“…and i got saved by the beauty of the world.” (mary oliver)
there are the tiniest of moments – like this one – when everything harsh, everything wrought, everything dark or full of angst, everything of challenge just falls away. like the universe took a feather duster to the worries stoked up on your shoulders and reminded you. to breathe. to feel the realness of the moment. to be hyper-vigilant of all senses. to be in it.
it could just as easily slipped by, unnoticed. the fresh air, rich colors, the sun filtered through layers of pine, the scent of a humid summer day, the gravel path. it could have been lost.
but i am grateful to have stopped. i am grateful any time i remember to stop. to have perspective. to grasp onto the tiniests. to allow myself to be saved by the beauty of the world.
in downtown chicago, it is not uncommon to walk under highways or tracks carrying heavy railroad cars, the metra, the el, freight carriers.
but out on a trail, meandering alongside a river, through meadows and forests, passing fishermen and being passed by marathon-aspiring bikers, with turtles and baby snakes, heron and mosquitoes punctuating our hike, it seems really odd – and slightly unnerving – to walk under the “i”.
you can’t help but look up at the cars and trucks going 70 or 80 mph just above you. i shudder to think of the infrastructure problems that might abound. 86% of bridges in the state of illinois are considered acceptable. i just want to be sure this particular bridge is not part of the other 14%.
as i have some trepidation under vehicle and railroad bridges, my imagination is working a little overtime as i slither underneath the overpass, my eyes on the light coming from the other side. it’s much cooler under the bridge – and surprisingly quieter than before we entered – and there is a pigeon who is touting his wisdom for hanging out where it is sheltered. but most pigeons are not civil engineers nor do they really worry themselves about that sort of thing. i speak softly to it as we pass; it’s not frightened, even of us.
of all the trails we have taken in our general area – i have to say this section hike of the river trail was the least satisfying. we were in a triangular map-section of three large highways, including the interstate. so we weren’t ever far from the noise. and noise – and general hubbub – is what we are trying to escape on a trail. nevertheless, i’m glad we section-hiked that part. it surely makes us appreciate the rest of the trail, in quieter areas, removed a bit from the ruckus of daily life.
perspective is a funny thing. there are times we get sort of lax in appreciation. we take for granted the everyday luxuries of contemporary life, the ease of movement, our connections to family and friends. we see same-same through the same eyes. it’s a theme with variations.
and then, there was the pigeon. it found its safe place under the underpass – a place where it was cool, where the river ran and it could sip, where the insects and worms might be plentiful, where passersby might toss it a morsel or two. it didn’t seem to mind that the interstate was directly above, that this spot was not nirvana for most.
idyllic is in the eye of the beholder. so is wonder. in a busy world, they are easy to miss, easy to same-old-same-old-put-aside.
so, instead of dissing the trail that went under the interstate, i’ve decided to be in amazement that we walked under a road that hosts a daily average of 1.5 million cars of people driving to their destinations. and that on the way back on our eight or so mile hike, we could stop and linger with the pigeon, out of the hot sun.
sharpening the dulled, putting new eyes on the ordinary.
buymeacoffee is a “tip jar” donation site where – if you wish – you can help artists continue to do their work in the world. thank you for considering this.
“the sun shines not on us but in us. the rivers flow not past, but through us. thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing. the trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls, and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and sings our love.” (john muir)
there have been moments – holy and glorious moments – when i remember that i am, yes, one with nature. i am no more or less a part of the whole than the heart-leaf on the side of the trail, no more or less a part of the whole than the rocks on the beach, no more or less a part of the whole than the cloud as it floats by. and i remember that in my tiny-ness – within the vastness – i could just as easily have been the energy of the leaf or the rock or the cloud.
