a very long time ago – decades – my friend joe-z took me on the curvy, hilly route 25A on long island – east of northport – to teach me how to drive his datsun 240Z.
at the time my own car was my 1971 volkswagen superbeetle bug, so i was driving something that was quite a bit more tame than the 240Z – ok, a lot more tame than the 240Z.
his red z-car was powerful, low to the ground, with a very responsive suspension and tight steering. it was a lot to handle if you wanted to take it to its limits. i remember it as being stick shift – four on the floor – like my bug.
i was timid as we started, the curves of the road intimidating, the hills and slanted roadway a bit nerve-wracking with this much power in my hands.
but joe-z was patient and had time to spend. and, among other things, he taught me that driving into the curves – accelerating – would give me the ability to control the curves and not have the curves control me.
i can still remember driving that Z, still remember the power under me, still remember the lessons from those times driving that car in various conditions.
so i nodded during the movie the art of racing in the rainwhen the race car driver character denny said, “no one knows what curves life will throw at you, but if the driver has the courage to create his own conditions, then the rain is simply rain.”
25A’s curves are simply curves. its hills are simply hills. and the road right in front of you is what exists.
in this time of my life, i am finding that courage is the thing that counts. the unpredictability of life can be mind-boggling and sometimes shattering – in so many ways – and accelerating around the curves may well be the only difference between succumbing or having some sort of control.
on these particularly rainy days, we can see that rain is most definitely rain. it can overwhelm the land, communities, spirits.
standing up to the fear of any of that while adapting best as one can may not diminish the rain’s potential impact – we cannot underplay the rain’s havoc-wreaking. but presence, resilience and placing your eyes where you want to go – like the race car driver in the movie – can help survive the conditions.
we can learn from each other – lessons that generalize over spectrums of life: shift our weight in the saddle, press into the turning waterski, sustain-pedal with some reserve, taste food before salting.
i recently made a chain of paper rings. it had about thirty strips of colored paper – many of the colors visible and invisible in this cloud – each cut with fancy paper scissors or pinking shears, looped, stapled and hung on the closet in our room.
it was a countdown and i needed the visual to keep it all in perspective, to remember to hold it all lightly, to know that there are days before The Day and days after The Day.
our whole lives are filled with paper rings, connected loops that go on and on and on. each season of our lives drops to the floor when we cut the loops loose and then – miraculously and on cue – the next season starts.
i had placed a lot of emphasis on The Day at the end of the paper chain. when it arrived, not only was it anticlimactic, it turned out to be utterly disappointing, completely unsatisfactory and a day that had been overemphasized in my mind and heart as we headed toward it, lopping off loop after loop.
i suppose that this is not uncommon. anticipatory angst, anticipatory fear, anticipatory grief, anticipatory glee at completing something – they are all supercharged and take up a lot of space in us. i read that the buddha would view it as dukkha– which is unnecessary suffering – that which pulls us away from the present moment. the wish for a specific outcome rails against the fear of that outcome not coming to fruition – it all is a tug-of-war and is suffering itself. at the end of the paper chain something is to happen – we imagine the best, we imagine the worst – all unwritten, all fictitious, unpromised though powerful – but what about every moment – every loop – in the meanwhile?
the rainbow in the cloud was just beautiful. it morphed and changed with the wind, but it stuck around for a while before it vanished. we watched from the adirondack chairs on the patio, content to be in its company.
maybe it was a reminder that nothing is permanent, that no paper chain has a guarantee, that each loop counts. and so does every color.
there is a company that has captured my attention, a small family-owned business. i don’t own anything made by this company – yet – but every single time i browse through their website, i find myself completely happy. each product – floral sheets, boho skirts and pants, some trinkety trinkets i usually don’t purchase – every single thing textural and colorful – a kaleidoscope of happy – is an item of thoughtful and intentional beauty.
in these times, it would seem that a kaleidoscope of happy is mighty valuable.
the jalapeños at the farmstand (as well as the sweet peppers we photographed and purchased) have the same impact. such happy colors, so unassuming – just doing their i’m-a-pepper thing, delighting us.
the quilt on our bed is like that as well. the colors make us happy – year-round – and when the east sun streams in across the foot of the bed, there is not much that feels quite so reassuringly warm.
in an effort to – every now and then – not watch the news, we take to youtube to see whatever else is out there – thru-hikes, mountain summiting, house-buying, rockclimbing, rvs, van-life, restoration projects, bigfoot, tiny houses, zen videos – whatever will take our minds off what is actually happening – at least for a little bit of time.
