the galvanized metal coneflower tucked into the little garden with the ornamental grasses has rusted. we brought it home in july when it was silver and shiny. but the elements of weather have already gotten to it and have erased the shiny and smooth, turning it to a rougher texture, a warm brown color, like the center of a sunflower or the color of freshly ground coffee.
i still love it though, this coneflower.
its shape has been inspiring out back there in its little garden – the same garden that protects baby bunnies and tucks in our aspen tree. in the snow it has collected flakes until barely any of the metal is visible – like a tall snow-mushroom umbrella-ing anything below.
i stop in front of the mirror before i facetime or zoom. i wonder how i am seen from the other side of the camera. i am no longer shiny or silver. the elements have taken their toll and age has begun to catch up.
but as i gaze at other beloved faces across the technology of a phone or computer, across a table or on a trail, next to me on the pillow – i know that nothing – no amount of rust or erasure of smooth – can change the fact that they are still coneflowers, nonetheless. still beautiful. still loved.
each time we returned to our airbnb west of aspen we turned it on. the salt lamp seemed a beacon, warm light welcoming us. i don’t know if it was actually emitting any goodness – as they are said to – but it sure felt like it.
we have a salt lamp in each of our studios. they glow in those spaces and, whether or not they are scientifically proven to be goodness-in-a-lamp, they are soothing to us.
my studio is clean now. i removed a desk and all the extra stuff that was cluttering up the space, all the relics of jobs or times that felt negative. i have yet to go through the closet where there are a couple file cabinets of music, but the space – as i walk in – is a completely different place than it had been and every day i light my salt lamp.
barney – through wind and rain and snow and ice and blistering sun – has shed all the clothing of its keys – both black and white. this is the very last of it.
and, even stripped of so much, of the things that make barney look like a piano, barney is still a piano…barney’s soul is tenacious – still a smith-barnes upright – and we can feel evidence of scales and arpeggios and glissandos, of etudes and ballads, of pieces ethereal and bombastic. barney is changed and yet unchanged.
we will each face the storms of the future. we will surf waves and, sometimes, despite heroic tenacity, succumb to the inability to surf. but we will endure and persevere. we will look different and we will feel the same: changed-unchanged.
and, in the center of all of it, while we are on the way to later, stripped and naked of all that is superficial, smack in the middle of our souls, we will still be able to touch the black and white of our lives. just like barney.
“meaning is what’s left when everything else is stripped away.” (suleika jaouad)
i pledge allegiance to the flag of the united states of america. and to the republic for which it stands – one nation, under god, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. (pledge of allegiance)
…and justice for all…
uh-huh. yup. fer sure.
(snarky – though truthful – alert for what follows…and…if you are running low on snark tolerance, I understand. these times are difficult and it is overwhelming to be surrounded by so much hypocrisy, so much that is truly unthinkable. i am merely one more voice out here, expressing outrage, hoping against hope that the voterswhovotedforthis might be capable of hearing and – more importantly, though clearly belated – of listening. and that the voterswhovotedagainstthis might feel less alone in their own outrage.)
in case you hadn’t already read this – in numerous other posts i have written – i was raped. i am a survivor. i have been a survivor for over four decades. i have carried it with me throughout my adult life. though i spent most of that time in silence, it has affected me physically and emotionally, psychologically, professionally, and financially. it has touched every corner of my life. it is both profound and a profound change agent in one’s life.
my rapist was a predator who expertly groomed and preyed on young women, older women, underage women, virgins, innocent targets. my rapist also “successfully” raped other women. my rapist was not charged. my rapist walks in the world – free – even today.
and – clearly – my rapist could be president.
because – fact of the matter is – here we are…poised to have an adjudicated rapist as the president – a man also convicted of 34 felonies among numerous other indictments and allegations, but golly gee, why would we even mention or consider those petty little details?
and so, i have some questions for you, ye who have voted for this, er, person.
where is the justice?
