when you watch extreme mountain climbing videos every night you are bound to find morsels of wisdom and inspiration. chris, one of the denali climbers, tossed us this one: “i think it’s important to learn how to suffer gloriously.” he added he “tries to put a positive spin on all his suffering.” chosen suffering, that is, for who would doubt that there would be suffering on a climb up the highest peak on the continent. alternatively, his suffering yields reward, a summit, or, at the least, an attempted summit, traversing in elevations few have scaled.
in the early 1980s i taught music in the poorest school of a small county in florida. z was one of my students – he was in first grade. i know he suffered. his home was not far from the school campus with buildings attached by covered walkways, my music shed tucked into a swampy corner, complete with 3″ banana spiders.
z was a student who needed a lot of extra attention. he craved it. given his grave family situation, i know his heart had to be heavy, but his smile was light-itself and he loved hugs and music class. in that school, tucked into the middle of an impoverished neighborhood, where people spent days sitting on rotting porches waiting for the next day, there was much agonizing. and, clearly, a hell of a lot of surrendered acceptance. it was deeply inspiring to see children being glorious, even in the midst of hurting.
i heard somewhere along the passing years that z was in prison. i shudder to think of all who might say it was inevitable. he was truly stuck in a system that allowed very few to escape. the ‘subs’, as the area was called, was a breeding ground for glorious suffering, proud faces lined with sweat and worry, ponderous minds sorting for ways to survive.
we went back there about five years ago, drove to what-is-now a fenced-in complex and no longer a neighborhood school so i could stare for a few minutes at the old shed in the swamp. we drove around the neighborhood and stopped and got out to talk to a couple people rocking on a porch. we talked about the old school and, with shining faces, they spoke with pride about attending it. glorious faces.
when we pulled away, they went back to the chairs on the porch, under the collapsing portico away from the steamy sun and tucked into trees covered with spanish moss and yards of dry dusty dirt. still suffering.
we drove away, a few moments of silence as i took it all in. in my mind i hugged the little boy z used to be and wished for something better for him. for a summit.
we drew heavy curtains to sleep in the land of the midnight sun. my grandmother mama dear and i were in the arctic circle in finland and, much to the fascination of my eight year old mind, the sun refused to set. i remember a twilight like no other – a time of in-between that just lasted and lasted, not day, not night. it was stunning and magical and wreaked havoc on circadian rhythms, necessitating new practices.
EARTH INTERRUPTED VII makes me think of that twilight, that time in the river of not-this-not-that. a time of waiting, it appears that the telescope zeroed in on earth detects an interruption, a wafting darkness. in this time of pandemic, it would seem a portrait of covid-19.
but, as in all other times of darkness, there exists a glow of light. the blackness is dissipating, the shape of the earth is visible, the twilight is vibrant. this painting offers radiant hope.
just like pulling back the curtains in lapland, the sun will rise and we will have awakened from the strange twilight. we will have lost much to the dark. we will have learned new ways, employed new rituals. we will be tired and wary, cautious yet sure. we will have crossed the river of the midnight sun into a new day.
we took a hike on easter sunday afternoon. it was just warm enough to shed my coat in the woods; spring hiking is better without the shush-shushing sound of a down coat while you walk.
we went to our bristol woods, masks in pockets as we jumped out of big red, eager to get into the trees, onto the paths that have soothed us. there were a few people there; most of them abided by the six-feet-apart rule, although admittedly, there were a few who caused us to roll our eyes in an astonished unspoken question wondering if they lived in a cave somewhere and had no idea that there was a global pandemic.
the familiar paths did their job. we quietly noticed green sprigs springing up between the leaves, a tonal green as you looked off-path from budding underbrush. here and there forest daffodils at the brink of opening to the world; here and there small white flowers nestled between fallen logs.
the soundtrack of the woods was awakening to spring – orioles’ songs, chipmunks scampering, birds we couldn’t see high in the trees singing arias to the sky, the sound of our feet on the trail.
the gunfire in the background was unwelcome in this reverie of renewal, of spring-really-on-its-way, of escape-from-thoughts-of-covid-19. it was an automatic, a gun designed to kill, single shots punctuated by the rapidfire of a clip. it is always unnerving; yesterday it was particularly so. it seemed mindless to me, paying no homage to these very times, these very days.
