it was in full support of intentional redundancy that i jotted this down as soon as nathan on alone season 6 said it, “the only currency we have is gratitude.”
it was without hesitation i looked up belleruth naperstek’s prayer for healing, “just give me this … so i can start over, fresh and clean, like sweet sheets billowing in the summer sun, my heart pierced with gratitude.”
it is with humility I find myself starting another new day – just after the fall solstice – with a clear etch-a-sketch, a blank notebook ready to be filled. there is but one breath between here and not here and it would seem prudent that i have wholehearted gratefulness for that breath.
so it is without any self-editorial skirmish that i write – once again – about gratitude.
it really is kind of about breathing those breaths, about waking up, about the turn of seasons. it really is about appreciating another inhale-exhale – this chance to be alive and how we choose to embrace it.
in these times, the distinction of starting over on another day is clear. the clothesline waits for the kind of prayers we hang on it. there is a vastness between billowing sweet sheets – fresh, clean, hopeful, and limp skanky soilage – deflating, stale, regressive.
we all have choices. we may uphold the efforts of those who forward goodness, who pursue equality, who speak emphatically about the care and concern of all.
or we may uphold the efforts of those who forward vitriol and egoistic agenda, who pursue limits on people based on bigoted skews, who spew vile exclusion.
life just seems way too short to live ugly.
i am personally choosing being on the clothesline in the waning summer sun. billowing and breathing and giving thanks.
“the longer i live, the more beautiful life becomes.” (frank lloyd wright)
if it wasn’t ‘copying’ i would also get this inked on my body. but my beloved daughter – a bunch of years ago now – chose this as a tattoo and copying it – despite the clear wisdom of this quote – would be taboo.
it is intensely true.
the longer you live, the more beautiful life becomes.
if you take sweet time to notice.
in a most wonderful day tuesday we jaunted about, gathering knowledge and trying on new hiking boots. we joked about falling arches and bunions, our feet – somehow – getting substantially bigger, the trail-running we won’t attempt, heck, the running we will never do again, pinky toes resistant to closed shoes. it is somewhat liberating to not have the same expectations we once had. there is a different bar.
at the end of this wonderfulday i stepped outside and was struck by the moon. we immediately took off – practically sprinting (note: not running) – down the road to the lake, so that we could watch the harvest moon rise and feel its moonbeam as it chased us on the shoreline.
we sat on the deck after a long walk in perfect night air along the lake. and we celebrated our day. for in it we had tended to things that feed us – writing, exercising, eating well, planning for future hikes, laughing.
we know that our next will not resemble our past. we know that there are no corporate or organizational positions in our future. we know that aging is perceived differently by the hiring crowd than by the aging. we also know that we have aged each and every day of our lives so we don’t place parameters on what is possible. we don’t underestimate the wisdom of the ages or the insights of aging, though the word sort of makes me shudder.
and then I wonder why. why does the word “aging” give me a bit of the heebie-jeebies? I looked up the word. multiple sources. and each time i discovered that 65 is considered “elderly”. sheesh. no wonder ageism is alive and well in this country. developing nations base their assignment of old age on a person’s ability to actively contribute to society. though the united nations considers old age to be 60 and beyond, i also discovered research that suggests only a tiny percentage of adults 65 and older actually consider “old” to happen before the age of 60. we are most definitely in the camp that rejects old-before-old.
according to britannica.com, “there is no single theory that explains all of the phenomena of aging.”
no single theory. well, of course not!!
barney is still out back, soaking in summer sun and winter snow and everything in every season. he houses chippies and is a resting place for birds and scampering squirrels. he doesn’t serve as a piano now, but his soul is still a piano. barney is more beautiful than the day he came out of the dank basement boiler room and arrived in our backyard.
much the way we are drawn to the mountains, we are drawn to big water. more and more. both.
and more and more – each and every day – we are amazed. even by its ordinary. big and little ways.
diamonds have ridden the waves of lake michigan for all time. yet, each day further on the timeline of this life, they become more beautiful, more intense, sparklier.