there was a video of a guy who had distilled the ten most important things about cleaning out your stuff (which now goes into the same pile as my sentimental-people-getting-rid-of-stuff book and the intense konmari methodology). if you are looking for a dopamine rush, i suspect this is not the way.
anyway, on this video one of the things he said – which I’ve only heard about a zillion times before (though i do not heed it regardless of how many times i’ve heard it i-blame-my-mom) – is to not save things “for good”. instead, he encouraged using things that we have – clothing, china, heritage pieces or things just purchased.
we’ve been trying to do this lately – we have moved all the handed-down fenton hobnail serving pieces and the leaded glass bowls and such into places that are easy to access. instead of serving things in plasticware or ordinary stoneware, we now choose the milkglass hobnail for happy hour charcuterie or the crystal bowls for slices of cucumber and hummus. “use them,” i remind myself, “today is important.“
clothing is harder.
he urged – on the video – to not save clothing for fancy events – to just wear these pieces – perhaps consider that every day is a fancy event.
as a person who gets stuck in patterns of clothing-wearing (if you know me you are nodding here) this is much more difficult. i need to take the flowy boho pants of out my closet and put them on. i need to wear the oversized overalls, the daisy sneakers, the maxiskirt i got in colorado. other than an spf sunshirt i bought on $9.97 clearance at costco a couple weeks ago, i can’t remember what else i have bought in recent times – clothing-wise. oh…a pair of shorts, at the beginning of the summer. (i actually detest shorts now, but feel like i need to own a pair or two anyway.) though it doesn’t count as an article of clothing, my really colorful REI pride crossbody/waist pack has made it to the front of the class and i use it everyday walking or shopping…a piece that manifests happy as soon as i strap it on.)
anyway, i’m losing the point here – which was??? – oh yeah….wearing – and using – the things that make you happy.
likewise – if something does not make you happy – if it no longer fits into the picture of your life – you can give it away. this guy gives you permission (so do the author of the sentimental-people book and marie kondo and every other clearing-out guru).
which would suggest that if you see something that you know would make you happy, then you should consider getting it. (this is also a hard part for me – i know you are nodding emphatically here – as i am not a spontaneous shopper. always belabored by budget, conscience and indecision, i ponder and ponder and ponder before i purchase, if i purchase…)
but there are those gleefully happy floral pillowcases and those incredibly happy floral sheets and…
and maybe, just maybe, someday…
but first – practicing….things out, things out, things out….the gurus are clapping.
and in the meanwhile, before any things-in, the corked jalapeños and the sweet peppers will have to suffice.
they make the happy zone and join in my kaleidoscope of things-beautiful on this day…this important day.
we moved the sweet potato vine from the ladder on the deck. between the heat and the rain, it was struggling. we weren’t sure it was going to make it, which seems odd for a sweet potato vine, usually pretty invincible.
no matter, we thought, it needed to be moved so that it might have a chance. we transplanted it into a bigger pot and placed it on top of barney – a spot with maybe a bit more sun.
and then we watched it.
with few green leaves still on the vine, we feared it would not last.
but that little sweet potato surprised us. with little-engine-that-could chutzpah, it soaked up the sun, its perch on barney, visits from squirrels and cardinals, house sparrows and finches. and it started to recuperate.
it greened up – into that really rich chartreuse – life-affirming lime-green fabulousness. more leaves sprouted their way from the vine that started to extend across the keyboard. it started to look thicker, more vibrant, even verdant.
and – in the way that we see things – we drank in the simple-but-outstanding gorgeous juxtaposition of green and aging piano wood. stunning.
it is certain. color can help.
with all the ugly in this world right now, we could stare at that for a time and breathe.
our out-of-town guest had never been here before. not to our state, not to our town, not to the shores of lake michigan, not to our home.
staying at the local hotel right on the harbor channel, she sent photographs right after arriving, stunned by how beautiful it was. she repeatedly expressed this – along the lakefront, on the channel, by the rocks, in the gardens, in our neighborhood, in our old house, on our patio.
through her eyes we saw Home.
this week i passed through my 37th anniversary of living in our old house. more than half my entire life, it’s longer than i’ve lived anywhere else.
sometimes – no matter where you live – you stop seeing it…really seeing it.
and you get caught up in every everything else.
and you miss the sweet creak of the floors, the breeze off the lake, summer sunlight streaming in all the windows, the fresh basil in ball jars in the kitchen, the dogga-holes in the backyard, the giant pots filled with flowers in the parks, people out sidewalk-walking together, the birds lined up for grape jelly, sunset’s eastern sky over the water, the sound of children giggling in the surf at the beach or an amplified live band drifting over from by the harbor.