“how will you spend your time?” asked the thru-hiker at the end of the trail. mary oliver asks the same, “what will you do with your one precious life?”
i realize – in these sacred and suspended moments when i can feel the threads of soul connect me to the trees, to the living plants, to the creatures – that i am, perhaps, spending too much time in worry.
i stood in the surf to take pictures of it. i could feel the sand sinking beneath my feet and the water pulling me out. the breaking waves were glorious and the cool water was rejuvenating. i stood there a long time, snapping photos. later, my feet – from sandwalking and wavecleansing – felt like i had taken an expensive exfoliation scrub and lavishly basked in its luxury. the magic of these two – elements of the tide, in time, of forces playing together.
we sat – in quiet – on the patio, over adirondack chairs facing the backyard. all summer we have had a hummingbird feeder out back. we have felt fortunate to see a hummer a time or two, maybe at day’s end, sipping and zipping away. but after the deluge of rain, after i refilled the feeder, the word seemed to have spread in hummingbirdland. and suddenly, our yard became a destination. and so we sat, quietly watching, transfixed by these tiniest birds, binoculars at the ready. and they came and went. they ate at the feeder and sat perched on the wires and on the garden fencing. they chased each other, zooming past our chairs and up and over the house. it was the first show and it was enchanting. we relaxed into its magic.
the trail was hot and we were on mile nine. at that point – in the feels-like high nineties – we were talking about getting to littlebabyscion in the parking lot. but then there was this butterfly who captured my attention. on a stand of tall yellow wildflowers, the viceroy butterfly shared the edge of the trail with me. i was close to it and took photographs as it sunned, seeking nectar. it didn’t fly away, instead allowing me to snap pictures as it stayed on the bright blossom. i forgot about how much i wanted to sit down, the weary disappearing into the magic of this creature’s presence.
when we were little, there was little that was not magical. and then we grew – taller, older, supposedly wiser. and some of the magic dissipated into clouds.
but, we are lucky beings. because from time to time, we are reminded. they need not be big moments of grandeur, though they could be. they need not be big moments of contrived entertainment, though they could be. they need not be stunning vistas or neverending horizons, though they could be.
instead, they are tiny bubbles and droplets of water, tiny grains of sand, gathered together in a restoring wave. they are tiny birds sanctuarying the backyard. they are a butterfly on a flower, almost unnoticed.
and we remember. we remember to remember, to not forget that the magic is right there waiting.
and in the wisdom of the littles, we realize – again – there is little that is not magical.
and there is nothing about sunflowers most people don’t love. a brilliant statement, profound color, turned to the sun, following the sun, seeking to be nourished, supersized flowers that are hard to miss.
they stood proudly in a tall vase on our dining room table for a week – cheering us on, a direct line to the sun’s energy, the love of the universe. they didn’t try hard – they were divine without trying.
and then, just as remarkable as in their standing, their reaching up-up, they began to bow. deep curves of thick stems turning down, toward the tabletop, the disk florets invisible, the yellow-orange ray flowers starting to brown and curl, green phyllaries twisting and lifting away from the back of the disks. a graceful bow, with no effort to resist succumbing to this bending down.
there are most definitely times that we would be served well to stop standing, to stop reaching, and instead to bow down, to lower our constantly-looking-forward gaze and, instead, to rest in a moment of humility, a moment of be-here-now, a moment of gratitude.
maybe this is what makes sunflowers so mighty. they instinctively know that there will be balance. they know that they will not always be tall and upright, gorgeous and fresh, colorful and crisp. they know that they will someday be arched over, wrinkly, no longer striving to be lofty. that they will arc on their strong stalk and they will humbly move into next. they know this wilting is no less important than blooming, for it is in wilting that seeds are released and a new lifecycle is possible. they know both are ever-relevant.
right now we are standing in vases, our faces to the sun. we are soaking up whatever energy we can grasp. we are aware that time flies by on the whisper of the jet stream, on the spinning-spinning of the earth’s axis.
soon, we begin to bow, ever so slightly. we lean a bit on the next big blossom of disks and ray-petals. we wrinkle and wobble in place, lowering our gaze to take in those around us. and then, after much time has passed in the sun, we bow in appreciation. there will be many more.
and we know we have made a mark in our blooming and in our wilting. for we, too, are mighty sunflowers.
you are surrounded by the forest – dense, unyielding, a bit dark. though there are paths, they are still shadowed by big trees, overgrowth that doesn’t seem to allow in the light. and then – as you are plodding on and on, making an effort to maintain your equilibrium, to stay in center, you come to the tiniest clearing. and, looking up, there is sky. clear blue sky.