the lyrics brought tears to both of our faces as we listened. susan had sent us a song, “you were beautiful then but you’re way more beautiful now.” (beautiful now – james maddock )
yes. yes, this is true. i have seen photographs of him younger. he looked a lot like david cassidy – that longer, feathered back hair, those eyes, that smile. he was – in every good use of the word (feminine or masculine) – beautiful. i didn’t know him back then. just like he didn’t know me in my midriff-hiphugger-bellbottom-wearing days. those days – well – those are the olden days.
but now is different. i look at his face and his eyes, his long hair peppered with grey – this man now – and i know – just like the song – he is way more beautiful now.
and so, for a bit, i wonder why the diamonds on the lake are more beautiful and why the sky is bluer and why the early morning air is breathtaking and why this man – sharing life with me for eleven years – is more beautiful now than he was then.
and i know that every single thing is.
it is impossible to hold onto the gossamer threads of these moments now. they fly by and next week i will feel like this week was eons ago. we are trying to hold them as we drift by in this sometimes-lazy-sometimes-raging river. they slip out of our hands, like trying to hold onto the river itself.
and everything – every single thing – has its own sparkle.
and we try to see that each day. we try to remember our very fragile place on the soil of this earth. we try to grok beauty in the simplest things and in the hardest things.
mostly, though, we can see it in each other and it reminds us. however beautiful he was before, he is way more beautiful now.
“from sleep i fall to waking” and morning – like time, in the way it keeps going and going – graces everything with shiny, shimmering glitter.
dogga adores watermelon. he also adores blueberries and carrots. he’s a big fan of any kind of chip, cracker or cheese. really, any dog-safe morsel of people food – except bananas – are in his taste-treat wheelhouse. he finds us easy to convince – those eyes of his – complete amber eye-to-eye contact.
back in the day, when i lived in florida, you could find watermelon at many rural corners, much like boiled peanut stands – a pick-up truck with a bed filled with watermelons fresh off the vine for buyers to choose from. i remember breaking open melons, sticky sweet, a tiny bit cooler than the air temperature. these last few days here in wisconsin remind me of those hot summer days down south, with nights that don’t cool down and humidity lingering so much in the air you can see it. chilled watermelon helps.
in the olden days (as my poppo used to refer back) watermelons had seeds. lots of them. you’d stand out back on the patio or on the deck spitting pits over the railing – contests of whose would gain the most ground. now, we are lucky – seedless watermelons have changed life, like seedless mandarins. no more contests over the deck rail, but so much easier to eat. ahh, the end of the folksy tradition of the watermelon-seed-spit. probably not a big loss.
dogga will accept any treat he is offered. he clearly trusts that we will keep his well-being and his people-food tastes in mind, so when i cut up the watermelon the other day into bite-sized pieces, he was right there, by my side, waiting. it’s his summer too.
but time doesn’t stand still. we simply cannot believe that it is labor day weekend already. the summer flew by. and soon, a bit later on, we will be barreling through fall. it’ll be time for apple-picking and pumpkins, jeans and boots and vests. part of me yearns for that – autumn – my favorite time of year.
but watermelon is plentiful right now, and, so, our moments will include dabbing our napkins on our watermelon-slice-sticky faces in the middle of these hot summer days, these days of intense heat.
dogga doesn’t seem to have yearnings for later-on. somehow he knows that any time at all is too precious to waste. his wisdom is in his absolute presence. whether it is watermelon time or apple time or cranberry time or blueberry time…it doesn’t matter. he is just there – appreciating all the wanna-bites of the season.
so in the middle of winter – when it’s frigid outside and we humans are wishing for a little warmth while dogga is relishing the piles of snow – we may summon up these days in the sun. hopefully, even in our baselayers, wool socks and down coats, we might taste the summer we – hopefully – memorized. we might close our eyes and remember the sweetness of cold watermelon.
or, because this world is what it is and we are fortunate beyond belief to be able to purchase produce from nations and places far and wide, we may buy a watermelon – in the cold of winter – from the grocery store. we’ll take out the big carving knife and the cutting board and slice it into triangles, with great anticipation. and we’ll take a bite of the top of the triangle, easily the best bite of all melon bites.
and we’ll be back – standing in the hot sun, with sticky hands. because watermelon has that power. even without seeds.