did you know when you voted? did you not care when you voted?
did it feel ok to vote in a rapist, a convicted felon?
is this the person you wish your father, your husband, your son, your grandson, your brother look up to, emulate? is this the person you wish your mother, your wife, your daughter, your granddaughter, your sister look up to?
would you leave your daughter alone with him? your granddaughter? your mom? your sister? your auntie, your niece? would you leave your tiny child alone with him? would you trust him to keep his hands to himself and his pants zipped?
what is the deal?
or – and this possibility sickens me beyond the disgust i am already feeling – did you have some sort of sadistic vicarious fantasy voting him in – a man laden with cruelty, revenge, evil intentions – some arsonist lurking in you wishing to watch the fire?
i saw this meme:
“we could have shown our daughters that they could do anything.
instead, we showed our sons that they can rape, cheat, and lie and still become the most powerful man in the country.”
if you don’t find that inordinately disturbing as a parent (you know, the whole i want the best for my child; i want to protect my child thing), as a woman (you know, the women supporting women’s rights thing), as a human being (you know, the whole moral compass thing) – if that bit of injustice doesn’t get your goat – if the utter lack of and-justice-for-all doesn’t take your liberty-breath away – i don’t know what will.
i told him the other day I wasn’t sure if i had anything left to say. in the lostness following this horrific election, i still feel all the things i have already written about – truly gutted.
i would imagine that there are many of ‘me’ out there. heart-broken, infuriated, exhausted, confused, feeling betrayed.
and in that wanderland of grief sit the questions of “what is real?” and “who is real?”. they nag at me – wherever i am. we escaped to the trail and they followed me – sitting heavy on my heart, ponderous.
real (adjective): 1. actually existing as a thing or occurring in fact: not imagined or supposed.2. (of a substance or thing) not imitation or artificial; genuine.
and
real: behaving or presented in a way that feels true, honest, or familiar and without pretension or affectation.
and so i look at life now and think about what is real and who is real.
the “real” i knew would have stood by me, by my family, by values i assumed we shared, by the lifting up of humanity.
the “real” i knew would have been morally aghast by the cruel, devastating intentions of the new maga-regime.
the “real” i knew would have pushed back against all of it – leading with goodness and kindness.
but i guess the “real” you wanted me – and everyone else – to see wasn’t really real. and i will now admit, you fooled me.
i suppose – like many others will – that i could pretend it doesn’t matter. i could act like it doesn’t matter. i could interact like it doesn’t matter. i could just go on as if it doesn’t matter. but it does. it matters. it’s real.
mary oliver wrote, “you can fool a lot of yourself, but you can’t fool the soul.”
so even as i fight the internal fight – trying – irrationally – to hold onto what or who is really not real – my soul knows.
and, like many of you trying to process this soul-knowing, i am deeply sad.
it was this morning – while i was nibbling on gluten-free cinnamon toast. it was while i was dishing out dogga’s dinner. it was while we sat at the kitchen table, darkness quickly falling outside. it was while i was sending a picture-of-the-day to my children, while i was texting with my dear friend. it was while i listened to george winston’s thanksgiving. it was on the trail. it was at the matinee of the movie here. it was leaving the theatre, tears in our eyes, grateful it was still a little light out.
it is right now. and this is where we are.
there are boundaries to be drawn, plans to be made, worries to be worried, griefs to be grieved.
there is shock and outrage. there is absolute horror.
there is no humor in what will come – and there is disgust at those who laugh with the sadistic glee of getting their way.
there is knowing and not-knowing. there is lostness.
there is uncertainty in the insanity of these moments.
but it is right now. and this is where we are. still.
so i will take stock wherever i find goodness, wherever i find community, wherever i find even a bit of joy, wherever i find love.
and i will dance in the kitchen, make homemade tomato soup, grow parsley in the winter. i will hold tighter to his hand and hug on our dogga. i will be frugal and i will be frivolous.