a periscope to the universe.
and suddenly, your worries and angsts, your doubts, your lost road are scaled down, lessened to tiny pinpricks of stars, unseen in the day-sky, though ever-there, allayed in the bluest-blue, soothing hope in the periscope, a reminder of perspective and time and expanse and right now.
and you stand, with all the creatures in the forest, and look up – for minutes and minutes unblinking until you are slightly dizzy from your stillness. and you lower your head, stretching your neck, your gaze-to-the-heavens broken.
but you are moved. you are reminded of your tiny-ness in the vastness. you remember you are part of this universe and, that just as you are not alone in the light that the leaf-periscope offers, you are not alone in the dark either.
you breathe. a deep breath. a prayer. a gratitude.
and you walk on in the forest, knowing, for certain, that you will find natural clearings with big spaces of light. knowing, too, that curling your hand into itself and peering through – like a hand-periscope – you can focus on smaller bits of the forest and within it, find the bits of light between the leaves.
behind the curtain and between stage-left and stage-right wings, the action is paused and ready. umbel stalks on point, waiting to explode into clusters of tiny white flowers, delicate leaves opening, lacy, inviting the show to go on.
it’s spectacular – this performance of nature.
queen anne’s lace – i first learned of this wildflower from my dear friend linda – can be confused with other plants. bishop’s flower, wild parsley and hemlock taunt many from the meadow and one must be careful to realize that their performance piece is not the same – they are not edible – like this wild carrot of queen anne’s lace – and, in fact, they are toxic. the meadow stage offers up options but only carrots are carrots.
for those who love the stage in any capacity, there is a responsibility, things one must remember.
i knew from the beginning that the stage was not about me, not about what it could bring me. instead, the stage is about what i can bring to the audience. i have played to a handful of people; i have played to tens of thousands of people. i always knew it was simply my job to offer my music, stories, lyrics, song, to put it out there. to be absolutely present – sharing the moment – my jeans stuck in my boot. to connect, to resonate, to move – though my expectation was not to be moved, were i to feel it connect, resonate, move, i, in turn, am profoundly moved.
to be off-stage for a longer period of time is taxing. there’s expendable energy stoking up, ready to burst off the apron, into the house. shimmering moments, illuminating the glow of faces seated, the warm cloud of laughter, the sighs of sinking in.
i have stood on the giant rocks of the john denver sanctuary, bowing. i have stood on the stump and the downed tree in the forest, bowing. i have danced on the deck, bowing. i have fist-microphoned in the kitchen, bowing.
i googled “what is the difference between an entertainer and an artist?” for i am often called an “entertainer” and, for some reason, that word rubs me wrong. surprisingly, an AI bot responded. “sage” wrote, “entertainment often focuses on providing a pleasurable or amusing experience for the audience, while art is more about expressing ideas, emotions or personal experiences. … entertainers focus on entertaining, while artists focus on expressing themselves through their art.”
sage’s answer indirectly implies a contrived reorganization, a pleasing-you approach. and while i have read audiences time and again, choosing direction of a concert – if possible – as i perform, on the fly, it is still with an intent to share, to impact, not to simply “amuse”.
i think it’s a matter of purity. or order. or intention. a combination of the three. plus gut. intuition. emotion. to bring. to touch. to move. to prompt questions. to elicit change. artistry. to lift up – suspending in midair – a piece of music, to let it soak up tiny jet streams that will carry it, to let it fall – as it might – onto the anyone or the anyones who is or are there – recipients of my good intention, from stage to audience.
hunger for the stage is real. it is pining for that connection, for the very reason i have composed.
one day the curtain rises – one day the delicate leaves drop – and i’m grateful to perform, piano, boom mic, wood under my feet – and the clusters of tiny white flowers explode into daylight.
in the category of fruit, you can kind of draw a dividing line. there are the people who love peaches and the people who love nectarines. it’s a more distinct line than you might think.
for many years, i solely bought nectarines. the smooth skin of this sweet fruit was preferred in our house back then and so, respectful of the tactile-lips-to-fruit-skin-touch-aversion, i skipped over the fuzzy peaches and went directly to nectarines.