“i go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.” (john burroughs)
to draw a paddle through silky water, to listen to the call and response of the loons, to feel the breeze off the lake and to catch the first and last glimmers of sun rising and dropping through the trees…it is completely unremarkable to say this is soothing, that these moments are healing. it is unremarkable because it is obvious, because these are so remarkable – each – and because our senses rise to these offers of peacefulness, to these opportunities for rejuvenation…every time.
we have viewed each night of the democratic national convention. the joy, the energy, the hope – they are palpable. to say that our nation needs all this is an unremarkable statement, because – of course – it is obvious. we need joy. we need energy. we need hope. we need this kind of light. we need to be soothed and healed. and we need our sense put in order.
it should be unremarkable to have – to own – this kind of hope and light and joy in this country. it should be a given. this is supposed to be the fruitful land of opportunity, a place of freedoms, a nation where – with goodness our north star – we may be who we are. and, when our senses are put in order, we remember this…each and every one of us.
when we are in chaos, when there are those wreaking ugly havoc, when division and mean-spiritedness are being stoked, when soothing and healing is far from the minds of those who wish to be leaders, it is a time we must rejuvenate our country. we must move forward, not back. we must seek the best in each other, aspire for unity, clutch onto fervent hope with all we’ve got, put our faces to the sun and get sensical.
because it should be obvious in these united states of america that democracy and freedom are the only choice, that kindness and loving one another is the way of life, that equality and acceptance and inclusion are undeterred, that sense – real sense – is in order. and that – in all its brilliant remarkableness – pointing out that those are fundamental to these united states of america is completely unremarkable. because it is obvious. because it is the way.
we drew the paddles of the canoe through the glassy water, exploring the crannies and coves of the lake. to say we were soothed, healed – even momentarily – from worries pummeling our minds, that we were able to return to our senses would be an unremarkable statement. obviously we were.
living in this country – as a place where peace and freedom and forward movement and opportunity and goodness toward each other abounds – should be as obvious.
please vote with your senses and sense in order. let us promise a soothing, healing, joyful, intelligent, abundant future to all who come behind us.
the first. these are the first peppers we have ever grown and we are sort of stunned by them. because they are really real-live peppers!!
when we purchased the plants, they were on clearance at lowe’s. we bought our basil and parsley plants there and, as we wandered around – a tiny bit late in the early summer planting season – a few pepper plants spoke to us. on our potting stand are three pepper pots – a jalapeño, a red chili and this snack red pepper. because we are budget-conscious, we worried about the cost of failing. but, in the end, we thought it was worth the risk…this first attempt at pepper-growing. plus it helped that there were a few buds on the plants by the time we purchased them; it made us think that maybe we stood at least a chance of being successful.
and now…here we are. there are two jalapeños and multiple red snack peppers ready to be harvested and we are truly stunned. the red snacks and a jalapeño will become part of a meal we will share with 20 – stars in our fajitas. it will be a proud moment for us and we’ll be grateful for the amazement of growing our own food, just like we were with the batches of pesto (red and genovese) we made and froze last week.
we spent monday at the chicago botanic garden this week. each time we visit we are wowed by a different spot in the garden, a different grouping, a different extraordinary flower, beauty after beauty. david remarked about how much he loved the english walled garden. he said that if he were to build and plant a garden today he would plant a walled garden. i laughed and pointed out that our backyard is kind of like a walled garden. we don’t have the same level of order or discipline in our garden – for, along with our pond, there are ornamental grasses and peonies, ferns, day lilies and hosta planted slightly more haphazardly, but it is mostly walled in by the back and side fence, the garage serving as a perimeter. there is a privacy afforded, a quietness.
we sit at our bistro table or in our infamous adirondack chairs and watch our birds and squirrels and chippies. we share time and space and life with our dogga. and our barnwood potting stand – adjacent to the deck and the patio – is a place of tiny miracles.
we could have shied away from trying peppers, even at their discounted price. we could have worried that we would not bring them to fruition, that we would not be successful pepper-planters.
instead, we tried something new.
and these gloriously red peppers in tomorrow’s fajitas will remind us – once again – that life is there for the trying. it is not in the certainty of succeeding that we live. it is in risking. it is in anticipation. it is in mystery. it’s all really quite stunning, after all.