and i will sit on the wire with the other birds, watching the sky turn from night to day and night again. grateful for the tiniest things – that sky, the birds who love me and who i love, the wire and the still of still being here.
if i were to write a children’s book about clouds, this cloud would have an arrogant name – something aggressive, threatening. this is the cloud that covers the sun, dark, assailing. this cloud would be the cloud that rides the bumper of the others, that drives on the shoulder, that flips you off as it passes. it would be the screaming banshee of clouds with its hulk of stone cold water droplets. it is the cloud that makes a mockery of the other clouds, dominating their practiced and important jobs of precipitation, reflection, insulation. it is ominous and likely indicative of a storm coming. this cloud is emboldened.
we are in the earliest days of fallout from the election. the emboldened are obvious. they are the arrogant ones, the aggressive, threatening ones. they are dark; they are assailing. they are the ones riding your bumper, driving on the shoulder, flipping you off. they are screaming banshees of propaganda, hulking masses of disturbingly evil what-we-are-going-to-do-to-this-country-what-we-are-going-to-do-to-people. they are mocking and they are stone cold, gleefully ominous, dominating, militant. there is a storm coming.
the animals in the forest watch this cloud intently, intuitively knowing that their forest could be destroyed in its wake.
we watch the emboldened insanity intently, intuitively knowing that that our country could be destroyed in its wake.
i realize i feel tattered. one moment the figurative holes in my heart will still allow me to continue on – unencumbered by the accompanying pain. the next moment those same holes are debilitating. i feel lost and like a balloon slowly losing air, like it is all surreal.
she said, “remember…you have a limited vision. you do not see the good that is also happening…“. that which is separate from the devastating. that which is like the sliver of light that plays on the floor when you crack the door open.
no…it is hard to see the good when the horrible is so much bigger, when hideous is shooting holes in your heart.
on our way to walk in the woods – to have some semblance of peaceful air – we passed by many houses with the flag flying yesterday. one flag, in particular, was frayed and shabby.
it made me think about the american flag, its symbolism of freedom, pride, respect. i researched a bit further. “red symbolizes bravery and valor, white symbolizes purity and innocence, blue represents vigilance, perseverance, justice.” (pbs.org & usa.gov)
our flag – an emblem of our values as a nation. this election has made a farce of those values, of that very flag.
and when that flag is tattered – as it surely is right now: “the flag, when it is in such condition that it is no longer a fitting emblem for display, should be destroyed in a dignified way…”(u.s. flag code)
no longer a fitting emblem.
that the majority of flag-flying voters have chosen to destroy all those values in the unparalleled cruel and undignified manner that is looming in this country is unconscionable.
it’s not good enough for a tattered flag.
it’s definitely not good enough for this tattered country.
if we had looked only at the sky, it would have reinforced the black-and-white-photograph world we felt we were in. the sky was so november. but the photo was in color and, despite feeling differently to our core, the world was in technicolor.
the trail was mostly empty, which was a good thing. we needed to be there – our lack of hiking through interminable covid was taking a toll. exhausted from covid, exhausted from doing nothing, exhausted after doing anything.
and so the sky heightened our feeling – of walking in the black and white of this past week.
by now you know i am horrified by the election, by its results, by the actual people voting for these results. it cannot be clearer to me that there is a dividing line between me and those people who voted against my own family. it is black and white…that clear.
i’d like to go all maya/mlk jr./gandhi, heck, i’d like to go all jesus christ (“love one another; as i have loved you.” john 13:34). i suspect they would be just as horrified. quoting any of them as any kind of justification in or support of this horror story is hypocrisy.
because you have knowingly undermined the safety, security, the rights of my family, of people dear to me – and that’s pretty black and white to me. and i realize i can maybe love you, but not respect you, not want to be around you, not trust you or feel safe with you. your heart is different than i thought i knew. and i can’t pretend i don’t know or that it doesn’t matter. this – this – is becoming black and white to me.