it’s taken many, many years of nectarines, but – just the other day – i bought my first peaches in a very long time.
it did not go unrewarded.
sweet peach juice, the perfect ripeness. it was an exquisite peach. it reminded me of the scene in cityof angels where meg ryan is trying to describe – in words – what a pear tastes like to nicholas cage. maybe, were i to describe the peach if would be too intimate, too descriptive. instead, i’ll say it was glorious. it was a reawakening. the next time, i walked past the nectarines.
in a time of feeling a little bit fragile, a little untethered, somewhat insignificant, the peach brought me instantly to the moment. with no guarantee of next and with the dissipating condensation of the bursting bubble from before, it was – a moment of standing in gravity on a spinning-spinning globe – an arrow pointing to right now.
nectarines provide more vitamin a, vitamin c and potassium than peaches. but the up-and-up present sweetness of a peach will stop you in your tracks. savoring. it will make you think of every sweet thing in your life. it will possibly drip down your chin while you reach for a napkin, willing the drip to stop before it hits your shirt. it will astound you.
and i wonder what could be better than being astounded on an ordinary day.
his legs wrapped tightly around the garden fence, the cicada gave in to his time of transformation.
i found him when i was watering. i bent down to pull a weed by the low fencing and there he was, clinging with all his might to the thin metal frame, following his call of nature, nymph to adult. the transition is recognizable. the two creatures look remarkably different, so it is easy to tell which is the mature cicada.
it’s the second time we have been witness to part of the cicada’s metamorphosis. the first time the cicada was clinging to the deck and we watched the whole fascinating process. this time, we came upon the cicada after it had shed its old skin, the outer exoskeleton having molted off into the dirt. both were profound for us. the giving over, the trusting of transformation, gaining wings, going on into next as something quite different.
“life is not so much about beginnings and endings as it is about going on and on and on. it is about muddling through the middle.” (anna quindlen)
and in the middle, the holding on. legs – and arms – wrapped around the garden fence of our lives, clutching for dear life. to be in the middle – sorting and pondering, full of wonder and angst – we can only trust that each next will arrive, that the on and on will not betray us, that we will not betray the on and on. the cicada surrenders, relinquishes any worry of what is to come.
and then, it wakes soon after, having pushed its way through the deadened shell. with wings. wings! exuberant noise fills the summer air. i know i will listen for our garden-fence-cicada on hot nights when the sun is setting and dusk is on the sky.
and we – in our metamorphosis from one day to another – sorting and pondering on our fence – begin to know that wings are possible. we learn that we have had them all along. we untuck them, test them out, flex a little, grow stronger. and we are astounded to learn – like the cicada – that we can fly.
“i want to be light and frolicsome. i want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing, as though i had wings.” (mary oliver)
the owl feather lay on our trail. soft down curled at its base, it was striking against the dirt of our path. we stopped.
the trail has different rules. the point is never to hurry. it is never to walk without open eyes. it is never to pass by that which draws or beckons. instead, it is to take the time, to go slower, to see what is there – in all its mysterious beauty. and, though this is the most familiar of our trails, there is not a time we have hiked it that we have not seen something new, something informative, something so beautiful – even in its simplicity – that we had to stop and photograph it.
it IS how the world is, she said. it exists just the same way as the dark exists. we were talking about goodness, the presence of goodness, the pay-it-forward of goodness. i was wistfully talking about a world that valued goodness, that lingered in kindness, that held beauty in gratitude, that was full of light and hope and the love of one another. her words stopped me.
it does exist. and, yes, it exists the same way as all the dark in the world exists. it’s a profound thought.
we were walking out to big red to go take a hike. a beautiful black crow feather lay waiting on the driveway.
next to littlebabyscion was a smaller feather, perhaps one from a robin that sang the sun up earlier in the day.
to read about owl feathers and crow feathers and robin feathers, one finds a plethora of information, some seemingly opposite in meaning. but the one thing that all feathers seem to represent across the board is that there are angels with you, there is a connection to the spiritual world.
whatever you perceive that to be, it would seem that a connection to the comfort and love of those who passed before or the eternal wisdom, the resilience, the goodness of the universe would be a good thing.
reverse threading 