it might benefit each of us – even for just a few minutes – to just follow the advice of this chalk artist:
“…and the moon rises, so beautiful it makes me shudder, makes me think about time and space, makes me take measure of myself: one iota pondering heaven…” (mary oliver – the sweetness of dogs)
in the moments we all sometimes immerse – those moments when we take ourselves way too seriously, when we feel intertwined with angst, when we foolheartedly believe there is allthetimeintheworld – we should sit and watch the moon rise.
it has risen every day whether or not the old truck’s battery was dead, whether or not all the burners on the stove worked, whether or not we wore namebrand clothing or had namebrand cars, whether or not the student loans were paid, whether or not the bedroom furniture matched, whether or not we had a few pounds to shed, whether or not we had a mighty 401k, whether or not we had granite countertops, whether or not my hair looked good, whether or not the old wood floors squeaked, whether or not we had extension eyelashes, whether or not we had plaques or certificates lining our office walls, whether or not the chimney leaked, whether or not we had visited saint lucia or monaco, whether or not we had a 72″ tv, whether or not we had central air conditioning, whether or not we had a walk-in closet or a dishwasher, whether or not we were retail fanatics, whether or not we had followers, whether or not we had fiscal or commercial success, whether or not we lived authentically.
because the moon is like that. it is incessantly dependable. it is a sure thing. it is the tide of our souls. its passing by – its wax and wane – brings us to the peaks and the abysses, both.
and though we may – from time to time – linger in the whatwedon’thaves, that moon – annoyingly – is unperturbed by it all. its rise, its fall – like breath in our chest. we, like the moon, keep going nonetheless.
and i stood and looked at the tiny crescent moon above our beloved old house and i could feel all the passage of time – zooming through me – until i arrived at the moment i was in.
and everything i had seen or felt or lived made sense. the dots connected for the briefest moment. and i was – yes – one iota.
even in decline, the day lily is stunning. even as it prepares to fall – its veined petals listing toward the ground, stamen curled and ready to release.
even in decline, it is beautiful, the bloom looking more like the wings of a butterfly than the petals of a vibrant lily, heralding summer.
even in decline, it participates in the garden, granting space to those blossoms that are just starting, buds that are just bursting, tiny green treasure chests on the stem just begging for attention.
even in decline.
my sweet momma – and i have told this story – used to tell me that she was astonished when she looked in the mirror. she would grab her red lipstick, carefully lining her lips, applying it, and would look at me – in horror – saying, “i look like an old woman!”
it was impossible to convince her – even as i insisted – that she was absolutely beautiful – which she was – those creases and lines in her face worn in by life, the sparkle in her blue eyes that never faded, the worry lines earned by worrying about those she loved. even in decline – her beauty in the mirror and in the world – was palpable, was real, was undeniable.
but i am beginning to get it. such an emphasis placed on youth – and how that manifests in our minds and hearts – the way aging reveals in our bodies vs the way youth looks on our bodies – it’s an insanity to think that static is the only way to see beauty. so now, when i look in the mirror, i – like millions of other women – are maybe measuring what we see, maybe counting the wrinkles, maybe frowning at the dynamic changes through which our individual lives are expressing in our bodies, maybe bemoaning what we are taught to think of as flaws.
instead, i just want to remember.
i want to remember how entirely gorgeous the daylily in our little garden – in all of its stages. how much i welcome every last dewy bud, blossom, gossamer-wing-petaled bloom, the dropping petals. how much joy it brings, this simple cycle of life, evidenced along the fence, not-so-flawed.
it would seem that i should grant myself the same grace i grant the daylily.
it would seem that as each day unfurls into the next i am – indeed – learning that it is ever more beautiful than the last.
a full box of crayolas at my side, i, too, in my itty-bitty chair at the itty-bitty table, would outline the image on the coloring book pageand then color it all in. like there was some artistic reason for outlining – making a definitive and clear break between the image and the background. for a non-artistic-in-the-sense-of-drawing type, it seemed to make my coloring page look better, cleaner, more striking. i’m not really sure. but it was a popular thing to do – this outlining thing – and, though i don’t know who initially suggested it, nearly everyone colored their pages that way. you could see it on the ever-important bulletin board wall.
if i were to pick up a coloring book and crayons now i might even just fall back into old patterns, grasping the crayola stub in my hand tightly, pursing my lips and concentrating on not drawing off the line. then i would color it all in – in the lines – and my page would be neat and tidy and whatever other adjective might apply, synonymous with success.