love is a two-way street. turning your back on humanity is not love. the cruelty and immense intentional hardship you intentionally voted in for other people – yes PEOPLE – no better or lesser than you – is not love. hate, misogyny, racism, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia are not love. fascism is not based on love – you have fallen prey to cultish, narrow, extreme, bullying, propaganda-laden thinking that is not – despite the whipped-up and warped misinformed disdain you express at the price of eggs, individual gender identification, compassionate social programs – definitely not – based on love.
i’m pretty sure that many are struggling with this right now. we are all out here, internally trying to figure out the unthinkable – how our families or friends have betrayed basic rights – values – upon which we thought we agreed. it’s unimaginably brutal and painful and hard to wrap our heads around. it is so very, very sad. but it is pretty black and white.
it’s november. i drag my eyes from the november sky – where i was beseeching the universe for answers. and i look beside the trail, where leaves are still turning and the deer wait as we approach.
the stable – way back when – had a whole bunch of horses, stall upon stall in a long barn.
but i remember four.
buck and hercules and mardigras and lucky.
buck was a, well, buckskin-colored horse. he was kind of elderly, perfect for new riders. i imagine that in his heyday he was quite the looker – tan with black forelegs, a black mane. he was gentle and slow-moving, predictable and sweet.
hercules was a palomino. a smaller horse with spirit and a real love of people, hercules was a favorite and could be counted on for a good ride, wherever and however you might adventure together.
mardigras was a stunner. a big black horse, highly spirited and capable, he was my favorite. he loved to canter and gallop, and he jumped with ease, graceful and fluid. he was a horse who could go the long haul, trail rides of miles, paddock-training for hours, show jumping with the best of them.
and then there was lucky. lucky was a bay. he had attitude – but not the i’ll-cooperate-with-you-let’s-go-for-a-ride-together kind of attitude. his was an impatient i-want-what-i-want-no-matter-what kind of mindset, i-do-what-i-want behavior. he had a dubious reputation. no one was entirely thrilled with drawing the ride-lucky straw. but there were days that was the straw you pulled.
i was assigned lucky on a trail ride. we saddled up in the paddock and rode past the barn. we rode nose-tail-nose-tail, following each other up into the woods. as taught, i held the reins in my hands, concentrating on good posture and the messages i was sending my horse. i leaned over under his mane and hugged him, speaking quietly to him, trusting we were working together. in retrospect, i’m pretty sure he smirked at my innocence, curling his lip back and thumbs-upping his true nature.
once we were way up in the woods and had ridden for some time, it was the moment we turned back toward the barn.
lucky tossed his head and whinnied loud. every other horse looked at him, surprised at how noisy he was.
and then he took off.
no one had warned me that – at any moment – lucky – undeterred, unconstrained – would likely take his head, that he would show no mercy. on this first trail ride with him, i was shocked and scared at his out-of-control.
he ran – down the trail – not caring if branches were thrashing at me, not caring if i were jostled around, not caring – at all – if i were still on his back. by the time we neared the paddocks, my young, strong body was exhausted from merely holding on. we got to the barn and he reared up on his hind legs, throwing me off to land hard in the dirt. he swaggered off, uncaring, heading for the feed troughs.
my instructor immediately got me up on another horse, handing me the reins, encouraging me to ride more, getting me past the trauma.
there were other lessons, other trail rides, horse shows after that.
but even at nine years old, i knew better than to ride lucky, knew better than to trust lucky. his base desires had overrun all his kind-horse-ness, all his he-knows-better. his willfulness had overrun all his goodness.
lucky had taken me for a ride once. i wasn’t going to allow it again. there were other choices, other horses to ride.
“there is nothing to be learned from the second kick of a mule.” (mark twain)
those of you whose base rage overran your decency, who voted for the sneering, contemptuous no-mercy agenda of maga-land, where did the nine-year-old in you disappear to? how is it possible this mule kicked you a second time??
reverse threading 