“the thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself.” (anna quindlen)
and maybe that’s the true gift of the sweet phase. time to embrace it all; time to let it all go.
like the heggies pizza truck touted on the highway into minnesota, “uncomplicated. unapologetic. authentic.”
and so we jump in. with both feet.
well, after a nap or two.
we are suddenly aware of time ticking-ticking and we are aware that there will be a day when our stardust will simply return to the sky.
we speak of our ages now, unapologetically. we are-who-we-are authentic. our uncomplicated is a complex mesh of realness. nothing flashy, nothing fancy. simple stuff.
in the way that making history works, we know we started penning the autographs we will leave behind long ago. there are brilliant moments in the swirl of pen; there are shameful moments in the kerning. all are part of the whole. it’s clearly why we need a nap or two.
suddenly now, though, there is a stillness after everything that has come before. there is a bit of time to catch our breath. there is quiet and rest. there is acceptance.
we wake up from the disorienting hibernation-from-quietude of trying-to-get-it-all-right, the long immersion into striding-striding sans the perspective gift of rest, the push-pull of the aggressive nature of competition. we stretch achy joints and revel in the sun rising through the window. we take time to reflect, to ponder, to learn.
we glance in the rearview mirror and laugh at the deep creases around our eyes, choosing instead to focus on now and what is ahead. we release the breath we have held for so long.
we jump in, the concentric circles of our splash into the river rippling out.
“i’m sure not afraid of success and i’ve learned not to be afraid of failure. the only thing i’m afraid of now is of being someone i don’t like much.” (anna quindlen)
i just scrolled past a winnie the pooh meme. “what day is it?” asked pooh. “it’s today,” squeaked piglet. “my favorite day,” said pooh.
we went back.
we bushwhacked through the overgrown woodsy area to make our way under the big fallen branch and onto the beach. “our special beach” we called it. we couldn’t wait to get there – to this spot of sand and pebbled shoreline that rarely had any visitors.
we emerged from under the big fallen branch and stepped onto the sandy overlook to see a beach full of people, full of jetskis and motorized rafts, boats anchored in the water, waverunners zooming in and out of the new jettied cove.
wow.
we stood for a moment, taking it all in.
for this was the place we went to for quiet. this was the place we searched for hagstones. this was the place we sat on big pieces of wild driftwood, watching the waves come in, the waves retreat. the place to reflect, sort, breathe.
we stood for a few more moments, trying to grok it, decide what to do.
we took a walk on the shore where the waves meet the sand. it was clear a lot of work had been done on this beach. and we had to agree that it was truly beautiful, even in its changed state. we walked south and then back north. and we found that – all along – there was a parking lot that led to the beach. all along there was an easier way in. all along there was access. go figure.
as we walked south, with the waves lapping our feet – in the exquisite way that feels on a soft sandy beach – we remembered the other days we had spent there. beautiful, peaceful days. we talked about how grateful we were for those days.
and then we walked north.
we took the road past the marina and stepped onto the boardwalk. we hadn’t ever gone this way before.
the boardwalk wound its way past all the slips, around the yacht club, past the charters. on a most gorgeous day we delighted in this new place to stroll. the sting of the busy-ness of the beach faded and we planned on returning to “our beach” later – maybe a late evening, maybe in september. in the meanwhile, this stroll was the loveliest thing.
“what day is it?” i asked david, a little lost in time having been under the weather for over a week and just starting to feel better.
we took shelter in the east-side parking lot of a brick building in a town a half hour from home. the intense storm was coming from the west. there were tornado warnings and the winds were gusting over 70mph. a deluge of rain fell from the sky – sideways.
debris had hit littlebabyscion as we were driving so when i finally got out of the big treed area on the backroad, i saw the brick building and an empty parking lot. i pulled in, drove away from the giant metal signage and the telephone poles out front and on the side and pulled into the lot on the east side, parking in the middle.
that’s when the wind attempted to pick up littlebabyscion. i started shaking then – and didn’t really stop until much later when we were finally home.