in the middle of thousands of people who are desperately trying to save over half a million others’ lives in this country alone, thousands of people who are extending helping hands to countless others, thousands of people who are dedicating resources to feed, mask, shelter thousands of others, thousands of people who are reeling from a loss of life, of job, of any security, of any sense of normal, thousands of people who are frightened to their core that they might be the next to succumb to this pervasive illness, the next to struggle to breathe, i couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out any good reason to be shooting an automatic weapon.
it’s a wave. and, like the tide, we ride it out to sea and back in to shore. we grab handfuls of sand when we hit the beach, to remind ourselves that we are indeed of this earth and this is real. and then we read or watch the news and see the charts and the numbers-who-are-people-not-numbers and we are back out to sea, on precarious standup boards.
it’s almost a mantra “staying more or less sane.” we wake in the morning and, for the first few delicious seconds, we don’t remember. but as we share dreams – the dreams we can remember – we know that even our subconscious are trying to process all this.
we compare notes with others: what is acceptable to do in these restricted times, what is not. we are aghast at the impropriety of the suggestion of large gatherings, no matter where they are. even small gatherings of people not isolating together are questionable. we wonder if we will all be agoraphobic when it’s time to cease restrictions. we worry that this decision will be made irresponsibly, skewed in the direction of the ever-important dollar and not in the interest of people being healthy, getting better, staying alive. we are afraid.
we do whatever we can, whatever works; we are all in different places on the what-works-for-you continuum. outside of working we struggle to fill in time. we take on new projects; we sit quietly. we bake loaves and loaves of bread and test new recipes; we cook just whatever is necessary. we obsessively deep clean the closets, the cabinets, the basement; we pick up around ourselves and disinfect what needs disinfecting. we organize, organize, organize; we have trouble paying attention, finishing going through the piles. we watch movies and binge on sitcoms; we look out the window and get lost in thought. we spend time on our muse; we stay away from that which makes us feel more deeply. we spend vast amounts of time on social media and video-conferencing apps; we desperately miss those we love and yearn for them. we get impatient; we wait.
we are a world of people-people, broken and reeling, and we are all trying to stay more or less sane.
as a person who is at severe risk, our dear 20 is isolating alone. it is unusual for us not to see him a couple or three times a week. our visits are now just audio by telephone or perhaps a facetime here or there. he has much to look forward to and, in preparing for all that, he is taking all precautions, sacrificing now for later. he texted us this message the other day. it was after a call the night before – a call during which we all shared the middle-of-the-night-wakefulness that is scary-as-all-get-out.
it was a text of wisdom. a text that conveyed a message that there is always a measure of blind belief necessary. a text i read more than once.
i know that my beloved big sister and i don’t agree on everything. but this morning she texted me that she had gone to the post office in the wee hours last night to send a small package to us. inside are four masks, to protect us, to protect others, to walk into tomorrow prepared. and i am grateful. we will wear these masks because we believe in tomorrow and because we want to protect all we can in getting there.
we stay home because we believe in tomorrow and because we want to protect all we can in getting there.
we social distance; we cross to the other side of the road on a getting-fresh-air-walk because we believe in tomorrow and because we want to protect all we can in getting there.
we wash our hands. we wash our groceries. we disinfect. we let mail, packages, newspapers sit untouched for days. we wipe everything down. we are conscious. we try to protect.
lettuce will grow if you plant it. if you prepare the soil. if you water it, if you protect it from deluge or too much arid sun.
so, like 20 suggested, we’ll bring out the wood boxes, prepare the soil and plant lettuce. and we’ll protect it. because we believe in tomorrow.
“hope…it makes you breathe differently. it makes your heart beat faster. it makes your knees weak and your ability to wait strong. it makes you weep with anticipation and holds you close with others who are also hoping.” (reverse threading, dec. 7, 2018)
i have done time on the kitchen floor. like you, i have been brought to my knees with grief, anxiety, worry, pain, shame, fear, sadness, loneliness, anger, disappointment. when you are on the floor, any movement seems monumental. anxiety is crushingly powerful. it seems unlikely you will rise. and even as you go about your days, doing the things you do in life, it seems you will remain on the virtual kitchen floor.
but then, there is a moment. it appears illusory yet it is luminous. it is a mere butterfly wing, the slightest of silk tendrils, but it is there. elusive and tiny, it asks for absolute focus. like viewing through the eyepiece on binoculars, you slowly steady your gaze. something inside you knows. something tells you to reach for it and hold it gently in your shaking hands. it is hope.
