their beauty – and the moments i was witness to it – with me, knowing that diminished beauty is – nonetheless – beautiful.
he says that one day we must go on a trip that is specifically about photography. that we will slowwwwly stroll – wherever it is we are – and i can stop and linger – at any time – and take a picture – or twenty – of any single thing along the way. i am excited about that and we have a really, really long list of the places we might choose as destinations. an endless list, actually.
the funny thing is – this is pretty much how i do every day. on the trail, in our backyard, at the garden center, at our potting stand, in the antique shoppe, at the grocery store, in our ‘hood, in the mountains, on the beach – anywhere.
i have always loved taking photographs. even a dear old friend, who i hadn’t spoken with in about four decades, remembered that i always had a camera in my hand whenever she and i were together. it goes way back…for me, to those pocket instamatic cameras and the cameras with the square bulbs on the top that rotated for the next shot. in college i did photo shoots with my new 35mm manual camera for extra money. i climbed fences to take sunrise shots on beaches. i hiked in rivers to capture the fauna along the edges. i adored being the photography editor of my college paper, toting my camera to disco parties, softball games, campus events, college-sponsored ski trips, lunch with paul simon. if there were no pictures of something or someone from back then, there were good reasons.
there have also been times – along the way – when i have realized that taking photographs would take away from the moment – and, in those times, i have chosen to put the camera away – to simply memorize the moment instead. but this thready heart of mine loves to scroll back through images that place life and time.
it feels somewhat like cheating when you take photographs at a nursery such as i did for today’s image. i wandered about the aisles and aisles, greenhouses and gardens of nearby milaegers, entranced by the vast opportunity to capture color, texture, utter beauty. there is no end to it. even the flowers that are wilting are absolutely divine. i walk, arm in arm with david, and i feel fortunate to see so much that touches so many senses. it is impossible to not feel it. we are surrounded by the glorious.
and so we plan – one day – to take a trip sheerly about photography. i will be excited to plan it, to choose idyllic places and vistas that offer moments like the shimmer of sun on iridescent raindrops.
in the meanwhile, i will carry my iphone and its remarkable camera everywhere i go, capturing everything else that is beautiful, that is evocative, that means something, that will be a source of joy or heart or memory, that is life.
the teasels in the meadow kept getting my attention: “look at me!! i’m a layer-cake!!” they called out.
these seussical thistles are everywhere right now, lining the roads we take to our trails, lining the trails, populating the meadows, running alongside the river…simply everywhere. and they have personality!
this summer has been extraordinarily hot and humid. the tropical conditions have made everything-that-loves-sun explode. we feel as if we can literally stand and watch the growth of several of our plants outside – a time-lapse would prove amazing and almost other-worldly.
on one of our trails the other day – before we both melted away – i kept pulling out my camera to take one after another photograph of yet another teasel. i also kept thinking that my dear friend susan – gifted with ridiculously artistic culinary skills – could easily create a teasel cake – and it would look exactly like these.
friday night we stood at the end of our street to watch a parade. the town was hosting an amc (american motors company) celebration. not knowing what to expect out of the parade, but confident that the number of people lining the curb indicated some level of ‘cool’, we waited on the corner for it to start.
and ‘cool’ it was. an utterly charming old-timey parade of cars made its way past us: ramblers, pacers, amx, matadors, ambassadors, gremlins, jeeps, javelins, and my personal favorite, the metropolitan.
we cheered for every vehicle that drove past us, the occupants of the cars with windows down waving and laughing and thumbs-upping. it was a joy to see so many people in their bliss as they drove their vintage cars down our neighborhood roads. those metropolitans, though, they really got my attention. to see all those people – ranging a wide spectrum of ages – coming together in community – all for the love of these old cars – was something we were really glad we witnessed.
it made me think about the 1971 vw beetle in our garage. justin and i plan on reinvigorating that bug. we know it needs some restoration work now but between the two of us and youtube (with helpful hints from our brilliant mechanic) we just might be able to do it. thinking it would be a hoot for us to maybe end up at one of those vintage car shows one day or a beetle-meet. we likely won’t get a ribbon for fanciest but we will probably be eligible for “zealous” or “good effort”.
the whole thing brought me back to a time long ago when i used to be in parades with my dad and my big brother. my dad had a 1930 model A ford that he and my brother restored and we, with old-timey straw hats, would drive in parades just like this one. onlookers would line the sidewalks and cheer and we’d wave and call out to people to get their attention as we passed by. not unlike the drivers and passengers in the parade in our ‘hood. and, come to think about it, not unlike the teasels in the meadow.