when i color in “adult-colored-pencil-coloring-books” i have found that i don’t do this – i just color with my pointy pencils – no outlines, no outlining. is it the difference between the paraffin wax/powdered color pigmentcombo of crayons and the pigments/binding agents/fillers/casing used in pencils? is it some leftover art lesson from elementary school – where the emphasis was on some sort of impossible sought-after perfection for our coloring sheets? and why – knowing me – did i not color out of the lines? well, i can answer that one. back then i was an in-the-lines colorer, going with the crowd, hoping to get my picture on the bulletin board wall.
i move up close to the peonies in our garden out back. they stand their ground as i move around, right in their little peony faces, alternately snapping photos and taking big whiffs of their intoxicating scent.
there are no outlines here. everything up this close blurs as my depth of field changes, my point of focus changes, my intent changes.
were i to make this photograph a coloring sheet – an accurate coloring sheet – it would require fuzzy lines – no clear outline – instead, a fade of one color into the next, maybe difficult to capture with a stub of crayon looking to make something definitive.
but life is more like that. less definitive, more fuzzy. it is less distinct and more out-of-focus. it is less green and white, and more grey. there are no outlines and, if you really get it, there’s no ever-important bulletin-board-wall upon which to hang up your life.
it just is.
and the moments we get to sniff peonies or color out of the lines, to allow the unfocused to swirl around us, to not get all caught up in the bulletin-board-wall – those are the moments to grasp, to hold onto, to store away as balm for those other moments – the ones that test us, that hand us crayons with impossible confidence-taxing expectations, that, somehow, in all the chaos, make us forget that peonies exist. craziness.
and so, no outlines. just color.
“…you write about my flower as if i think and see what YOU think and see of the flower – and i don’t.” (georgia o’keeffe)
less than a week. the peony shared its dance with the world for less than a week. but oh, what a week it was.
i don’t imagine that it wondered – ahead of time – how long would be its time in the sun. i don’t imagine that it pondered the kind of notoriety it would have. i don’t imagine it was fretting, “bloom/don’t bloom/bloom/don’t bloom“. i don’t imagine it planned its choreography – the minuet or ballet, the jazz steps or interpretive improv – based on what it understood its stage and its time under the fresnel of light.
from a tight bud to wrinkly vestiges of peony petals, it danced for the sun, shied from the moon. it held on during the winds and collected bits of rain, courageously standing under the pressure to bow its fragile stem, its velvet-soft blossom.
the peony didn’t measure its relevance by its time here. it didn’t concern itself with striving or success, abundance of blooms or lushness of plant. it just bloomed as it bloomed.
and in the giving-over of trying to control any thing else, in the giving-over to follow its natural path, in the embrace of its exclaiming-life dance, it exploded in beauty.
“in contrast to our frenetic, saturated lives, the earth offers a calming stillness. movement and growth in nature takes time. … there is something in our clay nature that needs to continually experience this ancient, outer ease of the world. it helps us remember who we are and why we are here.” (john o’donohue)
this must be what’s missing. as we get besieged with new news – all pretty horrible, the stuff of gluttony, haughty entitlement and bigotry truly beyond belief – i have wondered what it is in these people that is missing, what it is in these people that doesn’t grok the evanescence of life, what it is in these people that drives them to push for – or cheer for – a world without natural beauty, a world that seems twisted, that convolutes nature – botoxing faces and bodies, annihilating parks and resources, canyons and forests, waterways, wildlife, wildflowers that will never bloom.
if you never stand in nature – still – never even for a moment in the tiny – or vast – space just outside wherever it is you hang your hat, you miss the air that swirls around you, the recognition of another-day, the exquisite velvet softness of a peony petal in the growth stage of a bloom when it has just begun to open.
how can you carry that – the grace, the scent, the unbelievable creation of peony pink – and be anything but awed? how can you watch the play of light on tight buds opening before your very eyes and consider your self-serving dystopian game more important? how can you ignore the explosions of color, the frequencies of sound, the vibrations under your feet and all around your body even when you are still? how can your gaze glance over beauty and not have any pondering about who you are and how you – a humble minute being of clay and stardust – fit in with all the rest? how can you breathe air – feeling the world in your lungs – and be unconcerned about the air and the world future generations will breathe? what is missing in these people?
“when you take the time to travel with reverence, a richer life unfolds before you. moments of beauty begin to braid your days.” (john o’donohue)