“hope. there aren’t many words like this…describing that which you can actually – viscerally – feel in your body. it makes you breathe differently. it makes your heart beat faster. it makes your knees weak and your ability to wait strong. it makes you weep with anticipation and holds you close with others who are also hoping.” (reverse threading, dec. 7, 2018)
like many of you, i have laid awake many nights now. exhausted when i lay my head down and then, voila!, wide awake. the middle of the night has many monsters these days. it used to be that as i lay awake and would get hungry and hungrier, i would convince david that the perfect thing, rousing him from sleep, would be to have a 3am bowl of cereal together. since we went dairy-gluten-free i’ve substituted and have chosen a banana in the wee hours. somewhere i read that bananas are sleep aids, so waking david up to have a banana seemed like i was helping him. but now, we have no bananas.
we need to go to the grocery store. but it’s complicated, with disinfecting wipes during our trip there and being absolutely careful upon our return home to wash everything or store it for a period of time. it’s important, vital. we step back from the person who is a personal-space-invader. we make room on the walking path for those coming the other way. we marvel at the recklessness of large numbers of people still gathering in spaces. we weep for those who have succumbed to a disease that is apparently sorely underestimated.
this painting, eve, is a beautiful landscape of color and shape. eve, religiously historic as the first woman.
is it possible that the apple of eve and adam, the one in the story from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, could now be seen as a casualness toward the spread of this pandemic, a cavalier attitude, a lack of regard toward social distancing or the peril facing citizens, medical personnel, workers at essential businesses? the apple that, in the story, changed everything, for all time?
in the last year of my sweet momma’s life, at not quite 94, she would say astonished things like, “i looked in the mirror and i look like an old woman!” we would laugh together when we mentioned her age and that she had earned every last wrinkle, every age spot, every grey hair. never have i seen a more beautiful old woman. in a life that spanned from 1921 to 2015 her hazel eyes saw vast changes, world hurdles, family loss and strife, wild technological advances. and love.
barney was born around the same time as my momma. i wonder about the life he had before he arrived in the basement boiler room. was he a honkytonk piano, a barroom upright, a sunday school accompaniment, the instrument in someone’s drawing room? he was headed to the scrap guy when we met him and we intervened. i suppose as he has lingered in our backyard these last five years he would wonder about the reflection in the mirror, his outer shell, those wrinkles, that peeling laminate, the keys that no longer play. does he realize that chipmunks perch on his brow and snack on acorns? does he realize that birds land, patiently in wait for their respective and restrained turns at the birdfeeder? does he realize that his soul remains rich, his exterior beautiful in its aging?
i laid awake for hours in the middle of the night last night. i looked in the virtual mirror in my mind and saw wooden stages and boom mics, big pianos and blue jeans. i realized, suddenly, that i am older. despite everything that would suggest to me, try to convince me of, the contrary, i have gotten older.
scrolling through social media during this time of distancing it is stunning to see all the ways people are incorporating posting with streaming, youtube, visiting with google hangout, facetime, videoconferencing with zoom, webex, as they try to be there without being there. it’s exhausting.
my 1970s-lingering-self puts on readers and starts to read the directions. the chipmunks are perched on my brow and i resource apps to stay in the loop and do my part to help keep people connected in a time where connection could easily fall away.
i take a deep breath and remember the day that my sweet momma’s iphone facebook status read (from her assisted living facility in tampa) that she was checked in at a miami dolphins game in miami. i quickly and quietly fixed it for her.
and then i giggle and think, ‘heck. if she can do it, i can do it.’
it is the symbiosis of peeling back the layers, honoring the wrinkles, relying on each other’s strengths in the mirror and working together, the virtual birdfeeder our community.
we bought it on our honeymoon. we knew, even by then, that we would need this sign’s lighthearted truth to remind us – some days – of what we even liked about each other. in these days of isolation it’s front and center.
these are profoundly difficult times. without the balance of getting out or having a little space, we are all finding ourselves in close isolation with the others in our home. we two, here, are often together 24/7. we work together in a variety of capacities, so we have gotten a little more accustomed to the dynamics than, say, some of you who have been thrown into the deep end with no feathering of getting-used-to-the-water time. but…that doesn’t mean it’s always pretty. so we are all here, separately together, figuring it out.
we wonder about the future. we worry. we stew. we get excited. we get scared. we get weary.