i backed up the car and pulled over right next to the brick building to shield us from the wind. it helped but the storm was incessant and the warnings – actual warnings – were ominous.
our dear friend jen checked in on us – knowing we were driving home from chicago’s pridefest – and we also checked in with our dear westneighbors to see how our ‘hood was faring. and we kept pulling up the weather app – though the tornado alerts blaring on our phones were information enough. it was bad out.
it’s odd, you think, that the only reason you are dealing with what you are dealing with is because you happen to be in what-could-be-interpreted-as the wrong place in what-could-be-interpreted-as the wrong time. it’s bracing.
as we drove through the little towns on our way back from chicago, we passed through highland park. each time we drive through that town – with “highland park strong” signs – i think about the hideous active shooter at the 4th of july parade a couple years ago. wrong place, wrong time. but how can that be? you are taking your sweet children to watch a parade celebrating our country! how can that be the wrong place? how can that be the wrong time? it’s beyond bracing.
and what about the people at the grocery store in arkansas? and the people at the concert in las vegas? and the people at the sikh temple or at church? and the people at the mall? and the people at the club? and the people at the protest? and the people at school and school and school and…?
i whispered a prayer to the universe as we sat in littlebabyscion in that east-side parking lot next to the brick building in the middle of that treacherous storm. it was harrowing and i knew we were in danger. i asked for the wisdom to know what to do and to keep us safe. i knew that when the storm passed and if we were fine i would have immense gratitude.
no different than the highland park paradegoers, i thought, though nature and evil are two distinctly different causes of terror. and wrong place, wrong time is on a continuum between lack of intent and intent.
and, with all respect and honor to each of those too-many-people who have experienced evil’s intentional wrong place, wrong time – in those moments of wrong place, wrong time is one strangely-wrapped gift.
it is to take note of all the right places and right times. we are not guaranteed these yet we pass through them without paying attention. we take them for granted. we slide through moments – exquisite and plain – with no heed to our good fortune to have been in them.
as LBS protected us yet once again – that little car is intrepid – i, shaking with clenched hands on the wheel, also told the universe “thank you” for the rest of that day – all the good places and good times. for, though there were more than i could count, i wish to remember each and every one.
friends of ours asked if we had cicadas yet. they live a short distance away in illinois and their friends – in another close-by illinois town – have so many cicadas that they cannot sleep at night. we haven’t heard a one. at least not yet.
instead, our nights are quiet. we can hear the gurgle of our pond, maybe a little wind. seems about right for the sweet phase.
dogga wakes us early – this morning his first attempt was at 5 – jumping on the bed for pets and snuggles, he encourages us to get up and put the coffee on. but in those exquisite minutes between slumber and plugging in the cuisinart we can hear the birds greeting the morning, the spoon stirring in a mug through our dear west neighbors’ kitchen window, the quiet strains of symphony as the sun streams in through the window and spills onto our quilt. it’s a tender beginning to a day.
last night was warm – we sat out late after we ate dinner on the deck. sans air conditioning it was warm when we went to sleep. i woke up numerous times through the night…always trying hard not to start thinking – because once i go down that road – the thinking road – i have no real chance at going back to sleep. nevertheless, i went there.
it seems – most times – when you end up on the thinking road it is on autopilot, as if you have no ability to steer. last night, though, i tried to stay in control of the steering wheel. and each time my mind wanted to veer off and ruminate over something else, something of concern, i tried to gently bring it back to my breathing, to the sounds of quiet night, to the feeling of d laying next to me, to the gentle snores of dogga.
i’m pretty sure the cicadas will arrive. i hope so. i don’t know if they will be so loud that i cannot sleep. i’m not too worried. there are plenty of other reasons i don’t sleep. and i have actually been a cicada fan my whole life – i love the summer night sounds of crickets and cicadas and miss those when they disappear in the fall. i try to memorize the sound – until the next season of them. i find both reassuring and pointedly centering – “you are in summer,” they seem to say, “relish it.”
the sweet phase. it’s begun. every day. every night. we are fortunate, no matter what. because we are here. period. this is the time to remember that.
reverse threading 