i always make him nervous when i start digging for my phone while i am driving. i mean, i reach over to my purse – which is right next to me between the seats in littlebabyscion – and my hand goes directly to my phone – which is right in the outside pocket of my purse. it’s not like i am scavenging through a trunk of goodies in the backseat while i am driving in the frontseat. it’s also not like i am going to text while i am driving, because i don’t do that now – unless i am at a stoplight and i keep an ever-watchful eye on the light so no one has to aggressively beep at me to put my eyes back on the road. nevertheless, he gets a little nervous.
in my defense, i am merely getting my phone because i need – really neeeeeeed – to take a picture. and, despite any deep-seated fear he might harbor about me placing our lives in jeopardy for a photograph, i always either wait for a stop sign or a traffic light or i pull over to take the picture.
sooo, now that that has been established…the other day i had to take a photograph of the car in front of us before it careened away from us and the chance would be gone.
we – like you – have seen many bumper stickers, many window decals, many messages on the back of vehicles. i have been literally astounded at what people will put on their cars – the language sometimes makes me shudder, the innuendo is sometimes embarrassing, the saying is sometimes totally base. it worries me that people with children will put pretty intense cuss words right on their cars and drive around with that so that other small children might read them as well. i mean, really???
but i digress.
the other day – while out and about and on our way to hike – there was an suv in front of us with positive – wait, read that again – positive (!) messages on the back of their vehicle. it was this one that made me grab my phone:
“i hope something good happens to you today.”
i wanted to blow them a kiss and thank them but they sped away and i lost sight of them after i grabbed a quick photo.
many good things happened that day. we hiked about seven miles; it was brisk and parts of the river were frozen. the sky looked like it was about to deliver a snowstorm but never did. we saw five deer on our hike, all sedately grazing slightly frozen grasses just on the side of the trail, none of them eager to bound away. we felt tired and a little bit achy getting back to LBS, all well-deserved and welcome results of getting outside exercise. 20 came over for dinner; we chattered and laughed and played rummikub.
good things. regular stuff.
the bumper sticker stuck with me all day. mostly, i loved that whoever this person or these people were they were offering up a gift to strangers. no bad language, no aggression, no political yuck-yuck, just a kindness.
something good actually happens every day. we probably need to remember that it’s the bar we use to measure “good” that changes. i have found that if i keep the bar low i am more likely to notice the something good.
it’s not generally flashy or lit with neon lights. it’s not generally something that arrives with folderol or with bells on. it doesn’t necessarily make a grand entrance. it’s generally not gigantic. but it’s brilliant nonetheless.
i thought about that bumper sticker again that night when i was hugging dogga goodnight and he hugged me back; i could hear d setting up coffee and a few minutes later we tucked under a warm quilt.
“all things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small. all things wise and wonderful, ’twas god that made them all.” (cecil francis alexander/edwin george monk/george mcbeth mcphee)
the striking thing about this song – a hymn in the united methodist hymnal i played from for many years as a minister of music – is the use of the word all.
whatever deity you may subscribe to, whatever you call a greater power, whatever your heart-faith attaches to, all things count, all creatures great and small.
i glanced up while at the sink washing a few dishes. and there, on the white trim next to the window, was this katydid. she didn’t seem to feel in peril – and she wasn’t. my first reaction was surprise. my second reaction was wondering how to safely remove her and place her out in the garden, where she might find leaves or flowers to munch, maybe drink from a fallen raindrop.
“each little flower that opens, each little bird that sings. he made their glowing colors and. made their tiny wings.”
it is not our first inclination to eliminate that which is different, that – because of size difference – which is helpless. we try – in most cases – to help the tiniest find its way. this katydid was lost in our house and likely would not have survived if we hadn’t found it and if we weren’t helping it along. it somehow feels like the same story as us – here in the universe. we are but tiny specks of dust, floating, floating, in a galaxy of stars and planets, lost and found, lost and found.
“the purple headed mountains, the rivers running by, the sunset and the morning that brightens up the sky.”
it is up to us to take notice, to care for – across our land, around our world – the extraordinarily large and the astonishingly tiny.
we are all here together.
and i hope that if someday we are lost, someone will gently pick us up and carry us to the garden so that we, too, might munch on flowers, drink raindrops and breathe fresh air available to all creatures great and small.
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.
“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!!”
reverse threading 