the stress level is palpable. you can feel the world out-there functioning at a completely different frequency than it had been. it is like that high pitch in your ears, making you teeter on yelling, “make it stop”. we all try to go with the flow, try to make the best of it. we are fortunate to be here together, at home, in a safe place. we seek ways to stay relevant and do meaningful work. we follow stay-at-home orders. we reach out to visit, virtually, with our family and friends. we video-conference with colleagues. we wear leggings and sweatpants on a daily basis. my boy, in a city with ever-exponentially-growing-covid-19-numbers, said that’s a given – sweats, sweats, sweats and the perfunctory button-down shirt. we know what’s visible and what’s not. we desperately hope for the best. we get in each other’s way. we help each other. we brainstorm new ways to cope, new ways to work, some with steep learning curves. we sigh. we take naps, tired and wrung out. all are true.
we wonder about the future. we worry. we stew. we get excited. we get scared. we get weary.
and we try to stay in touch. we desperately miss our children, our family, our friends, the people in our day-to-day life route.
even in times of ‘normal’, if my daughter, whose home is in a covid-19 hotspot and whose work, like too many, has been decimated, texts me with no punctuation and clipped answers, i know i have either a) stepped past the edge of the chatting time limit b) asked too many questions c) said something completely too mom-ish or d) encountered her at a time she needs space for herself. no matter which option, it’s smart (and in my best interest) to back up. she, just like my son, knows she is loved beyond words and i know that, in order for me to stay loved, or, er, tolerated, i need to utter less painintheass words. but i am their mom and it is an intrinsic part of my job.
we wonder about the future. we worry. we stew. we get excited. we get scared. we get weary.
if david, the other artist in my two-artist-household equation, mentions an idea to me, i dig under the idea pile of leaves to find the base of it – to order the details of what the idea means, to parse it out. i can’t start at the top and assume thebigidea will work. i have to see how the ingredients of the idea will work, the steps to get there. if the tiniest piece of the idea doesn’t seem plausible, i argue, how could thebigidea be possible. i don’t mean to be a bigidea killer; i just need to see the practical details. i’m sure he invokes the youareapainintheass eyeroll when i am not looking, but that’s ok. he can’t see me rolling my eyes either.
and so, we wonder about the future. we worry. we stew. we get excited. we get scared. we get weary.
in the biggest way we have seen in decades we have a challenge. to stay healthy. to keep others healthy. what we do affects you and vice-versa. we all have to be responsible. we all have to work together. we are not all favorites of each other. some of us are the biggest pains in the ass to others of us. we are learning, bending, flexing. we are finding out that we are more resilient than we thought, we are capable of negotiating the bumps in the relationship-road. we are gumby in the real world.
and we are all here. separate and together. despite our wildly differing stories, we have a common story. we are here.
and we wonder about the future. we worry. we stew. we get excited. we get scared. we get weary.
i, for one, am grateful for my absolute favorite painintheass even though he is totally a painintheass. for what would i do without him?
chaos (physics): ‘behavior so unpredictable as to appear random, owing to great sensitivity to small changes in conditions’
we were at a meeting up north this summer when mona said this, “even chaos has boundaries.” i jotted it down because it felt relevant. in the midst of a contentious situation we were trying to keep our ‘do what’s best for the organization’ hats on, trying to believe that there, indeed, would be an end to the chaos. committed to a peaceful forward-advancing plan, we kept both hands on the hats, guarding against a wave, a treacherous wave of onto-the-band-wagon-jumping, the aligning of two camps on different shores offering nothing of good import for the organization.
but there is a fine, fine line. an infinitesimal line of crossover – where one tiny change, one more jenga block, one more pick-up stick, one more stone in the cairn, tilts the seesaw and chaos reigns.
we face, today, a seesaw of the greatest sensitivity. like refraction, light passing through various mediums, the bend in light is dependent on the medium. the slightest change in density yields change.
clearly, we must be sensitive. the light we refract, our response, will determine what the next person has to work with. if we refract less light and more darkness, darkness will exist, will be pervasive. and darkness, in the way of chaos, sussing out change and a hole in the dam, will become exponential. where is critical mass, when the seesaw collapses, the cairn falls?
we must be sensitive. we must be responsible. we must respond in integrity, despite everything around us, despite the doubters, despite the rhetoric, despite the cavalierness, despite the political dogfight, despite the positioning of that ever-present caste ladder, doing what is best for each of us, for all of us. what i do affects you.
in our own worlds, for ourselves, for all, we can strive not to pull the wrong jenga block or move the wrong pick-up stick. choose your cairn-stones with care.
reverse threading 